Golden Hour

by Chantel Guertin

  Dace shrugs and hands me the bottle. “What for?”

  “The ’gram.” I pull everything off the top shelf of my locker and place the purple binder and Dace’s water bottle on the shelf. I unzip my pencil case and pull out a couple of purple pencil crayons I use in Geography class, and line them up on the shelf, points sticking out. Then I hold my camera up high to get a straight-on shot. I snap a pic, check the result and make a few adjustments, forcing the aperture since the fluorescent hallway light isn’t the best.

  I can feel Dace’s impatience growing, but she knows not to interrupt me when I’m in photo mode. I cap my camera and she dives back in. “OK so then what’s your plan that’s better than my plan?”

  “Well, it’s multi-step. Step one is to make a plan.”

  “Good plan.”

  “Help?”

  “Of course.” The bell rings. “Gotta go if I’m going to make it to homeroom with this on my back. See you at lunch.”

  *

  “There seems to be some sort of trend here, of pretending to go to Tisch,” Dace says. We’re in the far corner of the caf, away from everyone so we can talk in private; our lunches sit untouched in front of us. I’ve just read her the list of ideas I came up with in second period—which ranges from continuing to pretend to Mom that I got into Tisch while moving to New York and getting a job instead, to pretending to be a student at Tisch and sneaking into the photography classes. “I wonder if we need to broaden the scope of ideas here . . . You know, like, maybe we could figure out other photography programs that still have space?”

  I shake my head and pop a fry into my mouth. “I don’t want to go anywhere else. You know this. Tisch has been The Plan since forever.”

  Dace takes a sip of water and then opens her container of vanilla yogurt, and I steer my attention to my own lunch so Dace won’t feel scrutinized. Still, my BFF radar is on high alert since she still has good and bad days when it comes to food.

  “Listen, I get having the ‘since forever’ plan. You don’t have to explain that to me. I, of anyone—anyone—get that. But if this past year has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes you have to face reality. And when your dream and your reality aren’t meeting up”—she puts down her spoon, then pretends to high five herself, her right and left hand totally missing each other—“maybe it’s time to figure out a plan B.”

  Last summer, Dace met with her agent to talk about next steps—she was planning to move to New York to model after graduation, and she wanted to get on the radar of designers early so she could be booked during New York Fashion Week in September.

  But her agent told her she wasn’t going to put her forward for shows. That while she’s tall and thin and gorgeous, she’s not quite tall enough, quite thin enough or quite the right look for high fashion or glossy editorial spreads, and that the best she could expect to do with her look was the online shopping sites she was already doing. Dace didn’t take the news well. I mean, who would? Since the only part of her agent’s comments she could control was her weight, she threw herself into a really scary starvation period that got so bad that one morning she passed out while driving to school. She just missed a telephone pole, thank god, but she did crash her mom’s car into a hedge. Luckily, she emerged from the accident unscathed, while making it totally clear to all of us that she was really not OK. Her mom checked her into Crestwood, this rehab center in Buffalo.

  Feeling like I was the only one she could turn to, I took the bus to visit her every single Sunday, promising myself I would study for my SATs on the ride there and back, but I just couldn’t focus so I gave up and told myself I’d make up the time somehow because not visiting Dace on the only day she was allowed visitors wasn’t an option, especially when she was refusing to see anyone else. And so, for months I would lie in bed with her and we’d watch stupid sitcoms with laugh tracks on Netflix because her therapist said she wasn’t allowed to watch Project Runway anymore, and then I’d take the bus home, emotionally drained from trying to act like I wasn’t as worried as everyone else about her. I spent countless hours staring at my SAT study guides, thinking about Dace instead of prepping.

  Eventually, right before Christmas, Crestwood released her. She came back home, declared she was done with modeling, called a truce with her mom and in general seemed to have this new Zen outlook on life. Even though sometimes her mindfulness can be a bit OTT, I try not to roll my eyes at her because the alternative was so much worse.

  “I get it—plan B can be A+. But it’s not the same thing.” I take a sip of my Diet Coke.

