Chapter 8
I call Rainbow Valley’s number three times on my drive over—no answer, as expected. But the moment I arrive, I know something is different.
The driveway is clear. The pavement glistens under the sun, wet as if it’s been freshly hosed down. We haven’t had rain in the past day. Xander must’ve cleaned up the place. Or someone else is here. Hopefully they’re real this time.
I gulp and turn into the club’s entrance.
Farther down, the old shed’s doors are back on their hinges, securely shut. The faded Pinehurst block lettering is now covered by a vibrant sign: Rainbow Valley Swim Club. The mildew-stained umbrellas and broken chairs are gone too.
A woman in her thirties or forties scrubs the pool deck with a broom, her black Pittsburgh Steelers hat pulled low over her face.
My tires crunch over the gravel as I come to a stop. She straightens, gripping the broom, and narrows her eyes on me. I tuck my clipboard under my arm, grab my inspection kit, and step out of the truck, straight into a swarm of gnats. They smack against my face, buzzing in protest.
Before I introduce myself, my gaze shifts to the lounge chairs beside the pool. Empty. No books, candy, or soda.
No sign of Xander Pomers.
“Can I help you?” the woman asks.
“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “Hi. My name is Stetson Delancey and I’m from the Penango County Health Department. I’ve called a few times.”
Her eyes go wide.
“It’s nothing bad,” I say, walking toward her. “I have to do a standard pool inspection before you can open . . . for safety and stuff. Although it looks like you’ve cleaned the place up a bit since the last time I was here.”
She grins and throws her arms wide like she’s expecting a hug. “You’re the pool guy!”
Before I can respond, she tilts her head back and calls to the sky, “Honey! The pool guy is here.”
I clutch my clipboard to my chest. When a Penango woman summons her honey, it’s usually for the purposes of getting the worst man you’ve never met to do their dirty work. I prepare myself for a scolding, evil eye, or lecture on county government overreach.
From the woods, another woman appears, balancing a stack of orange plastic buckets in her arms. She’s dressed in denim overalls and thick garden gloves.
“Hey there,” she says, coolly. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
A breath of relief escapes me. Oh. Honey as in . . . wife?
Finally—normal people.
“Sorry.” I smile. “We got a call only the other day that you were opening.”
“We’re excited to get the pool ready for the kids,” the woman with the overalls says, placing a hand on the other woman’s shoulder.
“It’s been for sale for a while. We’re taking it over and making it a camp for queer kids from southwest Pennsylvania.
The first busload of campers is set to come in early July. ”
It’s ninety degrees, but a chill creeps over my skin, raising goosebumps.
My mind loops through everything that happened here the night Xander went missing, back when this place was still called Pinehurst Swim Club.
Or rather, everything I don’t know about that night.
The shadows beneath the trees seem to stretch into something darker.
I steal a glance over my shoulder just to make sure my truck is still there.
“What do you think of the name?” the woman with the broom says. “I’m Sheryl, by the way. And this is Kim.”
I shrug. “I like it. There’s not much around here that is . . .”
“So gay,” Kim finishes with a smirk.
I laugh. “Yeah, I guess. The more rainbow the better. I wish there was more when I was growing up.”
They exchange a look, their lips parting slightly, like they’re about to ask something obvious.
“I’m gay,” I say, answering for them.
Kim’s face softens. “That’s great. We’re together and grew up here too, so we know how hard it can be.” She bends slightly, meeting my eyes. “You’re very brave. Maybe you can hang out this summer when the campers arrive.”
I blush. “Yeah, that could be fun. As long as everything checks out with my inspection.”
They laugh, even though it wasn’t a joke. But I’m not here to make friends. I just want to finish my job, make as much money as I can, and get out of this town without losing my mind.
Sheryl’s expression shifts, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know how much county history you know,” she says.
I know some. I wish I didn’t.
“But a while back, there was—”
“Xander,” I blurt.
Her face twitches. “Yes. So, you do know. We’re friends with his mom, Maggie. She gave us her blessing to turn this place into something meaningful. Swimming here at night used to bring Xander some comfort. We want to offer that same peace to other kids going through similar struggles.”
I grind my shoe into the pavement. “And he was never found?”
Sheryl and Kim exchange a look, then shake their heads.
Kim bites her lip. “You try not to lose hope, but . . . it’s hard.”
Sherly rubs her nose. “His mother still struggles.”
Kim clears her throat. “You should go ahead and do your inspection. I don’t think we’re quite ready yet, to be honest, but you can at least tell us what still needs fixing.
” Her voice is tight, her eyes glassy. She nods once before turning to Sheryl.
“I’m going to get back to cleaning the campsites. ”
“Right, sure,” I say. I gather my kit and make my way to the pool, eager to put distance between myself and this conversation.
But as soon as I peer over the pool’s edge, my stomach drops. The water is still only halfway up. Its shade of green has darkened since yesterday, and the surface ripples with an oily film that shifts and twists like gasoline on pavement.
