Rule of Thirds, The by Chantel Guertin

up and stands behind me, placing his arms on the railing beside mine, so that he’s sort of hugging me from behind, without actually wrapping his arms around me.
    “Wait a second, then you’ll see.”
    As though someone flipped a switch, the sky lights up with tiny stars. Only they’re not stars.
    I gasp, wishing I had my camera. “It’s beautiful. What is it?”
    “Fireflies,” Dylan says, his breath warm on my neck. It sends chills up and down, in the best possible way.
    “But aren’t they usually out in the summer?”
    “It’s because it’s so warm. They’ll only live a few days. The energy to light up zaps all their life from them. Sad but beautiful.” Neither of us says anything for a few moments, the only sound the hum of the fireflies’ vibration in the night air.
    “I should get you home,” he says, his breath warm. “Even though I could stand here all night with you. I really like you, Philadelphia Greene.”
    “I like you too,” I whisper, not wanting to break the spell.
    He puts his hands on my waist and turns me around so I’m facing him. Oh, his eyes, the stubble, his dimple . . . On my face I can feel the warmth of his breath. Wrigley’s Spearmint? He brushes a strand of hair away from my face and those beautiful green eyes are getting closer, closer, closer . . .
    “WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?” blasts my phone.
    Oh my god, seriously?
    No, really, seriously?
    Dylan kind of shakes himself. Our eyes meet. Yes, his gaze says, the worst-timed phone call in the history of the world was not a figment of my imagination.
    “WHO? WHO? WHO?” asks my phone, as I walk up the hill to answer it. It’s like my phone is taunting me, asking me if I know. I haven’t even kissed Dylan, but I know the answer to which boy. It couldn’t be any clearer.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 29 7 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT
    It takes us forever—or at least the entirety of Breakfast Club —to clean up. Dace makes a rule that we can’t talk about the guys until we’re done. Which is pure torture but mostly I think she just doesn’t want to talk, period, because she’s so hungover. A million years later, we put the last garbage bag in the garage, and then set ourselves up with another round of Advil, coffees and bacon and sit on the stools at the breakfast bar.
    “OK now, where to start?” Dace says, and I give her a look. “Yeah, you win. Funeral Boy first.” All Dace knows is that Dylan showed up at the party with Callie but didn’t come in. I recap the 34 glorious minutes we were together.
    “But no kiss?” Dace says.
    “No, no kiss. And then I ran home and that was it. But it was super romantic. Seriously though, in hindsight, why was I so adamant about making curfew?”
    “No clue. But you’re cute,” Dace says. “So . . . Funeral Boy, then?”
    “Hands down. It was perfection.” I sigh. “OK, tell me what happened with you. I witnessed rounds 1 and 2 , but am I missing any others?”
    “Rounds 1 and 2 of what?”
    “Cole and Asher.”
    “I didn’t hook up with Cole.” She makes a face. “Actually I barely saw him the whole night. Why—did you see him?”
    I tell her how I saw her—at least I thought I did—with Cole in her mom’s room. It was definitely Cole.
    “You were breaking the rule?” she asks, picking at a slice of bacon.
    “Sorry.”
    “So he was in Viv’s room with a girl?”
    I nod. Dace’s face clouds over, and she takes another swig of coffee. I feel bad about swooning over Dylan; she probably didn’t have the best night with either guy. But she stands up again and shakes it off.
    “Oh well, whatever,” she says, picking up her phone and studying it. “Asher and I did it last night,” she says, as though it’s every day that you have sex for the first time. My mouth literally drops open. Dace taps something into her phone, then puts it back—face down—on the table. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I know she’s not a virgin now and I still am, but somehow, despite