  Dace just looks at me, dipping her spoon in her yogurt but not actually eating it.

  “It’s not exactly the same thing,” I correct myself. “I know you’re trying to help, but I can’t give up on Tisch.”

  “I get it, Pippa. It was hard for me too, to give up the dream.” Dace fiddles with the cap on her water bottle, her eyes glassy. “Remember The Plan? Our Plan? New York, the two of us? How do you think I felt when that plan was completely taken away from me? My entire life was a setup for what was supposed to come next, once we got out of here. No sports teams so I wouldn’t get injured, no clubs so I could go on go-sees . . . all for nothing.”

  I put my hand on Dace’s. “I know. I didn’t mean you don’t understand.”

  “I just think you’re getting yourself stuck on Tisch, when the other possibilities for you—another college, taking a gap year—they might not be so bad. Look at me, with the trip. It’s what’s saved me, really. Something to look forward to, and something to help me switch gears, to figure out what my new plan will be. Maybe it’s what you need too.”

  I sigh, not wanting to hurt her feelings by saying that for me, a slacker year is exactly the opposite of what I need. “It’s not just me letting myself down if I don’t get into Tisch,” I say. “It’s like I’ll be letting my dad down too.” I put my head in my hands.

  “What’re you guys doing over here?” Gemma’s standing over our table.

  “Plotting to take over the world,” Dace says, her tone light.

  Gemma puts her hands on her hips. “I don’t like the sounds of that.”

  “You wouldn’t. I feel like I’m coming down with a cold, so I convinced Pip to sit alone with me so that I only infect her, not the entire student body a month before EVERYTHING.”

  Gemma takes a step back. “Ick. Thanks for the warning. Nothing is keeping me from Senior Sleepover,” she says as though it’s completely plausible that she’ll catch a cold in April and be down for the count in May. But Gemma’s always been a bit of a hypochondriac. While prom is of course a big deal at Spalding High, Senior Sleepover is an even bigger event, maybe because it doesn’t feel overdone. Like, every high school has prom. Who’s ever heard of Senior Sleepover? No one, except those of us who go to Spalding, where we all claim the concept of Senior Sleepover was invented. Anyway, what it is: it happens in mid-May, on the final Thursday before exams start, and all the seniors sleep over on the football field. Everyone has a theme to their PJ look—Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany’s is always a big one (white shirtdress, sleep mask and tassel earrings)—and it seems like everyone talks and preps for Senior Sleepover way more than prom. Also there’s status with Senior Sleepover because after you stay up all night, everyone goes out for breakfast at the Orange Turtle, and then you go back to school and hang out all day, not going to class, while all the freshman, sophomores and juniors get all jealous that they’re not seniors yet.

  As Gemma heads back to the table where we usually sit, I turn back to Dace. “Thanks for covering.”

  “Don’t mention it.” She fiddles with the Hamsa around her neck, this small pewter palm-shaped charm she wears now that’s supposed to bring her happiness and good luck. “OK, speaking of Senior Sleepover, I think we need to lock down a date to PJ shop before we’re left with bargain-bin dregs. How’s Thursday after school?”
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  “Sure. Though I still have zero inspo. Maybe we should just do Grease after all?”

  Dace slams her hands on the table. “No way. We can do better.”

  Annie, Gemma and Emma asked us to do the Grease sleepover: Sandra Dee, Rizzo, Jan, Frenchy and Marty, but Dace doesn’t want to because every year some girls re-enact the Grease sleepover for Senior Sleepover, so it’s kind of super-unoriginal, plus there’s talk that a bunch of girls on the field hockey team are going as Grease too.

  “I really want to do something that’s just the two of us. Just in case you end up going to prom, like, with a date.” Dace used to go out with about five guys at a time, but ever since she got back from Crestwood, she’s laid pretty low on the guy front. She says she’s focusing on herself instead.

  “Yeah, with all those boys dying to go out with me. I bet I end up going alone.”

  “Hundred percent, with that attitude.”

