Vanishing Girls(38)

“Hello?” I choke out. Instantly the sound stops. Is it my imagination, or does something move in the shadows, a bare ghost-impression in the deeper dark? “Hello?” I call out again, a little louder.

“Nick?” Parker materializes out of the darkness, suddenly and harshly illuminated as he steps into the circular glow of a lamp. “You almost done? I’ve got a virtual half-constructed Roman-style temple waiting for me at home. . . .”

I’m so relieved, I nearly throw myself into his arms, just to feel that he’s solid and real and alive.

“Did you hear that?” I blurt.

Parker, I see, has already changed out of his work T-shirt. His old backpack, made of corduroy so faded it’s impossible to tell what color it once was, is slung over one shoulder. “Hear what?”

“I thought I heard—” I break off abruptly. Suddenly I realize how silly I’ll sound. I thought I heard a ghost. I thought I heard a little girl crying out for her father as she fell through empty space. “Nothing.” I peel off the gloves, which have made my fingers smell sour, and brush my hair back from my face with the inside of a wrist. “Forget it.”

“Are you all right?” Parker does the thing he always does when he doesn’t believe me: tucks his chin down, stares at me with eyebrows half-raised. I have a sudden flashback of Parker, aged five, looking at me just that way when I told him I could jump across Old Stone Creek, no problem. I broke my ankle; I misjudged the bank height, crashed straight into the water, slipped, and Parker had to carry me home on his back.

“Fine,” I say shortly. “Just tired.”

And it’s true: suddenly I am—aching with an exhaustion so deep I can feel it in my teeth.

“Need help?” Parker gestures to the two bags I’ve piled next to me: the last remaining load I have to cart out for pickup. He doesn’t wait for me to respond before leaning forward and swinging the heaviest bag over his other shoulder. “I told Gary we’d lock up,” he says. “Actually, there’s something I want to show you real quick.”

“Is it a Dumpster?” I haul the other bag over my shoulder, like Parker’s doing, and follow him toward the lot. “Because I think I’ve had enough garbage for a lifetime.”

“Don’t say that. How could anyone ever get tired of garbage? It’s so authentic.”

Caroline is just leaving when we reach the lot. Her little Acura, and Parker’s Volvo, are the last remaining cars. She rolls down her window to wave as she passes, and Parker loads the trash bags into the Dumpster, throwing them like an old-school sailor tossing canvas bags of fish onto a ship deck. Then he takes my hand—casually, unconsciously, the way he did when we were kids, whenever it was his turn to pick the game we were going to play. Come on, Nick. This way. And Dara would trail after us, wailing that we were going too fast, complaining about the mud and the mosquitoes.

It’s been years since I’ve held Parker’s hand. I’m suddenly paranoid that my palm is still sweating.

“Are you serious?” I say, as Parker draws me back toward the park gates. There isn’t a single inch of FanLand I haven’t seen. At this point, there isn’t a single inch of FanLand I haven’t scrubbed, cleaned, or examined for stray trash. “I have to be on shift again at nine.”

“Just trust me,” he says. And the truth is I don’t want to resist too hard. His hand feels nice—familiar and yet totally new, like hearing a song you only dimly remember.

We loop around the path toward the Lagoon, leaving the Gateway safely in the distance, dim spires rising like a distant city over wide alleys of wooden stalls and concession stands and dark pockets of trees. Now, with Parker next to me, I can’t believe how frightened I was earlier. There are no ghosts, here or anywhere; there’s no one in the park but us.

Parker leads me to the edge of the wave pool, an artificial beach made out of concrete pebbles. The water, smooth and dark and motionless, looks like one long shadow.

“Okay,” I say. “Now what?”

“Wait here.” Parker drops my hand, but the impression of his touch—the warmth, the shivery good feeling—takes a second longer to dissipate.

“Parker—”

“I told you to trust me.” He’s already backing up, jogging away from me. “Have I ever lied to you? Don’t answer that,” he adds quickly, before I can.

Then he’s gone, merging with the darkness. I edge down toward the water, splashing my sneakers experimentally in the shallows, half annoyed at Parker for keeping me out here after shift and half relieved that things are so normal again that Parker can annoy me.

Suddenly the motors rumble on, disrupting the stillness. I jump back, yelping, as the water is abruptly illuminated from below in crazy rainbow shades: neon oranges and yellows and purples and blues, shifting Technicolor strata. A wave gathers on the far side of the pool and works its way slowly toward me, causing all the colors to blend and break and re-form. I back up as the wave breaks at my feet, scattering into shades of pink.

“See? Told you it was worth it.” Parker reemerges, jogging, silhouetted against the crazy light display.

“You win,” I say. I’ve never seen the wave pool lit up like this; I didn’t even know it could be. Fingers of light, shimmering and translucent, extend up toward the sky, and I have a sudden, soaring sense of happiness—like I, too, am nothing but light.