Deep End(39)

So it takes forty-eight hours, but on Wednesday night, I text Lukas: Done.

And, at last, save his name on my phone.

We decide to meet up that night. Then the following morning. Then the following night. Every time, he cancels at the last minute. The only explanation: Something urgent.

I see him at practice, which means that he’s not ill, injured, or expelled from Stanford for crimes against public decency. I’m starting to suspect he’s changed his mind—and then he skips our meeting with Zach and Dr. Smith.

“He won’t be joining us,” she tells me. “He mentioned something about . . . captain stuff? Not Crunch, sadly. God, I haven’t had those in a while.” She chews her lower lip for a moment, writes Buy Cap’n Crunch on one of her Post-its, and then proceeds to slay at cancer biology nonstop for forty-five minutes.

I don’t hear from Lukas until Friday night, after a difficult practice that leaves me in a bad mood. Pen and I are alone in the locker room, and I’ve been trying to untangle my hair for so long, my entire upper body aches.

“Any plans for tonight?” she asks.

I shake my head. Then say, “I have these . . . exercises that my therapist is making me do.”

“Oh?” Her eyes catch mine in the mirror. She’s putting on foundation, which is an unusual post-practice level of grooming. “For what?”

“My most ingrate children.” Her brow knits in confusion, so I sigh. “My inward dives. ”

Her eyes widen in understanding. I haven’t discussed my issues with anyone on the team, but Pen is my synchro partner, and she must have noticed that we haven’t practiced a single inward dive.

I don’t mind. I know she gets it—the way our brains cannot help hiccuping. “What are the exercises like?”

“Visualization, mostly. The purpose is to . . . rewire my brain. Overwrite the negative feelings I automatically associate with certain dives with more neutral ones.” All I need is the most basic, shittiest inward dive. The bar is so low, it’s underground with the turnips.

Pen puts down her brush. Her hand reaches out to squeeze mine, and I love, love, love that she doesn’t say shit like You can do it. Believe in yourself. It’ll be a piece of cake. Positive thinking. She’s just quietly there for me, green eyes full of understanding and a compassion that’s not pity, and that’s all I need.

I squeeze back. There’s something in my throat, and I have to swallow past it before asking, “What about you? Any plans?”

“Actually.” Her lips twitch. “I’m meeting Hot Teacher. He’s . . . making dinner for me—Vandy, please, regain control of your jaw.”

I try. It’s not easy. “How was last weekend?”

“Good. Great. We chatted. Talked about our lives. We made out. You know, that kind of stuff.”

I half gasp, half laugh, delighted. “You made out.”

“Way to focus on the one single non-PG item on my list.” But she’s giggling, clearly elated. We both lean our shoulders against the mirror, facing each other. “I really, really like being with him,” she tells me, low, serious. Her smile dims a little, but she’s not sad. “I think it was a good choice, breaking up with Lukas.”

It’s my turn to reach for her hand. “I’m so glad you’re happy.”

When her phone rings, she frantically gathers her stuff and stops for a short hug, and then she disappears in a burst of energy that’s so her, I cannot stop smiling even after she’s gone.

And, once again, I have not told her about Lukas and me .

I tried it on Monday, with the list burning in the pocket of my shorts. On Wednesday, when we lingered in front of Avery and exchanged high school diving stories. This morning at breakfast, after I helped her out with orgo homework while she read through my English essay.

Tell her, I ordered myself.

But tell her what? That Lukas and I might be exchanging A4 papers? In order to maybe initiate a sexual relationship, if we are compatible, if it works with our schedules, if he hasn’t changed his mind, if he doesn’t find someone else? It’s all so hypothetical, talking about it so early in the process just seems like courting trouble.

I head home, wondering whether Maryam will do her usual bit if she catches me mid–visualization exercise: cut two cucumber slices and slap them over my closed eyes. The text I receive stops me in the middle of the sidewalk on Stanford Way.

Free? It’s Lukas. My pulse trips, but quickly steadies. I tilt my head and type:

SCARLETT: In Sweden, when you text, do they charge you by the word?

LUKAS: There’s an emoji surcharge, but I’ll make an exception for you:

LUKAS:

I laugh out loud—a yappy sound that has me glancing around to make sure no one noticed.

LUKAS: Are you free tonight, Scarlett Vandermeer?

SCARLETT: For someone with proper grammar? Always.

LUKAS: Meet me at Green in ten.

Why does he want to meet in the library? Is this for Dr. Smith’s project? Am I . . . misunderstanding?

When I arrive, he’s already leaning against the wall by the elevator—eyes closed, thick neck, incongruous freckles. He’s wearing black joggers and a red T-shirt, once again an almost exact replica of the outfit I have on, and he looks . . . tired. Something that lives between curiosity and admiration has me stopping to observe him—him, and the energy that flows in his surroundings.