The Rule of Thirds

Chapter Eleven

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 2: 4 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

WTF?
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. And then

it all comes back. Again.
“Oh . . .” I roll over and stare up at my dad’s photo.

“Why couldn’t I just be a normal teenager and get super wasted, make a total ass of myself and then feel like this?

I bury my head under my covers, shutting out the waft of coffee that means Mom is up, and I’m going to have to explain last night to her.

“Get up,” Dad tells me. He’s right. Staying in bed, replaying things, only makes things worse. Passing out in Dylan’s car, waking up in the driveway. Dylan helping me to the door. The worried look on Mom’s face when she let us in. Dylan explaining what hap- pened. Mom taking me upstairs to bed. Putting a glass of water on the nightstand and kissing me goodnight. Telling me to get some rest, and not to worry. The guilt of knowing she would be sleep- lessly worrying for both of us.

“Waffles,” Mom says, pushing open my door with her foot, carrying a tray. She’s in jeans, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She places the tray on the bed and hands me a plate and a fork and knife. She pulls the chair from my desk and sits down, taking the other plate, and her cup of coffee.

“Why are you still home?” I ask, digging in. “Pippa, I was worried. Wanna talk about it?” “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Really? Because you arrived home in the arms

of a very nervous-looking boy who explained you’d passed out. I thought you’d been roofied.”

“I was drinking Diet Coke from a bottle. I wasn’t roofied.” I say, putting my plate on the nightstand. Telling her I’d been roofied is probably better than telling her the truth.

“So what happened then?” she asks gently. She puts her plate on the desk and gets up, then climbs onto the bed beside me, leaning into the pillows.

I sigh. “I had another panic attack. A bad one.”

“Oh honey . . .” Mom wraps her arms around me and pulls me into her for a hug. I bury my head in her shoulder. “What caused it?”

“Dylan took me to Scoops.”

“But you love Scoops,” Mom says, confused. I shake my head.

“I haven’t been there since Dad . . .”

She squeezes me harder, and says she had no idea. “I thought you didn’t have the panic attacks anymore. You told me you and Dr. Judy worked through them. Even Dr. Judy told me months ago that you weren’t having them anymore.”

I sniffle. “That’s because I told her they’d stopped.” “But why would you lie about this?”
“Well, they had stopped, kind of. I have all these

coping mechanisms Dr. Judy taught me. And it’s better, it really is. It’s just . . . I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot. And my Vantage Point theme brings back more memories of him. And I started freaking out and I didn’t want to tell Dr. Judy because she was being so positive about how I wasn’t having panic attacks anymore. I felt like I’d been failing her and that made me feel like I’m wasting your money by even going to see her.” I haven’t been this honest with my mom in months.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t know being at the hospital was making you feel that way.” She pulls away from me so she can look me in the eye.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Oh Pippa. I’m going to worry about you no matter what. It’s my job. Like it or not. So you might as well give me concrete things to worry about,” she says with a smile. “OK?”

I nod. “OK.” She smoothes my hair, like she’s been doing since I was little. I tuck my head back onto her shoulder.

“So this guy you went to the concert with . . .”

“Is so awesome,” I moan. “And now he probably thinks I’m a total freak.”

“I highly doubt that. He seemed very nice. And he said to tell you that he was sorry for rifling through your bag, but he was trying to find something with your address on it because he didn’t know where we live.”

All I can think is that I’m glad I didn’t have any underwear in my bag, which is such a bizarre thought because I can’t even imagine why I would have underwear in my bag. Ever.

“This boy seemed genuinely concerned about you,” Mom says, retrieving her coffee and taking a sip. She sits back on the desk chair.

I pull my legs under me.

“Can you really defer on a school like Harvard?” Mom wonders aloud.

“Ugh—Mom. We’ve already talked about this.”

“I’m just asking!” She looks at the wall behind me. “You know, when your dad wanted to do this thing with the wallpaper? I was so against it. We fought about it for weeks.”

“Why?”

She sighs. “I don’t know. It was silly but I was worried he was going to influence you too heavily to be a photographer. It’s such a risky business. I don’t want you to have to struggle the way we did because we both had such unstable jobs.”

“How did he finally convince you?”

“He didn’t. He just did it.” She looks at the wall, at Dad. “I’m glad.”

In the afternoon, while I’m going through my photos from last night for the millionth time (OK mostly staring at the ones of Dylan), he texts.

Dylan: Ding! Thank you for saving me from what’s obv. v. bad ice cream. A bit dramatic but I’m impressed by ur dedication to cause. (U OK?)

Me: Scoops ice cream actually v. good. Just me that’s crazy. Sorry.

Dylan: I like crazy. I like u. So u feeling better?

Me: Yes.

Dylan: Good! Liam Argyle photo exhibit at Train Station tomorrow night. 1 night only. Inspiration break? Burgers & shakes at BRGR first?