Deep End(120)

“It wasn’t bad,” Bree says between claps.

Hasan frowns down at her. “But?”

“Was missing a bit of height,” she offers.

A bit of a balk, too. The scores appear on the board, and I grimace. She finishes in fifth place, which is below expectations considering last year’s medal.

“It’s the doping scare,” she tells us later, when we debrief in Coach Sima’s office. “Messing with my head. I couldn’t find my groove.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Coach tells her. “What’s done is done. Don’t dwell on it. Tomorrow’s platform, you’re the favorite. Onward.”

“Yup. Onward.” She sighs and turns to me. “Is Lukas around? Was he watching me dive?”

“I’m not sure.” I haven’t heard from him since before the competition.

“I saw him at the swimming events,” Bella says. “I think he has to go to those, since he’s one of the captains.”

And yet. The following morning, Pen and I get through the platform preliminaries without issues. When I return for the final, late in the afternoon, Lukas is there. I’m so distracted by my phone, I almost crash into him.

“What are you staring at?”

“Barb sent a video of Pipsqueak saying good luck.”

I show it to him. To his credit, he looks immensely charmed .

“You like dogs, right?” I ask.

“Is it a deal-breaker?”

“I’d never thought about that, but . . . yes. It is.”

“I love dogs. I’m just not sure Pipsqueak qualifies.”

I’m considering whether letting her rip off Lukas’s face is a legitimate defense of her honor, when Maryam texts, I’m in the bleachers. Look for me. I glance up, squinting at the stands. There are no signs of her—Sike, she texts a minute later—but I spot a familiar face.

“Lukas?”

“Mm?”

“Is that . . . ?”

He follows my gaze. “Yup. Sure is.”

“Is Dr. Smith into diving?”

“She once asked me how it was different from swimming, so I doubt it. I think she might just be here to support you.”

“That’s very . . .” I cut off. A fainting couch moment comes over me. “Lukas?”

“I’m still here.”

“Do you know who Dr. Carlsen is?”

“Comp bio guy?”

“Yup.”

“I took his class last year. Why?”

I point at the spot in the stands when Dr. Smith leans her head on Dr. Carlsen’s shoulder. His hand is wrapped around her waist, and he seems less than enthused to be here. Then again, it might be an improvement from the quiet wrath that’s his default state.

“She mentioned a husband,” I say. “Is she . . . openly cheating on him?”

“Olive?”

I nod, flabbergasted. But Lukas’s mind doesn’t seem to be half as boggled as mine. In fact, he’s fighting a smile.

“Scarlett, I think Dr. Carlsen is the husband. ”

I stare, uncomprehending. “No.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Honestly, I see it.”

“No.”

“They complement each other. And they do have several publications together.”

“No.”

He laughs. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“I’ll never be okay again.”

“What are you guys talking about?”

I whirl around. Pen is behind us, already wet in her suit. “Nothing. Just, this professor we were doing this research—”

“You need to go shower, Vandy. It’s about to start.”

“Right. Thanks.” I leave with one last, wistful glance to Lukas, and feel his eyes on me as I move away.

The final begins ten minutes later.





CHAPTER 63


IT’S AROUND THE THIRD DIVE THAT I REALIZE THAT I’M HAVING the best competition of my career—and it has surprisingly little to do with the scores.

I’m light in the air. My limbs find their path to good form. Above all, I’m able to clear my mind. I’m ten feet above the world, and no one else exists. It’s me and the water. Sam’s voice in my head reminds me: Your brain is not a muscle, but sometimes you can use it as one. Train it for competition as well as you train any other part of your body.

Pen, too, is in much better shape than yesterday, and breezes through her dives. Her first voluntary has a higher degree of difficulty than I’ve ever managed in competition, and I gasp when she performs it with minimal errors. Her second is an inward—a work of art, and it makes me so delighted, I hug her. I’m giddy about how well it’s going for us, and that’s why I don’t fully grasp the implications of it until the end of the fourth round.

I’m in first place. Pen trails after me by a couple of points.

“If either of you fucks up the last dive,” Coach Sima threatens, “I swear I’m selling you to the woodspeople.”

“No pressure, though,” Pen mutters .

“Yes, pressure. So much pressure.”

But it doesn’t frazzle us. Or at least, not me. My last dive is an inward two-and-a-half pike, the same dive that fucked up my life two years ago to this day, and it’s . . .