Deep End(19)

“What do you mean?”

“I asked you to choose a science problem and solve it using computational biology. You proposed to classify different types of pancreatic cells using deep learning, and detailed the appropriate neural networks. Was it your idea? It’s a simple yes or no question. Don’t waste my time.”

I scowl at his audacity. Hot blood rushes to my cheeks. Of course it was my idea. Who the hell would I even ask to—

“I see that it was.” He seems . . . pleased? “Would you be interested in pursuing it further?”

“What?”

“The deep learning algorithm. Would you like to participate in a research project?”

“So it’s . . . is this why you asked me to come here?”

He nods.

I sink back into my chair, and must spend too long savoring my relief at having escaped plagiarism jail, because he prods: “The research project.”

“Oh, right.” Would I? In my carefully and anally crafted academic plan, I was going to get some research experience next summer, just in time to ask my mentor to write me a rec letter. Med schools love that stuff. “Maybe?”

“Maybe.” A puzzled eyebrow lifts, like he’s encountering the concept of indecision for the first time .

“Well, I’m a student athlete, and this semester is . . .”

His eyebrow demands to know, Did I ask?

Nope, you did not. My bad. “It would be amazing. But I’m not sure I’m quite good enough to . . .” I drift off, because he’s now writing something on a Post-it, then handing it over.

It’s an orange square. The printed message in the top corner reads Pumpkin Spice Life. The bottom is a smiling coffee cup, little hearts orbiting around the lid. Scribbled in the middle is an email.

“If you decide you’re interested, contact my colleague.”

“Will they know who I am?”

“Yes,” he says. No explanation. I have so many questions, it must take me too long to decide on which. “You may go now,” he says, sterner than a Victorian governess.

I quickly scurry to the door—then stop. “Dr. Carlsen?”

He types away, giving no sign of having heard me.

“There was no grade. On the paper.”

His eyes settle on me again, and he looks genuinely confused.

“Will I receive one?”

“Ms. Vandermeer, you planned a graduate-level study and extensively described its pitfalls and possible solutions, showing a command of the topic that eighty percent of my fellow faculty members will never achieve. Most of your peers copy-pasted their projects from Wikipedia and neglected to remove the hyperlinks. If your topic weren’t much more in line with my colleague’s research, and if my colleague wasn’t incredibly . . . persuasive, I would be recruiting you into my lab.”

“Oh.” Wow. Just . . . wow.

“Believe me when I say that the grade is . . .” I sense despair in him. I bet he’d love to slug off the mortal coil of scoring rubrics. “Irrelevant.”

“If you don’t care either way, I’d like an A plus.”

His mouth twitches. “I will let Otis know. ”

I grin. This time, Dr. Carlsen nods his goodbyes. The overall effect is stilted, like he pulled an item off a How to Act Politely list that someone scribbled for him on an orange Post-it, but I’ll take it.

I’m starving, but my walk to the athlete dining hall is slow, because I’m busy writing an email to one Dr. Olive Smith.





CHAPTER 11


LET’S GO BACK FOR A SECOND TO THAT DIVE GROUP YOU MENTIONED. Inverse.”

“Inward?”

“Yes.” Sam sighs, like she’s starting to lose patience with herself for not having the lingo memorized. It’s endearing, I must say. “Once again, sorry.”

“No problem. The names are weird.”

“So, when your injury occurred, you were performing an inward dive. Correct?”

I make a deliberate effort to avoid squirming. Sam, I suspect, takes note of that kind of stuff. “Correct.”

“As I understand it, your injury is fully healed.”

“It is.”

“Are there any remnants of it that make inward dives particularly challenging for you?”

I wish I could nod. So, so bad. Instead I drag out saying, “No,” for as long as I can, and this time, I cannot help fidgeting.





CHAPTER 12


HATED PICTURE DAY IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, HATE MEDIA day in college. I’m nothing if not consistent.”

I doubt Victoria, or anyone else, has ever uttered words worthier of my endorsement, even if Pen shrugs cheerfully and says, “I think it’s fun.”

It’s Thursday after practice. The entire team wears black meet suits and crowds around the locker room mirror—the unflattering one that magically spotlights all our pores at the same time. We have one reflective surface, two harsh ceiling lamps, three poorly placed outlets, four curling irons, five divers, and twenty minutes to fool the world into believing we’re more than chlorine-soaked hair tangles.

“If this is fun, I fucking hate fun,” Victoria mutters. She turns to Bree and Bella, who are fighting over eyeliner techniques. “Can’t you two ever do your own individual thing?” she snaps. The twins look so fiercely outraged, I’m surprised she doesn’t collapse into a pile of elastane blend.