Deep End(62)

Squeeze my eyes shut.

Savor the relief.

Then I burst out, barely holding back a grin, wipe the water from my eyes, and— I don’t even need to see the scoreboard. Pen’s frown tells me everything I need to know.

I may have done a pike. And maybe it was a good one. But I did not manage an inward dive.





CHAPTER 34


I’M ON WATERED-DOWN DRINK NUMBER TWO, OR THREE, OR whatever the fuck imaginary complex real rational integer, when it occurs to me that I should probably let the UT guy who’s been trying to pick me up for the last twenty minutes know that I’m not going to consent to making out, having sex, or exchanging physical contact of any kind with him.

Trevor (Travis?) is nice, and as far as men go, I don’t find him particularly threatening. But that might be the most positive thing I can say about him. His square, handsome face does nothing for me, and his monologue on his silver at the Pan Am games needs some serious workshopping.

“You don’t live in this house, do you?” he asks.

I have a headache. Or maybe he’s a headache. “Nope.” In fact, I have no idea where we are. Some swimmer’s living room, probably. There’s always some kind of celebration after a dual, to show our guests that Stanford has a fantastic party scene.

It might be true. I wouldn’t know.

“Too bad. Would be nice if your bed was nearby.”

I want to leave. I want to no longer have his muzzle this close to mine. But Pen left a while ago to go meet with Teacher, and upon a cursory glance around the crowded room, I cannot spot any friendly faces. It means that if I leave Trevor and this couch, I’ll be all alone. And if I’m alone, I’ll think about the things everyone said to me after my dive, the pitying looks, the slimy layers of disappointments coating my stomach.

Next time. (Barb)

Vandy, you placed third out of seven, even with a failed dive. You’re fucking amazing. (Pen) Omg, it sucks. It happened to me, too, once. Got the twisties, did the wrong dive. It’s just a brain glitch. (Sunny) It’s okay, kid. (An upsettingly conciliatory Coach Sima, whose uncharacteristic kindness made me feel even worse) A silent hug. (Bree and Bella)

What I need is more alcohol. Once I’m drunk, my neurons will be too drenched in ethanol to process their own firing. The ouroboros of defeat that is my life will fade into the great unknown.

“You know,” Trevor says, “my ex was a diver.”

“Were they?” I look around, hoping to locate a primary source of rum and Coke.

“She only kind of was my ex. She was more into me than I was into her.”

Upon further consideration, alone with my thoughts is better than with this guy. Anywhere would be, including the back of a refuse collection vehicle or a falling Sumerian city-state. “Poor girl,” I say flatly.

“Yeah, it was sad. I’m sensitive, hate saying no to people.”

“I bet.”

“But we still had fun. That’s just to say, I know how you divers are, and . . .” He trails off, and for that I credit the vehemence with which I picture sticking toothpicks into his eye sockets. I’ve unlocked a hitherto forgotten power. It might even look good on med school applications .

But no. Even in the dim fairy lights, Trevor’s eyes shine as he tilts his head up. “Holy shit, Lukas Fucking Blomqvist. Hey, man!”

He holds out a hand. Lukas ignores it and takes a seat in front of us, on a wooden coffee table that looks way too tired for this shit. I’m certain it’s going to break. I should probably record it for Sweden’s Funniest Home Videos.

“You okay, Scarlett?” he asks, ignoring his fanbro’s excitement.

“Yup.”

He studies me, silent, probing, like what I say cannot be taken at face value, and has deeper meanings that can only be discovered under the layers of my skin.

Meanwhile: “Man, I cannot tell you how amazing it was racing next to you today,” Trevor fawns. Which leads me to the shocking discovery that I am, in fact, able to find him even less attractive.

Lukas tilts his head toward him. “You want him to stick around?”

“Hell yeah, she wants me around. We’re having fun. Aren’t you having fun?”

“Not really,” I say—alcohol, the ultimate truth serum. Trevor’s face crunches into a hurt crumple, and . . . Shit. “But it’s not”—wholly—“because of you. I just had a crappy diving day.”

“Aww.” He clearly finds my athletic failures cute—like a capybara bathing, or a child who says aminal. He scoots closer, one hand wrapping around my bare knee, and . . . yikes. It’s an unpleasant, too-tight heat that has me nauseated—until Lukas leans forward, grips Trevor’s wrist, and forcibly moves it back to his lap.

Trevor gives him a confused look. “Am I overstepping here? Are you two . . . ?”

“No.” I shift away. I can’t take him touching me again.

“Why do you care, then?”

He’s asking Lukas, who informs him, “She’s my sister.”

I almost choke on my spit.

“What?” Trevor blinks at me. “For real? ”

I must be a terrible person. Because I nod.

“But isn’t your last name . . .”

“Half sister,” I improvise.