Deep End(82)

Do the scores really matter?

And the meet . . . does the meet matter?

I clear my throat. “Actually, could we talk about something else?”

Her eyes widen. “Yes, of course. This is your time, Scarlett.”

“Okay. Thank you. It’s . . . about my accident, mostly. I wasn’t strictly lying when I told you about my injury, but I did omit a few things.” She waits patiently, without looking mad or betrayed. It’s encouraging. “I had a boyfriend at the time. On the morning of the NCAA finals he called me to break up with me. And the day before I received an email from my father.”

“Your father? I thought he was . . .”

“Controlling. Abusive. Yeah.”

She doesn’t yell at me that I should have told her sooner—just studies me calmly, head tilted, no judgment. Like Lukas does. Like it’s fine that I mess up. Like it’s acceptable for me to be a constant work in progress.

Scarlett, beta version.

“I told myself that this stuff had nothing to do with diving, and that you didn’t need to know. But I realize now that it’s all connected. And the more I think about it . . . Do you remember when you asked what I was afraid of? ”

She nods.

“I think I’ve figured it out. And it’s not to be injured again.”

“What, then?”

I grip the soft end of the armrest. “I’m afraid of the unpredictability of existing. I’m afraid of not being able to control the direction of my life. I’m afraid that no matter how much I plan, I won’t be able to avoid hurtful and sad things. But above all . . .” I take a deep breath and laugh softly, because what I’m about to say is ridiculous, even if it’s true. Even if it’s me. “Mostly, I’m afraid of attempting something and not being perfect at it.”

Sam nods. Smiles. And I realize that she knew this all along.

Later that afternoon, during practice, I manage two terrible inward pikes.





CHAPTER 44


NOVEMBER STARTS AS A FANGED, BLOODCURDLING NIGHTMARE.

“Novembers always do,” Victoria tells Pen, the twins, and me in the athletes’ dining hall—to which she’s not supposed to have access. Every time someone swipes her card, we hold our breaths like a new rover is attempting to enter Saturn’s orbit. “All the meets, the traveling, then Thanksgiving, and right after, Winter Nationals. I feel like I’m forgetting something—oh my god, classes. Yikes.” Her cast has come off, and she seems to have discovered her true calling: affectionately berating us for every tiny synchro mistake. “You guys are gonna do great,” she adds magnanimously. “Your hurdles are starting to look less like you come from different galaxies. Pen has been doing the correct number of twists. Vandy can inward. Rejoice!”

She’s right. I’ve been consistently producing inward dives, if only mediocre ones.

“Problem is, you’re still anxious and not approaching the dive with a clear mind,” Coach Sima told me. “You’re not failing them, though. Been a long time since I took math, but a four point five is still better than a zero.” For him, the relief of me doing the bare minimum is too strong to fuss over the minutiae .

It’s something Sam and I have been working on. “In some situations,” she told me, “done is better than perfect. Not always. But when you’re on the trampoline—”

“Springboard?”

“Yes, so sorry. When you’re on the springboard, you can ask yourself that question, and make your own choice.”

Our first away invite of the year is a two-day triangular up in Pullman, against Washington State and Utah. By the time it ends, I’m shell-shocked, wondering if I’ve traveled in time to two years ago.

“Wait, let’s take another selfie, I look like I’m possessed by the spirit of a Georgian dandy in that one,” Pen says, angling her phone. Later, while I’m supposed to be packing up in the hotel room, I waste entirely too much time studying the photo—our wide smiles as we toast our medals.

We placed third in synchro from the platform, and second on three-meter springboard, after the twins. Pen won the individual platform, and I finished third.

It was a small meet. Few competitors. The other programs are not as strong as us. Except for Fatima Abadi at Utah, who was a junior world champion but is out sick. I’ve been keeping the degree of difficulty for my inward dives as low as possible, a pike and a tuck, and they still felt tricky, but . . .

I could list a million reasons why my wins at this meet are not a big deal, but they are a precious reminder that this is what diving used to feel like. Exciting. Fun-scary. Challenging.

I let myself fall back on the mattress, smiling at the ceiling, and when I cannot hold in the happiness anymore, I kick my legs until I’m out of breath.

And then I get a text from Lukas. Congratulations.

I touch the word. Swipe over it with my thumb like it’s flesh and blood. It’s been nearly ten days since I last heard from him.

I’ve felt his absence more than I thought possible .

SCARLETT: Thanks!

SCARLETT: I owe lots of it to you. And the very illegal thing you did.

LUKAS: Letting you into the pool?

SCARLETT: I was trying to be secretive, in case one of us murders someone and our texts get subpoenaed.