Deep End(25)

Right. That thick warmth flares up again, this time in the hollow of my chest. You get it. Thank you for getting it. And: “Thank you for asking your friends to leave so that I wouldn’t be uncomfortable.”

He nods. Doesn’t pretend that it isn’t exactly what he did. “Thank you for getting Mrs. Sima off my back at the barbecue so that I wouldn’t have to talk about my mother.”

All about trust, he said. I won’t betray his by asking why he doesn’t want to do that. “First exit diversion is on me, but the next will cost you.”

I hear his amused exhale, and let a comfortable silence wrap around us for the rest of the meal.





CHAPTER 15


THAT WEEK, FOLLOWING THE CALENDAR GUIDELINES KINDLY provided by my courageous forebears (i.e., people who got into med school and lived to tell the tale), I finish writing the first draft of my personal statement.

And promptly right-click it into the trash can. I also consider deep-frying myself straight to the gates of hell. According to Maryam, it’s that bad.

“‘I desire to follow the footsteps of my heroes, such as Hippocrates of Kos . . . which is how I realized that my favorite bacterium was Bordetella parapertussis . . . and as I looked at Queen Amidala dying on the screen, I decided that I would become a doctor to help people like her survive to see their Force sensitive twins thrive . . . ’” Maryam is bulge-eyed. “Who are you?”

I grab a throw pillow and hand it to her. “Will you please hold this against my respiratory airways for the next sixty to ninety seconds?”

“Seriously, what is this word soup? Did you kidnap a middle school dropout and force him to write this at gunpoint? Is it AI generated? What was the prompt? ‘What if crotch smell was an essay?’”

I groan and let myself fall back onto the couch. “Is it that hard to believe that I’m just that bad with words?”

“You could be an illiterate praying mantis, and my answer would still be a resounding yes.” She scoffs. “None of this is true, anyway. Just be honest. ‘Hi, my name is Vandy McVandermeer and I’m a neurotic, perfectionist, overachieving student athlete who memorized the workings of the musculoskeletal system by the age of nine but is still unable to timely replace toilet paper rolls. Hobbies include staring at the As on my student transcripts. I want to become a physician because I love my stepmommy. And because I’m a control freak and this job is as close as I’ll ever get to mastering life and death. Aside from maybe holding the nuclear codes. Do you happen to know if there are any openings for that position?’”

I could do that. I could be honest. But if I went that route, I’d have to admit to the low C I’m currently pulling in German, to how under I’ve been achieving, to my inability to exert control over anything.

I bemoan my language constipation on Saturday, on my way to practice. There are student services I could use for help, but they’re for fine-tuning and wordsmithing, not the nuclear makeover I need. I should ask Barb, but she got into med school nearly three decades ago. Maybe Lukas would be willing to share his essay with me? I have his number. And his email, of course.

It should be me.

Nah. Better not.

Avery is larger than my entire high school used to be—one diving well, three pools, a million satellite structures—and today it’s packed full. I follow the cheers and music to the competition pool until I spot Coach Sima, who’s glaring resentfully at the crowd.

“What’s going on?” I ask him.

“Pool Wars.”

“Oh, right. I always forget that it’s a thing.”

“As you should. It’s damn unnecessary.” Coach’s resentment for the swimming team is legendary, and mostly due to how many more resources they get compared to diving. He has a point, though: intramural competitions are a waste of time.

“Is it almost done?”

“It’s a damn pentathlon.”

It means, I think, that all swimmers race one hundred yards for every stroke, plus individual medleys. Not sure, though. Also: don’t care. “When does it end?”

“Daylong infestation, apparently.”

I pat his shoulder. “There, there.”

“The rest of the diving team is over there.” He points to under the stands. “They wanted to watch the medley race. And apparently it would be too much of a tyrant move for me to demand we begin practice on time.” He raises his voice, as though anyone but me could hear him. “We’ll start dryland once it’s over, which cannot be soon enough.” I give him one last pat and head toward the others. “If any of you is late, I’m making y’all run laps!” he yells after me—a frequent threat with zero percent follow-through.

Pen is delighted to see me, in a way I’m not used to experiencing from anyone but Barb or Pipsqueak. She asks the swimmer next to her to scoot over to make space for me, then twines her arm with mine. We had dinner yesterday, just me and her. We talked for hours without mentioning diving or Lukas Blomqvist. Nothing special, but it’ll go down in my top five Stanford moments.

Who am I kidding? Top three.

“I think it’s the first time I’ve seen you at a swim meet,” Pen says.

“I think it’s the first time I’ve been to one since I was in high school, and my ride home was the mom of one of the backstroke guys.”