Deep End(86)

I should demand he tells me. Instead: “Are you doing something fun on Thursday?”

He frowns. “Thursday?”

“Thanksgiving.”

“Ah, right. I always forget that you Americans celebrate that.”

“Yup. Mid food and colonial violence. It’s our thing.” I shift my backpack from one shoulder to the other. “How did your competitions go? Are you officially the King in the North?”

“I’ve never heard anyone phrase it like that, and now I’m wondering why.”

“A missed opportunity. Any new records?”

“Nope.” He lifts his hand, showing me his skin. “My good luck troll’s stamp had already faded by the time I was competing.”

I frown. “What’s a good luck troll?”

“You know. Those little creatures who watch over us and bring good fortune.”

“I most certainly do not know of . . .” I laugh. “Oh my god, is that why you’ve been calling me troll?”

He says nothing. Just looks at me warmly, fondly, and I glance away—but when I turn back, he’s still staring. A little differently from earlier, more intense, inquisitive, and it makes me bold. “Too bad we’re not overlapping longer.”

He nods. “Yeah. Too bad.” He seems briefly impatient, lips pressed together, fingers twitching. Like he wants to reach for something, but knows he can’t. “After the holidays, then.” He looks around, and I wonder if what’s going through his head is the same as mine.

What if we moved closer? For just a second, what if we kissed? Would anyone see? Would anyone care?

In the end, it’s Lukas who lifts his hand and reaches up to push a lock of damp hair behind my ear, letting his thumb brush against my cheek once, for less than a second.

His hand drops back to his side. I cannot breathe.

“Safe travels, Scarlett,” he says hoarsely. His pupils are blown wide. “Keep in touch. If you want to.”

I can feel my pulse. Pounding in my cheeks. Spreading across my abdomen. “Bye, Lukas.”

I don’t turn around, not even when I hear Pen’s voice greeting him. But his face sticks behind my eyelids long after I land in St. Louis.





CHAPTER 45


THE CLAIM TO FAME OF THE USA DIVING WINTER NATIONALS is one, and one only.

“It’s the qualifier for the world championship,” I tell Barb over a plate of microwaved leftovers. It’s a treasured yearly tradition: me, (re)explaining the basics of competitive diving; her, treating everything I say as though it’s new and highly intriguing information.

“It’s not my fault,” she whines. “Do you know how many bones the body has?”

“Two hundred and six.”

“Precisely. And I have to know them all—there’s no room in my chubby little brain to retain any other knowledge. Plus, you know how I feel about sports.”

“They’re a crime against couches.”

“Exactly. Come on, tell me again about this convoluted rigmarole that you have to go through to launch yourself off a cliff.”

I sigh, but Pipsqueak is in my lap, snoring softly, displaying her pudgy belly. It’s hormonally impossible for me to feel anything but joy.

“In three days, I’m going to the diving Winter Nationals qualifiers, in Knoxville. If I qualify— ”

“Which seems likely?”

“I’m optimistic. If I qualify, I move on to the diving Winter Nationals. Which start in five days, at the same pool in Knoxville.”

“And what’s our goal at the diving Winter Nationals?”

I love the royal we, especially considering her hard stance on athletics. “As I mentioned, that’s where people qualify for the World Aquatics Championships.”

“That sounds like a big deal. Wait, did you already go to one of those?”

“Only junior ones. Montreal and Doha. You accompanied me to both.”

“Told ya—chubby. Little.”

“World Aquatics are going to be next February in Amsterdam. Every country gets to enter only two athletes for every event, which means that if I place first, or second, I’ll get to go.”

“Hmm. And how likely are you to place first or second?”

“I try not to think about it too much, because otherwise I’ll just work myself into a panic and move into a system of caves with a nice bat family, but.” I tap my fingers against Pipsqueak’s tummy. “My strongest event is the platform, and I’m basically a shoo-in. Not that I would ever place first—Pen’s better, no doubt. But I’m certain to place second if a couple of things happen.”

Barb’s eyes widen. “And what are these things?”

“Okay, first”—I lift my index finger—“Fatima Abadi from Utah needs to withdraw from the competition for an urgent, but ultimately inconsequential, family matter. Then”—middle—“Mathilde Ramirez should injure herself. Nothing bad, maybe a mild sprain that’ll heal right away? Just something that’ll last long enough to sit out Nationals. After that”—ring—“I’m going to need Akane Straisman, Emilee Newell, and C. J. Melville to leave the discipline altogether. Maybe they could fall madly in love and elope? Move to a cabin in the woods and live their cottage-core dreams? I’m flexible when it comes to—”