Chapter 3
After the morning orientation, Whitley and I claim our desks upstairs before heading back down to the lobby to start our first pool inspections.
“Hello again,” Victor says, waving as he takes a final sip from his drink. Ice rattles against the sides of the cup before he tosses it into the trash. A short woman stands next to him, wearing a visor so low over her eyes I can’t tell where she’s looking.
“This is Mary Jo,” he says, gesturing to her. “She’s also an environmental health specialist and will be your supervisor, Whitley.” Mary Jo nods. “You’ll be working with me, Stetson,” he adds.
“Great,” I say, forcing a smile.
I remove my left earbud, partly because it’s harder to fake half-hearted listening in a one-on-one conversation, but mostly because the podcast just moved on to an episode called “Is Reality Real?” and it’s hitting a little too close to the heart right now.
“Come on, Whitley,” Mary Jo says. “You’ll shadow me today so I can show you the ropes.” She waves her along. “Hopefully we don’t have to shut down any pools today for low chlorine levels.”
“Good luck,” Whitley says, flashing me a peace sign before following Mary Jo out the door.
I turn back to Victor. “Should we get going too?”
He shakes his head. “The best way to learn is to get out there on your own.” He claps a hand on my shoulder that sends a fit of coughs from my throat.
“You’re not coming with me?”
I rub the tender patch of flesh on my head. The blood is dry and forms a fragile scab, like a thin layer of ice that could break at any moment.
Ignoring my question, Victor hands me a list of inspection sites, then taps on the paper so hard I almost drop the sheet.
“I got a voicemail this morning about an old pool that’s reopening and needs an inspection,” he says.
“I’d hit that one first. There’s going to be a lot to look at. The address is on the back.”
I flip the paper over. Rainbow Valley Swim Club.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Victor’s eyes go wide. “That’s surprising.” He scratches the back of his head. “It has a colored history, you could say. Legendary almost. Like that old Ardor Tree.”
My eyes go wider than his. How did I go from solving math equations in study hall to facing off against local legends in a matter of two weeks?
I know from my podcasts that the American school system is going to leave me unprepared for the real world, but dang, I didn’t know it would be this bad.
Victor pulls a crumpled map from his back pocket and hands it to me confidently, as if I don’t have live maps on my phone. “This will help you find your way. Good luck, kid.” He turns and bolts down the hall as if he’s afraid to talk about the pool any longer.
I stare at the coffee-stained mess of a map. The moment I spot the Penango River curving behind Murray’s house, an ache creeps up my spine. I sigh and shove the wrinkled document into my pocket before memories of us jumping into the water from his tire swing flood in.
Like Victor, I’m scared to even think about this pool. Or the Ardor Tree. Or yesterday. Having some deep hometown lore seemed cool, until it started getting thrown back in my face. I don’t want to solve it. I want to lie down.
But I need this job. More specifically, I need the money for college. So I leave on my own without asking anymore questions.
I pop both earbuds in for the drive. My old truck, handed down to me from my uncle, doesn’t have Bluetooth, and I don’t feel like messing with the adapter.
I need loud music—something with enough drums to drown out my thoughts.
The woods lining the health department seem to taunt me as I leave; their rigid branches rise like middle fingers in a crowded hallway.
Dry leaves scrape across the pavement like stalking footsteps.
The swim club is twenty minutes south, just above the West Virginia border. My eyes flick between the road and my phone, waiting for an onslaught of texts from Murray. He hasn’t reached out since I left yesterday.
That’s what I wanted, so why does it feel so wrong?
“You’ve arrived,” my phone announces as I pull up to a shaded driveway with no sign.
I double-check the address—it’s right. But the internet calls this place Pinehurst Swim Club, permanently closed.
Rainbow Valley must be the new name. This is where having Victor by my side would actually come in handy.
I drive past a pile of moldy umbrellas and crumbling beach chairs, relics of a once-busy summer spot now left to rot. There are no crowds to count—just a lonely rectangular pool wedged between the trees like a piece in the game of Operation.
My jaw slackens once I get close. The water is a thick, murky green with garden snakes slithering across its surface. I gasp, glancing at nearby tree roots.
These snakes aren’t hallucinations.
They’re real.
“What the . . . ?” I stumble back over my own feet.
“Hello?” I shout, spinning around. “I’m from the county . . . here to inspect the pool.” My voice echoes through the trees. It’s silent.
I press my palms against my ears, rubbing at the cartilage to create a static that’s better than the quiet.
Then, a slurping sound.
It startles me like a cold splash of water to the face.
I turn.
A shirtless boy suns himself on a lounge chair. He sips Coca-Cola through a yellow bendy straw and tosses a Skittle into his mouth between gulps.
I swear he wasn’t there two seconds ago.
His skin is slick with sweat, pooling in the dips of his stomach muscles. He’s tan as if he’s already lived through an entire summer.
I want to say something, but I’d rather stare for a little bit longer.
He’s around my age, lean and striking, like when I spot a lone, pink flower in a grassy field or catch a glimpse of a bald eagle diving from one of Penango’s cliffs. His looks fill me with that same need to gasp at the rarity of the sight.
His funky, blue-lensed sunglasses and neon green earpieces add to his mystery.
If the pool’s lore contains a hot boy like this, I might reconsider having a look. Heavy emphasis on might.
“Hello,” I say, slowly approaching.
No response. Instead, he runs his hands through his curls. They bounce along with my heart.
“Do you work here?” I ask. “We got a report that this pool was reopening. You’ll have to fill out a permit and undergo an inspection.”
He pulls The Dog Encyclopedia from an orange backpack and rests it on his lap. Judging by his colorful getup, he might as well be the Rainbow Valley Swim Club mascot.
Still nothing.
I huff. His whole too cool to acknowledge me act is suddenly the biggest turnoff. Another boy from Penango who can’t communicate. I shouldn’t have expected anything different.
“Hello?” I try again. It almost comes out as a yell.
Finally, he glances up.
I wave.
He stares for a moment, expressionless. Then he looks behind him, as if I’m speaking to someone else.
“Yo!” This time I shout. “What is your problem? I’m talking to you.”
He flinches.
For a split second, I feel guilty for snapping. His finger slowly lifts to his own chest.
“Are you . . .” He swallows. “Are you talking to me?”
“Who else would I be talking to?” I throw up my hands.
His expression changes. “You can see me?” His voice cracks.
“Obviously.”
His back straightens. “What am I wearing?”
I squint. “Uh, a yellow bathing suit. Nothing else.”
He screams, then holds up his book. “What am I reading?”
“An encyclopedia about dogs.”
“You can see me!” This time it’s not a question.
“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be able to see you?”
Without warning, he springs to his feet and hurls his book into the grass. The small wooden table beside him tips over and sends the Coca-Cola bottle crashing onto the concrete.
He lunges toward me. His body slams into mine with full force. I stumble, and my heel catches the pool’s edge. His arms clamp around me, tightening like the Ardor Tree’s roots. I twist, struggle, and claw at his grip—until his body begins to shake.
A choked sob escapes him, and slowly, his hold loosens.
My hands hover over his back, caught between my instinct to comfort him and the urge to run.