Their work was too good to be true. I wanted this place to be ready, so I could walk away and leave it behind—like I’m trying to do with Murray, Stillwell Trail, the Ardor Tree, and everything else in Penango.
“Nasty, isn’t it?” A boy’s voice cuts through the humid air.
I spin and come face-to-face with Xander Pomers. Our noses nearly touch. I stumble back.
“Do you want a Swedish Fish?” he asks, extending a crinkled yellow bag of candy. Tucked against his side is a thick book: The History of the Dalmatian Dog Breed.
“Xander,” I whisper, pulse pounding. My gaze flicks to Sheryl. She’s sweeping the pool deck, oblivious.
“Everyone’s looking for you,” I say, my voice climbing in pitch.
“C’mon.” I grip his shoulder. He stares at my hand like a kid watching a magic trick.
“These people miss you . . . and your mom. She’s going to be so excited to see you.
” My words rush out between ragged breaths.
The thick air constricts around my chest like a tightening thread.
Xander shakes his head. “No, she won’t. I told you—”
“Sheryl!” I yell. “Look!”
Her body quivers with alarm and the broom slips from her grip. She hurries toward us with a creased brow. “What’s wrong with the pool?”
I look at Xander, then back to Sheryl. My shoulders sag. “It’s . . . Can’t you see?”
“See what?” She squints at the green water as Xander, or his ghost, stands directly beside her. “What am I looking for?”
I point. “He’s right . . . here.”
Sheryl shields her face from the sun, continuing to scan the pool deck. But she doesn’t react.
I turn to Xander, my throat tightening. I lower my voice. “She really can’t see you, can she?”
He shakes his head, eyes fixed on the ground.
“See what?” Sheryl presses.
I force myself to swallow. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I thought I saw a dead animal. But there’s nothing here.”
She lets out a long sigh, then pats my back. “You scared me there for a second.” She picks up the broom and returns to the other side of the pool.
“Do you believe me yet?” Xander asks.
“No.” I cross my arms. “Because what you’re telling me is unbelievable.”
“Yeah, it takes some time to understand.” He chomps the head off a Swedish Fish with his teeth. “It took me a few months to come to terms with my invisibility.”
“This is insane.” I run my fingers through my hair. “Do you live in the pool? How do you look the same as you did in 2015? I don’t get it.”
“I’m frozen in time after what happened to me. Forever seventeen, I call it. I haven’t aged a day. It’s great for tanning since the sun doesn’t shrivel me up. And I have a tree house I made in the woods for my home. I can show you—”
“Why can I see you, but Sheryl can’t?”
He shrugs. “I have no clue. Which is why I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier this week. I’m as surprised as you are. Can we start over?”
“Start over with what?”
“Our friendship. I have zero friends. And I’ve never had a gay friend before.”
I raise my eyebrows. “How do you know I’m gay?”
“I heard everything you said to Sheryl and Kim. It’s one of the perks of being invisible.”
I take a deep breath. “Listen, Xander. I don’t know what you want from me, but I have a lot going on right now and this whole situation is really distracting. I don’t want any new friends. I just want to inspect this pool and go home.”
I step around him, but he moves to block me.
“But there must be a reason for this to be happening. You’re the only person who has been able to see me in ten years.” His voice cracks.
I hesitate. “What happened to you that night?” My tone is even. “What happened to you here?”
He studies the pool area like a deer caught in headlights. “I was swimming and then”—he snaps his fingers—“everything went black.”
“Just black?”
“Oblivion.”
My body shudders remembering the familiar feeling at the Ardor Tree.
“Then, who knows how long after that, I woke up on my lounge chair.” He points to where we first met.
“Do you think you’re—”
“Dead?” He nods. “I think so. Maybe I drowned without realizing. Or lightning struck the pool and I got shocked to death.”
“But your body? What happened to it? It wouldn’t just vanish.”
“A bear got me. That’s my best hypothesis. If you think Penango is rural now? Even just ten years ago there wasn’t shit out here. Just trees.” He licks his lips with a bright red tongue.
“So you’re saying I see dead people?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “You could be a medium and not realize it. I’m a firm believer in the afterlife now. But I haven’t met any other ghosts yet.” He taps his chin. “Unless you’re also—”
“I’m not dead!” I yell.
He cowers.
“Who are you talking to over there?” Sheryl asks. “You need any help?”
I exhale, hard, and rub the back of my neck. My cheeks burn. “No. I’m fine. Almost done.”
“I’m sorry,” Xander says. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“That’s all you’ve been doing.” I wipe my hand down my face. “It’s wrong to suggest that I’ve died.” My lips quiver. “I still have a lot to do with my life. I’m not dying here. In Penango.”
“It’s a scary thought, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“I’ve carried that thought around for a decade,” he continues.
We lock eyes.
“I’m not trying to make you feel the same way. I’d never want that for someone else. I just think you can help me. Could you help me? Help me figure out why I’m like this.”
“Like what?”
His gaze drifts to the tree line and meets the sky. A lone crow caws.
“I guess we’ll find out together.”