  “I’m being real. I haven’t had any action since October, with that unfortunate makeout session with Pablo.”

  “Pablo with the good hair. So what if his braces cut your lip? Anyway, I was thinking more like some other guys. Ben, Dylan . . .”

  My heartbeat speeds up. Whoever said distance makes the heart grow fonder was on to something. As much as I’ve tried to forget Dylan, I think about him a lot. After our break-up, Dylan and I ran into each other at Spalding’s 50th anniversary. He was with Muse, and it was super awkward. And the next day Dace found my lost phone, and he had texted, saying he hoped we could still be friends. I never replied, mostly because I didn’t want to be friends with someone who had ripped my heart out and then shoved it in his garbage disposal. And then a day passed, then a week, and then so much time that it would be weird to even reply. So I didn’t.

  “Dylan probably has some super-cute Harvard girlfriend by now,” I tell Dace.

  “Interesting that you focused on Dylan. I thought Ben told you he’d be back this week.” Unlike Dylan and I, Ben and I actually stayed friends this year, while he was in Park City.

  “Ben and I are just friends. You know that.”

  “Who says you can’t go to prom with a friend? Especially when that friend is inarguably good-looking and will make for really good prom pics,” Dace challenges.

  “It took Ben and I long enough to get to a comfortable platonic stage. I don’t want to mess with that. Besides, he’s not going to want to go to prom. He just went last year.”

  “Well, I know someone who didn’t go to prom last year. Or at all, technically. If that’s your main criteria.”

  As I pop my last fry in my mouth, my thoughts go straight to that person: Dylan McCutter.

  *

  I’m sitting in Writer’s Craft, stumped by today’s exercise—a short story with the theme of Escape—when I get called down to the guidance counselor’s office. Mr. Aquila’s door is open, and he smiles at me when I walk in—though it’s one of those upside-down smiles, the kind where the person is actually frowning.

  “Pippa,” he says, gesturing to the chair in front of him.

  “Hi,” I say, sitting down.

  My stomach feels like it’s full of marbles. He’s going to mention Tisch. I just know it. Of course the guidance counselor knows all about who’s accepted and rejected and waitlisted to every college. I wonder if it would be awkward to bolt from the room? There’s an escape idea for my short story assignment.

  “So I was checking your file, and I noticed that you’re short community service hours this year.”

  “I am?” I lean forward in my chair and peer at his file. It definitely says GREENE, PHILADELPHIA across the top.

  “I’ve got the hospital hours here, but you need ten more hours to graduate.”

  “That can’t be right. I spent hours and hours there. Like waaaay more than I needed to.”

  Mr. Aquila nods. “I think that’s where the mix-up occurred. It may be that you filled more than the required hours, but there’s a loophole in that”—he reads from the paper in front of him—“a percentage of the hours have to be completed in the school year in which the student graduates.”

  Nooooooooo . . . It’s probably very bad karma to think negative thoughts about a good deed, but I can’t stop the dread.

  Mr. Bad News blathers on. “There aren’t a lot of open spots left at this point, especially for a shorter commitment. The hospital’s program is full. How do you feel about keeping our earth green?”

  “Is that code for picking up garbage?”

  “You’re quick.” He grins. “Part of the Hanlan’s Field grounds are owned by the town; they need someone to pick up garbage left outside the concert facility after events.”

  Well, this isn’t that bad. “So I can see concerts for free?”

  “Not exactly. The school’s rules say you can’t complete volunteer hours after 9 p.m., for safety and liability reasons. And the city wants the area clean before 9 a.m., which means you’ll need to go the morning after a concert. The estimated time is an hour. So you could do it ten times and be done.” He hands me a piece of paper with a calendar of concerts as well as what look like guidelines on how to pick up garbage.

  Amazing. Just how I want to be spending my mornings.

  “Oh, and Pippa? We get updates about college acceptances, rejections, that sort of thing.” He pauses. “I was sorry to hear about Tisch. I can only imagine how you must be feeling.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my cheeks burning. For a moment it’s hard to talk. “Do you—do you know what I could do to get off the waitlist?”

