The Rule of Thirds

Chapter Eighteen

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 6: ONE HOUR UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

Dace and Mom are in the front seat of the Honda, chattering about the latest issue of Vogue.

“Are you OK?” Mom calls back to me, where I’m trying to focus on holding onto my display board to make sure it doesn’t get jostled on the ride— but it’s impossible to keep my mind off Dylan. He still hasn’t replied to any of my texts. Cancer? Why wouldn’t he tell me? Of course it makes sense. Why he hangs out in the atrium with the other cancer patients. How he probably really did fall asleep that night he stood me up. The bruises on his arms from being poked and prodded with needles. Why he deferred Harvard. How I never clued in to any of the signs. But the thing that keeps running through my head are the words final treatment. What does that mean?

When we get to the hall in Niagara Falls where the competition is being held, there’s a lineup of cars outside the door and kids unloading their unwieldy displays from the back seats. “I’ll park and see you two in there,” Mom says as she takes her place in the queue so I can unload. “Don’t worry,” she adds. “You’re going to do great.” They both think I’m nervous about my photos. They have no idea about Dylan.

How I just want to get back to the hospital in time to see him. But first, I have to focus on the competi- tion. I head inside. Jeffrey is already setting up his display. Six mittens: red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple. The rainbow effect is impressive.

I pull my board out of the protective plastic bag and set it up on the easel beside him.

“I heard what happened,” Jeffrey says. “You OK?” “Ask me in an hour,” I say.
“You’ll kick ass, Pippa,” Jeffrey says, eyeing my photos. “You always do.”

Ben saunters in, fancy black portfolio case in one hand, a coffee in the other. He pulls his foam board out of the case and mounts it on the other side of me.

I stare in disbelief at my photos.

“What are you doing?” My face hot. “Mrs. Edmonson said we had to start from scratch. That we couldn’t use any of the photos she saw. That you couldn’t use my photos.”

“She also said she didn’t want the judges to find out. So there’s no way she’ll say anything. And I knew you’d be too chicken shit to take a chance.” He glances at my photos. “You must’ve been busy, starting over. Besides, who do you think she’s going to believe the photos really belong to? Me, who stood by the photos right to the end, or you, who gave them up so easily?”

I remember what Mrs. Edmonson said. If the judges find out about this, we might both be disqual- ified. And if I rat him out, what’s to stop him from saying I smashed the window of his SUV? “Why would you do this?” I whisper.

“Easy,” Ben says. “The five grand.” But there’s something about his answer that makes me think it’s not actually about the money at all. But I definitely don’t care enough about Ben Baxter to find out.

A voice booms over the loudspeakers. “Welcome to the 15th Annual Vantage Point Competition.” Cheers sound throughout the room, but I feel a mil- lion miles away. I look at the stage, where a man in a brown tweed suit and skinny tie is standing at the podium on stage.

“I’m Saul Ramm, dean of the school of photog- raphy at Tisch University at NYU. I’ll also be one of three judges today, along with Gabrielle Brady and Lars Lindegaard, both of whom are professors in the program, and will be instructors at our prestigious camp. I’m thrilled to see what looks like our largest turnout yet from the Western New York region—and I look forward to seeing all of the talent in the room. Now for a bit of housekeeping. We’ll be starting the judging process in 10 minutes, so if you’re a contes- tant and you haven’t set up your display yet, please make sure you do so,” he says, scratches the top of his head, then turns the mic off.