Rule of Thirds, The Read Online Free PDF Page A

made up an excuse: thrown a party, or straight-up asked him out, or even—cheesy as it is—sent him a candygram on Valentine’s Day, but I couldn’t bring myself to do any of those things.
    Then last spring the paper decided to run a feature on what colleges the seniors had picked, and I got the story. I asked him to be in the story, and we talked for a while about the admissions process and how hard it was to get into Harvard. And since I’d never really forgiven myself for not asking him out over the past two years, I asked him one last question: who are you taking to prom?
    You know, purely for professional reasons. For the story. There was a long pause while he looked at me. Or, rather, the camera lens I was hiding behind. And I snapped my favorite picture of him. It’s in my nightstand drawer. He’s looking directly into the camera. Like he’s looking for something. In the moment, I got a feeling like a rollercoaster drop. Was he . . . ? Then he shrugged. Said he’d probably go, but he wasn’t going to bring a date just for the sake of bringing someone.
    And then I forgot all about Dylan for a while. About everything, really.
    “Of all the boys in all the volunteer placements, you get Funeral Boy,” Dace says, licking the middle of her cookie.
    “I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” I say, leaning over the end of the bed to dunk another Oreo in my glass of Diet Coke. “It makes him sound like he’s going to die or something.”
    “It’s a term of endearment,” Dace says, popping up onto her knees and throwing one of her cookie wafers at the trash can. She sinks it and raises her arms in victory, then concentrates on the other half. She had been on the school basketball team since middle school, but this year she didn’t even try out. So she could focus on modeling. “But listen, are you sure you can handle it?”
    “Dylan?” I say.
    “The hospital.”
    I nod. “Totally. That’s what therapy’s for, right?” I grab my camera off the floor beside the bed and shoot Dace for a while. She stands up, hands on hips, and studies me, the lens between us.
    “Honesty Pact?” She grabs a Twizzler from the bag on the floor, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulders and partly covering her face. As she stands up she flips her hair back and bites off a piece, twirling the remainder in the air.
    “Honesty Pact,” I reply.
    “OK, then let’s get down to real business,” she says. “How you’re going to be spending all your waking hours with the boy you love.”
    “Not all my waking hours. Three afternoons a week. If he’s even there those days. And I don’t love him.”
    “Bullshitake mushroom.”
    I lower my camera. “OK, maybe I used to have a crush on him, but that’s over. Remember the gay theory?”
    “Yes. No. We had a gay theory?” She grabs a lipgloss from the top of her dresser, then studies herself in the mirror as she applies it.
    “Mmm-hmm. He’s never dated a girl,” I remind her.
    “Not that we know of. And it’s not like we’ve seen him with any guys.”
    “True.” I put the camera down on the bed.
    “Maybe he just has really high standards.” Dace climbs back onto the bed.
    “Spalding had a lot of pretty seniors last year.”
    “It’s not just about looks,” Dace says. “You know that.”
    “OK, consider the gay theory set aside for the moment. But there’s no evidence he likes me. Or thinks of me at all.”
    “False, Philadelphia . And there’s no evidence that he doesn’t.”
    Dace grabs the remote off her nightstand and points it at the TV, pausing it. The main guy is standing in the front yard of a house, holding over his head—what, exactly?
    “What’s he holding up?” I squint at the TV. “Seriously the biggest radio I’ve ever seen. How can he even hold it over his head?”
    “Who cares? He’s got the right idea. You need a grand gesture. Like this dude. You’ve got to take a chance and see what happens. Or you’ll never know. This is