Page 4 of Within These County Lines

I flip open my orientation folder, but I find myself scanning my own résumé where my eyes snag on one word right next to University of Tennessee: (tentative).

My stomach twists.

My college enrollment still depends on financial aid, but at this point, I’ve filled out so many forms, I have no idea who I’m waiting on. Tennessee? Pennsylvania? The governor himself?

I emailed a help center last week, and all I got so far was an automated thank you for your email response. The thought of some machine scanning my application and deciding my future in seconds hardens my stomach even further.

Murray’s voice creeps in too, the low, piercing tone he used all senior year to tell me I’m not cut out for college, that maybe Pennsylvania is as far as I’ll ever get.

I grab my pencil and scratch out (tentative). It’s June, and college is two months away. I’ve made too many promises to myself to back down now. If I doubt myself, why wouldn’t they? My future in Penango is tentative, not college.

I’ll reset things the only official way I know how—with a No. 2 pencil, crossed fingers and toes, and a whole lot of delusion.

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.