Chapter 19
I wake up an hour before my alarm on Monday morning, my mind still buzzing from everything I learned this weekend—about Xander, about myself, and potentially about the Ardor Tree.
Something strange is happening in Penango County for the first time in its history, and somehow, I’m tangled up in it.
This mystery has unearthed itself and wraps around my ankles like overgrown tree roots, tightening and twisting, keeping me trapped in this valley like everyone else who never made it past the mountains.
Xander and I agreed to visit the Ardor Tree later this week. He seems more eager to figure out what’s happening to us than I do. I want answers, but I’m afraid of what they might mean, if this whole thing might be permanent.
He’s spent years frozen in time, forever seventeen.
But if that happens to me, if I’m trapped in this limbo with him, it means Whitley will grow old without me.
My future friends at the University of Tennessee will move on, stepping into their twenties and adulthood while I stay behind, unable to even get into a bar.
Penango will be the only place I have left.
At work, Whitley chats about her plans to join the pep band at the University of Florida and rambles on about the dozens of beaches she’s already mapped out. Every word flips my stomach. Every time she mentions Florida, I picture Tennessee and the image isn’t as bright as it used to be.
I press a hand over my right ear and turn up my latest podcast, Stories of Appalachia. It’s about folklore from the region. I listen closely, waiting to hear if Xander’s case ever made it into an episode.
Whitley’s voice quickly cuts through my thoughts. “Why are you being so quiet this morning?” she asks.
I blink. “What?” I fake confusion, swallowing hard. “I’m just trying to get organized for this week.”
A lie.
I don’t tell her about the financial aid. Or that I might be half ghost. Or that I’m communicating with a full ghost.
The pact we made earlier this year makes all of it worse. If I don’t go to college, I’ll be letting her down. I don’t want to be another person who bails on her.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and take a deep breath, forcing myself to swap out my negative attitude for something more productive.
Do they give bonuses here? Probably not. Getting zilch in financial aid must be karma for breaking up with my boyfriend before I even had a solid plan to leave town.
Fifteen dollars an hour seems like a lot when I’m buying burgers at the Bean and used vinyl records from the thrift store on Main. But now that I need money for . . . oh, I don’t know . . . anything useful—it’s a joke.
Whitley stares at me. I can’t rely on her for everything. The universe must be telling me that if I want to get out of here, I have to start taking matters into my own hands.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I need to talk to Victor.”
I enter his office and find him hunched over his desk playing solitaire on his computer.
“Morning, Victor,” I say. “Can I ask you a question?”
He barely looks up. “You just did,” he quips with a grin.
I clench my jaw, staring out the window and resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
For a split second, I wonder if this job is even worth it.
Do I really want to spend what could be my last summer in Penango dealing with this?
But maybe it’s not the job I dislike. Maybe it’s the place and the person.
It makes me question if my frustration with Murray was actually about him.
Or was I just tired of us being here? If we had met somewhere else, would things have worked out differently?
I shake off the thought.
No. It wouldn’t. Not after what he did to me last week.
“Are there any open job positions left at the health department this summer?” I ask.
I also want to ask why he didn’t tell me Rainbow Valley was a crime scene. But I swallow that question because I doubt the answer will be satisfying.
Victor shrugs. “I think we’re pretty booked up. Who needs a job?”
“Me. I’m looking for something extra.”
His frown deepens. “How do you expect to work two full-time jobs at once?”
“I was thinking nights or weekends.”
He laughs. “Are you trying to kill yourself, kid?”
“No. I just really need the money.”
He leans back in his chair. “You could always stay on in the fall if you do a good job this summer.”
“I’m hoping to go to college in the fall.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, I guess it’s school or work, then. You can’t always get everything you want.”
I turn to leave, and this time, I don’t fight the urge to roll my eyes. They roll so hard, the muscles behind them ache.
“How did you end up with Mary Jo as your supervisor while I got stuck with Victor?” I ask Whitley as I step back into our shared cubicle.
She polishes her clarinet’s mouthpiece with a green cloth. “Mary Jo is such a boss,” she says. “She shut down both pools we inspected last week. The second she puts on her visor, she turns into Erin Brockovich. I’m thinking about getting a visor too. It totally feels like my vibe.”
“Can we get matching ones?”
“Only if you’re on our level.”
“I don’t think Victor and I will ever match y’all’s power.”
“What did he do this time?”
“Nothing. It’s what he doesn’t do that’s the problem.”
Whitley shrugs. “It could be worse. At least he isn’t hovering over your summer like Murray.”
I sigh. “I guess.”
“Speaking of that sorry boy—are you really not getting his texts?”
I frown. “Yeah. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
She studies me. “I don’t know . . . You’ve been weird lately. When are you going to tell me what he did to your head? Or are you just going to let that gaping gash of secrets stare at me all summer?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“I don’t assume.”
“Soon,” I say, slamming my phone face down on my desk. “Anyway, I’m heading back to that strange pool I told you about.”
“Oh, yeah?” She perks up. “What’s up with that place again?”
“Dead animals. Green water. Middle of nowhere.”
I still haven’t mentioned Xander to her. The strangest part of all.
“That sounds amazing,” she says. “Why are you complaining? I inspect hotels where everything is cleaner than a damn church. Are there any interesting people there?”
My body tenses. “What?” I laugh lightly, crossing my arms. “No. Who would I have seen there that’s interesting?”
She narrows her eyes. “This is an example of you being weird.”
“I’m not . . . It’s just—”
She blows into her clarinet, cutting me off as she tests the freshly cleaned keys. “I’m heading into town after work for my first street performance,” she says. “I got to make sure this baby sounds her best, so people throw me more than just dollar bills.”
“Grease away.”
She grins. “If I make enough money, I might be able to get us a few fancy hotel nights on our road trip this summer.” She examines the shiny clarinet mouthpiece, then snaps on a new reed with a satisfied nod.
I scratch my neck. The reminder of my failed college plan sits heavier than ever.
Whitley keeps playing a slow, melancholy sound that fills our cubicle, the perfect score for a movie about my life’s demise.