“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.

Parker and I kick our shoes off and roll up our jeans and sit with our legs half-submerged in the water, watching as the waves gather, crest, break, and retreat, every motion provoking corresponding shifts in the patterns of color. Dara would love this, I think, and feel a quick squeeze of guilt.

Parker leans back on his elbows, so his face is partially obscured by shadow. “Do you remember last Founders’ Day Ball? When we broke into the pool and you dared me to climb the rafters?”

“And you tried to pull me in with my dress on,” I say. A burst of pain explodes behind my eyes. Parker’s car. The clouded windshield. Dara’s face. I squeeze my eyes shut, as if I can make the images disperse.

“Hey.” He sits up again, grazing my knee, just barely, with a hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I open my eyes again. Another wave breaks over my feet, this one green. I bring my knees to my chest, hugging them. “It’s Dara’s birthday tomorrow.”

Parker’s face changes. All the light drains from his expression at once. “Fuck.” He looks away, rubbing his eyes. “I totally forgot. I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah.” I scrape at an artificial pebble with a nail. There’s so much I want to say—so much I want to ask him that I’ve never asked him. It feels as if I have a balloon in my chest; at any second it might burst. “I feel like I’m just . . . losing her.”

He turns back to me, then, his face twisted with a raw kind of grief. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know.”

That’s when the balloon bursts. “Are you still in love with her?” I blurt out. There’s a strange kind of relief in finally asking.

Parker looks at first surprised—then, almost immediately, he shuts down, turns expressionless. “Why are you asking me that?” he says.

“Forget it,” I say. I stand up. The colors have lost their magic. They’re just lights, stupid lights with stupid gels over them, a spectacle made for people too stupid to tell the difference. Like the mermaid costume, made out of cheap sequins and glue. “I’m tired, okay? I just want to go home.”

Parker stands, too, and puts a hand on my arm when I turn in the direction of the parking lot. “Wait.”