  Mr. Aquila presses his lips together and shakes his head. “You know, we’ve never had anyone go to Tisch before. I’m just not even sure how to counsel you on this one. Is there any advice on their website?”

  I shake my head. “I’m supposed to confirm that I want to be on the waitlist. I haven’t done it yet because I was hoping there might be some way around it.”

  Mr. Aquila puts my file away. “Hmm. I know you felt fairly strongly about not applying to other colleges, but I could help you look into which colleges are still accepting late applications, if you like.”

  I shake my head. “No thanks. I’ll just figure this out.” Then I stand and trudge out of his office, closing the door behind me.

  *

  I head home after my Hall Pass meeting, expecting to find the house empty since Mom always works late on Tuesdays, but Hank’s car is in the driveway. And when I open the door, there’s a huge shiny silver helium balloon that says Congratulations! in bright rainbow font. My stomach sinks. Somewhere, over some rainbow, someone deserves this balloon, but it’s not me. Mom rushes to greet me, and as she’s hugging me I see a mop of curly blond hair flying in the air through the kitchen window. Charley’s bouncing on a mini trampoline in the backyard. Of course he’s here: everywhere Hank goes, Charley goes. Hank’s ex-wife still lives in Columbus, where she does shift work at a hospital. Hank has custody of Charley throughout the school year and then Charley spends holidays and summer vacation with his mom. I am not Charley’s biggest fan. He’s cute, but also eight years old. Obsessed with burps, farts and professional wrestling. I started counting down to summer vacation the day Charley got back from Columbus.

  Right now, though, I couldn’t be more relieved to see the kid. Or Hank, who rounds the corner from the kitchen. Their presence is the perfect excuse not to tell Mom the truth. That conversation is for Greenes only.

  “Why aren’t you at work?” I ask Mom.

  “Are you kidding? I switched shifts so I could be here to celebrate! My only daughter getting into her first-choice college doesn’t happen every day!”

  The tile floor feels like quicksand. I’m sinking, sinking, sinking.

  Mom takes my hand and pulls me along to the kitchen, where there are more balloons and a cake that says Tisch ❤s Pippa, and for a split second, it feels real. But
then I remember that actually Tisch does not heart me at all.

  “Oh honey,” Mom gushes. “I picked up a bottle of prosecco. I figured it was a special occasion and you could have a tiny glass,” she says, giddy.

  Hank pats me on the back, awkwardly. I force a smile and wonder if there’s any way that Hank might know I got waitlisted. Could Aquila have told him over burnt coffee in the staffroom?

  “Now tell us everything,” Mom says, pulling out a chair for me to sit down. I slump into the chair and force myself not to slam my forehead into the wood surface of the table. Too bad I didn’t apply to the drama program instead.

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26

  At 6:04 a.m. I get an idea.

  “Who died?” David grumbles into the phone when he answers.

  “What? No one died. That’s super morbid.”

  “What time is it?”

  “6:07. Good morning.”

  “Not morning, Greene. Not when you go to bed at two, and for the record, no one should be called this early unless someone died.”

  “OK, OK, sorry, but I’ve got a crisis.”

  “Are you OK?” David’s voice changes into Serious Dad Tone, something I’ve heard only twice since he was officially outed as Bio Dad. “Your mom?”

  “We’re both fine. I mean, I assume she’s fine. She’s working the overnight shift, saving one animal’s life at a time. Anyway, it’s not that kind of crisis, but it’s still important and you’re the only one who can help me.”

  He yawns loudly. “Well, when you put it that way. Let me make some coffee.” I hear shuffling and I picture David climbing down the ladder from his loft bed to the main floor of his photo studio, his bare feet on the concrete flooring, slipping into his lambswool slippers, the ones he always leaves at the base of the ladder before climbing into bed. David has a thing for slippers. On my last birthday, he sent me a pair of slippers, and then told me he had an identical pair at his place for when I’m in New York.