Deep End(114)

“This is the best day of my fucking life,” Pen whispers after we step on the podium. It’s not hard to hear her, even over the applause. She cries. I cry. We take a million selfies. Tear up some more. Sandwich Coach Sima in a giant hug. Celebrate with the twins, who got bronze on the three-meter synchro. FaceTime Victoria and tell her that it’s all due to her training. Have ice cream. Pass a shop that says TEMPORARY HENNA TATTOOS and . . .

“No,” I say.

“We have to.”

“No.”

“Yes, Vandy. ”

“No.”

“It’s a sign. It’s destiny. God and our ancestors and Emily Dickinson want this from us.”

“We can’t.”

“Not only we can, we must.”

We settle for two divers entering the water side by side, and the words DIVING BESTIES underneath, on my right and Pen’s left shoulder. The employee, a teenage boy who’d rather be playing Fortnite, looks at us like we’re the least cool people he’s ever encountered. He’s not wrong.

It’s not until later that night, when we’re brushing our teeth next to each other, that I notice something weird.

“Pen?”

“Yeah?”

“How do you spell bestie?”

“B-E-S-T . . . Oh, shit.”

The following day, Pen wins the platform gold, and I take the bronze. We do all our pool deck interviews together, our new DIVING BEASTIES tattoos on full display. I am so happy, I need to take a minute alone in the bathroom to relearn how to breathe and iron my cheeks out of this unsustainable, too-wide smile.

The following week, at the Zone E meet, we both qualify for the NCAA.





CHAPTER 60


UNKNOWN: I see you’ve been following my advice.

I stare at the text, trying to recall the Beware of scams and phishing email Stanford sends every quarter.

UNKNOWN: It’s Mei, by the way.

I laugh. Save her contact.

SCARLETT: I have. Thank you so much.

I chew on my lower lip before adding: Is it okay if I send you a couple of TiVos? I’m not super happy with my armstand.

MEI: I thought you’d never ask.



The men’s swimming and diving NCAA championship is separate from the women’s portion, because . . . I have no idea. But I’m glad that in two weeks the men will fly to Atlanta, and in three weeks the women . . . won’t.

For the first time, the women’s tournament will be at Avery.

“The luxury of it.” Pen sighs. “No new pools. No jet lag.”

“No having to put on compression socks for a flight.”

She studies me, narrow eyed. “You use compression socks? ”

“You don’t?”

“How old are you?”

“Shut up.”

She shakes her head. “At least I know what to get you for your next birthday.”

The lead-up to the NCAA hits different—electric, a center of gravity, ready to gather the crackle of energy accumulated during the season. Divers don’t normally take breaks before big meets, and aside from reducing strength training, our routine doesn’t change. The twins, though, didn’t make the cut for any NCAA event, which means that their season is over, and their presence at practice is optional. It’s just Pen and I, and while the number of times we get our bodies wet is well into the triple digits, our tattoos persevere. At least two journalists have commented upon them. In written pieces. That can be read on the internet. By any individual.

I quietly pray that med schools are too busy to google prospective students.

There are so many parties, I lose count. Over thirty swimmers have qualified for the NCAA championship, and they’re all in taper.

“A tapering swimmer’s a dangerous thing,” Pen tells me when she comes over to get some help for her programming class. She has been feeling much better—because of our wins, and because time does heal all wounds. This morning, when Theo texted her to congratulate her, she rolled her eyes and blocked his number.

“How so?”

“So much time and energy on their hands, all of a sudden. Lukas goes nuts. He’ll pace. Gaze longingly at the pool. Wash his hands a lot. Wake up earlier and earlier. You know, the perfectly normal acts of a totally non-deranged person.” She shrugs. “Anyway, I gotta go. There’s a party tonight. This rower I like will be there.”

After she leaves, I manage to hold off for about half an hour. I’m texting Lukas to check on him, I tell myself. Because of what Pen said. Because he checked on me over and over when I needed him. Plus, Pen seems to be over the idea of getting back with him.

More simply: we’ve both been competing out of town for the past two weeks, and I miss him.

SCARLETT: Are you tapering?

LUKAS: And I hate it.

His reply is instant—so odd, for someone who barely checks his phone when we’re together. Maybe he’s bored. Clawing at the walls. Eager for distractions.

I can’t picture it. I run my finger over his photo—Netherlands. Sunglasses interrupting freckles. That indulgent lift at the corner of his mouth.

SCARLETT: Pearls to swine

LUKAS: No idea what that means. Not flattered, though.

I feel almost drunk. Remarkable, the energy that sparks from two texts after such a long stretch of nothing. Tech bros should harness it for their cryptocurrency-mining endeavors.