Chapter 26
At work the next morning, I keep my attention on the department door, tracking each coworker as they stroll in.
My fingers drum against my desk, hoping Victor arrives early so I can get this recommendation letter business off my mind and return to fantasizing about Xander’s hands all over me, like they were in the river.
I kind of wish I drew the University of Massachusetts from my mason jar since New England kids just get to think about boys all summer. And beaches. And debutante balls. And lemonade. Or at least it seems like they do. I doubt Cape Cod’s swim club is an abandoned, mildew-infested drainage ditch.
Whitley shows up and I relax my gaze. “Hey, Whitley,” I say, offering her a smile.
I texted her an apology last night after things went well with the counselor.
“Hello,” she says. “Any other secrets to share this morning, now that you realize how helpful I can be?”
I force a sarcastic laugh. “No.”
Technically, it’s not a lie. I still need to tell her about my invisibility . . . and Xander. But not this morning. Xander and I are meeting in the archives department at three p.m. to investigate the Ardor Tree, and I’d rather have evidence before I unload everything on her.
“Who is going to write your second letter?” she asks, stirring an iced coffee. “You should ask Murray as a joke. I bet he’s desperate enough to do anything to win you back.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not even worth the trouble.”
She smirks. “So who then?”
“I’m thinking Victor.”
Whitley chokes on her drink. “Victor? That might be even more trouble.”
“Yeah, well, options are limited.” I sigh. “Did you get in touch with any lifeguards for your research study yesterday?”
She sips her coffee again before answering.
“Not yet. But I cannot wait to start. I ran into my dad as I was leaving yesterday and casually mentioned my research to him.” She grins.
“He stuttered, like, ten times, then said, I didn’t know you were interested in that type of thing.
It was perfect. I wanted to say, Yeah, well, you don’t know a lot of things about me, but I didn’t want to extend the interaction. ”
I tap my fingers against my chin. If Victor turns me down, Whitley will absolutely force her dad to write a letter for me out of spite. I should probably stay out of that family drama . . . but desperate times, desperate measures.
“Have you talked to Murray since Saturday?” Whitley continues. “I still can’t believe he was ignoring you at my house after spending all year complaining about you ignoring him. Is this the kind of crap he pulled that made you break up with him?”
Before I can even open my mouth, two heads appear over the ledge of our cubicle. Whitley and I straighten our backs.
“Dad?” she asks, voice flat.
Mr. Wyomen leans against the cubicle wall, arms crossed; strands of his thin, wispy hair shift under the HVAC vent. His collar looks two sizes too big for his skinny neck.
And standing next to him, like a jump scare, is Victor. How did he sneak in without me noticing? I lick my lips, suddenly on edge.
Mr. Wyomen slides off his rectangular glasses. “Whitley,” he says. “Good morning.” Then nods at me. “Stetson, how are you?”
“I’m fine,” I answer stiffly.
A few awkward seconds pass.
Victor clears his throat. “So, Stetson, how’s that green pool of yours coming along? Did you find the files you were looking for?”
I swallow. “Um, kind of. I’m still working on it.”
“Well, don’t let me down.” He points at me with a lopsided grin. “Mary Jo says Whitley is doing great work, so I trust you’ll do the same.”
Great. Another person to potentially disappoint.
Whitley narrows her eyes. “Can we help you?” she asks.
Mr. Wyomen huffs, his face reddening as he scratches his eyebrow.
Victor chuckles. “Ah, the joys of working with the family,” he says.
“I wanted to tell Victor about your research,” Mr. Wyomen finally says.
Whitley’s jaw tightens. She presses her lips together, then forces a strained smile before scooting her chair toward them. “Okay.”
Victor perks up. “Research? We love hearing about student projects in the department. What’s the topic?”
Whitley folds her hands. “Well, it’s not exactly for the department. I’m assisting a graduate student at the University of Pittsburgh with a study about, um, transitional adulthood. We’re interviewing lifeguards in Penango about their experiences growing up.”
Victor nods, lips pursed. “Very impressive. Feel free to stop by my office if you ever need any advice. Not that I know anything about adulthood. I’m still figuring it out myself.” He bursts into a wheezy laugh that rattles the cubicle walls.
Whitley blushes. “Will do.”
“Smart kid you got here.” Victor claps Mr. Wyomen’s back too hard, causing him to cough.
After a moment, Mr. Wyomen catches his breath. “Well, I think we all have some work to do. Thanks for checking in with us, Whitley.” He waves before walking off with Victor.
Whitley watches him leave, then shoots me a look.
“Checking in,” she mutters. “He doesn’t get it. I’m his daughter, not his secretary.”
I shrug. “I mean, he probably wants to keep things professional at work—”
“Don’t.” Whitley glares. “Or you won’t get a dime of my research money.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “You’re right. He’s suchhh a dick,” I say, laying on thick sarcasm.
“Better,” she says, finally cracking a smile.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, holding up a finger. Victor’s words just handed me the perfect opportunity to ask for my letter of recommendation—if he really does want to help students.
I hurry after him and catch up by the mail bin. He’s flipping through a stack of envelopes, tucking them under his arm when I approach.
“Oh, hello, Stetson,” he says, barely looking up.
“Hi, Victor,” I say, slightly out of breath. I scratch the back of my head as I try to find the right words.
He raises his eyebrows. “You got something else you want to talk about?”
I nod. “Yeah, actually. Sorry if this is too forward, but after hearing you say you like to help students . . .” I shift my weight. “I was wondering if you could help me.”
He cocks his head back. “Depends. What’s the ask?”
I swallow. “Well, I am applying to this scholarship for school with a tight deadline. As in, due in two weeks. And I need a letter of recommendation.”
“No shit?”
My face twitches. “Yeah. It’s stressful.”
He rips an envelope clean in half. “I’ve always wanted to do one of those things.”
I blink. “Really?”
He smirks. “Yeah, it sounds so official.”
“So you’d do it for me?”
He pauses, tapping his chin. My shoulders sag. A nearby printer spits out pages in rapid succession, but it still can’t keep up with my heart rate.
“Tell you what,” he says. “If you can get that green pool under control, I’ll write you a letter.”
I stare at the carpet.
“I think that’s a fair deal,” he continues, shrugging. “Since you’ve only been here a couple weeks, you have to show your worth.” He laughs like this is a joke.
“Sure . . . yeah,” I say, rubbing my neck. “You have a deal.”
“Good.” He steps forward and jabs his index finger into my shoulder—hard. I stumble back, pain radiating from his point of contact.
“I don’t want to have to go to that spooky pool myself.” He giggles more. “It gives me the creeps.”
His grin is wide, but something about it unsettles me.
I retreat farther until my back presses against the wall.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I didn’t think I’d have to bargain for a recommendation letter.
He already has my résumé, academic transcript, and references from my job interview.
What else does he need? He’s the least serious adult I know but is the only one who takes writing a recommendation letter seriously. Go figure.
I want to scream. Just drop to my knees in the middle of this office and let out the frustration tightening my chest. But that won’t help my situation.
Instead, I shove this letter into the tentative folder in my brain, right next to going to college, leaving Penango, remaining visible, and my general future’s well-being.