Page 3 of Within These County Lines

The only proof that anything happened yesterday is the gash on my forehead. And I know exactly what caused that.

I’m glad the tree didn’t leave my face even more busted before college, but it would’ve been nice to get some confirmation about yesterday’s chain of events.

Maybe it was just stress. Maybe whatever panic knocked me to the ground before it all started had crawled into my brain and distorted my fears into something I could see instead of just feel.

Murray must be to blame. Another reason to stay away from him for the rest of summer. I can’t risk another hallucination that makes me lose sight of my way out of Penango.

I’m hoping this morning will refresh my brain’s algorithm and vanish yesterday into the dark web of my suppressed memories.

“What the hell happened to your head?” Whitley Wyomen, my best friend, asks by the health department’s entrance doors, her eyes narrowed at my forehead.

Okay. Never mind. I forgot I need to turn off public comments if I want a true reset.

Her tone is light and breathy, and her accent a mix of Valley girl with some southern charm, like if you combined Paris Hilton’s voice with Dolly Parton’s. Because of this, people write her off as an airhead, but she’s more determined and has got a wider range of interests than anyone I know. I can’t think of another person who is first-chair clarinet in the all-county concert ensemble and strong enough to split enough wood each winter to heat every home south of Pittsburgh.

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” I say, picking at my jet-black arm hair.

Mom and I share the same dark hair and pale skin. Dad jokes that we look like Morticia and Wednesday Addams. It’s only funny to him because he has brown hair and olive skin that gets tan like Whitley’s.

She raises her eyebrow. “What kind of answer is that? It looks bad. Should you get stitches?”

“It’s clotting up,” I say, stroking the wound with my thumb. “I didn’t feel like driving an hour to the hospital.”

“Well, how did the talk with Murray go yesterday?” Her dry blond hair falls off her shoulder as we move.

I swallow and crank up my podcast volume.

Mom is always yelling at me, “Take those damn things out of your ears.” She claims there’s no way I can pay attention to my surroundings while listening to music, podcasts, and books twenty-four seven. Her point is well taken. I’ve listened to podcasts that say you can’t truly multitask. But I’m not convinced. After all, Murray managed to love me while hurting me at the same time.

Instead of answering her, I ask the front desk worker where the summer orientation is.

They point us past security and I step through the metal detector, pretending it’s an airport TSA screening, something I’ve never actually experienced.

I’ve barely crossed the Pennsylvania state line. Once for a family reunion in Ohio, another time for a school field trip to Washington, DC.

I wonder what it’s like to fly somewhere far away, out of reach of the hands that have harmed me.

The orientation room holds twelve people—thirteen if you count Victor, the environmental health specialist who interviewed us in the spring, now standing behind a podium. I always count crowds. It’s a habit, something that comforts me when I arrive somewhere new. I even convinced the athletic department at school to let me run a guess the attendance contest at football games. It helps to know the proportion of strangers around me. I calculate friends and foes, entrances and exits. React with evidence rather than emotion—it’s a favorite podcast quote of mine.

Victor starts the presentation, and a projector balanced on a tower of orange milk crates flicks on, casting a slide across the wall: What do I do about solid stool in the pool? Whitley snorts. I consider popping in my second earbud.

Nothing can describe the start of my summer better than stool graphs.

Our job is to inspect the pools across the county to make sure they’re safe, clean of bacteria, and properly chlorinated. I’m not sure how good I’ll be at it considering I can’t even keep my own life from being a mess.

“I didn’t know poop could be so serious,” Whitley whispers.

The corner of my lip twitches. I cover my mouth to suppress a laugh. It’s the first time I’ve smiled in two days.

That’s the thing about Whitley: No matter how bad things get, she always finds a way to turn things around.

“Was your stool solid this morning?” she asks.

A gust of wind sends an overgrown tree branch scraping against the window. I jump, clutching my waist. No one else in the room flinches.

I up the podcast volume again, needing the distraction, unsure where my thoughts will lead or which trees they’ll bring to life.

“You can find a list of sanitary fecal disposal methods on page three of your handouts,” Victor drones.