Deep End(28)

“At least Coach didn’t bust out the spotting rope.”

“Or the twisting belt.” She makes a gagging sound and goes in for her turn. We only have four dive stands, which gives me a compulsory break. I sip on some water. Take out my phone. Write a text to an unsaved number.

SCARLETT: Please tell me that someone else drew a convolutional neural network on your hand in the past two days.

Immediate reply.

UNKNOWN: Are you calling me a computational slut?

SCARLETT: How has it not faded?

UNKNOWN: Someone used indelible marker .

Shit.

UNKNOWN: Looks like I’ll need you around this year.

And: fuck.

SCARLETT: As in, I’m in charge of drawing a CNN on your hand before every meet?

UNKNOWN: Nah.

Thank god.

UNKNOWN: Just the international ones. And Pac 12. NCAA.

Jesus.

SCARLETT: Do you really want to be reminded of my computational superiority that often?

UNKNOWN: I do. I have a thing for women who are smarter than me.

My heart hiccups.

SCARLETT: I’m not ready for the responsibility of being part of your lucky routine. If you lose, will the King of Sweden get mad at me?

UNKNOWN: My country is a parliamentary democracy.

SCARLETT: You’re a man of science. You’re not really superstitious, are you?

UNKNOWN: Maybe I am.

I sigh.

SCARLETT: On the one hand, I want to shame you for it. On the other, my worst dive ever happened the day after someone stole my tie dye shammy.

I’m ready to admit that as far as evidence supporting the efficacy of competition-adjacent rituals goes, it’s pretty thin—until a scream startles me.

I drop my phone and run toward the sound. When I reach the portable board farthest from me, my heart drops into my stomach. Because Victoria is lying on the floor. Her eyes are full of tears, and her ankle is bent at an unnatural angle.





CHAPTER 16


WHAT CLINGS TO ME LIKE SMOKE THROUGH THE NEXT FEW days is something Bella says right after Coach Sima disappears inside the aquatic center, carrying a sobbing Victoria in his arms.

She’d just bought that new chlorine treatment for her hair. Was so excited about it not looking like hay this year.

I think about it throughout my workouts, my meals, my German homework, my fight with Maryam over washer cycles. Bella’s resigned, despondent tone. The way she sat on the coaches’ bench next to Bree, cheek on her sister’s shoulder. I sat, too, hugged my legs and rested my chin on top of my knees, stared at the empty diving well while the obnoxious cheers of the Pool Wars and the late afternoon breeze made my skin break into goose bumps.

“And how is she now?” Sam asks on Wednesday morning. I feel guilty, filling our session with chatter of something that has nothing to do with inward dives. This is what’s on my mind, though.

“I don’t know. Her family’s in town. Coach Sima has been vague. I . . . she is a senior.”

And that’s that. Lots left unspoken behind those four words, most of which has to be lost on Sam, but sits heavily on the team. Yesterday, in the gloom of practice. Today, in the too-quiet locker room.

“Are you concerned that it might be a season-ending injury for her?”

“I hope not.” Even at her best, Victoria never excelled. She’s no Pen, who’ll almost certainly go pro after graduation. All she could do was cling to the prospect that next season would be better. But if there’s no next season . . .

“I hope not,” I repeat.

“She’s a good friend of yours?”

“I don’t know if she’d consider me a friend. I like her a lot.”

Sam blinks like she’s putting a pin in that, a mental note of something for later. More to unpack—how excellent. “How does her injury make you feel?”

“It just . . . sucks.”

“It does,” she agrees. “But you didn’t answer my question. How does it make you feel?”

I dislike the Use Your Words part of therapy. A problem, since it’s all of it. “Sad that she might be in pain. Angry that it happened to her. Anxious for her recovery.”

“What about fear?”

“Of what?”

“You have been severely injured. Now the same has happened to a friend. Does this validate your fears?”

“Our situations are completely different. Victoria wasn’t even in the pool.”

“But doesn’t this solidify that diving is inherently dangerous?”

“Victoria tripped over a mat—the same could have happened walking over cobblestone.”

“What you’re saying is that you are not afraid of diving and the dangers it presents?”

I’m starting to get a little impatient with this line of questioning. “ Diving comes with risks. What I’m saying is, I knew those risks long before my or Victoria’s injury.”

“However, before your injury, you did not have a mental block. Something must have changed between then and now.”

“I know, but . . .” But? My mouth hovers open for a few seconds and then snaps shut. I glare at Sam, tight-lipped. Ambushed, like I’m some born-yesterday brothers Grimm orphan, led to a slaughterhouse by a trail of stale breadcrumbs. “I don’t dive in constant fear of injury,” I say firmly, knowing it to be true.