Deep End(88)

“Still, I can’t imagine that through the thick and thin of three diving seasons she wouldn’t have let slip this humongous harpy personality you speak of.” I shake my head and scoot to the side of the booth, ready to walk back to the hotel.

“Hey,” Natalie calls, “we’re just trying to be nice here. Nothing to be mad about and lots to be grateful for, so—”

“Let her go.” Carissa stops her with a hand on her shoulder, her eyes never leaving mine. “Vandy . . . just watch your back, okay?”



When I show up to the platform prelims, I discover that C. J. Melville is out due to injury. My gasp is loud, but submerged by everyone else’s shocked noises.

“Is it bad?” Bree asks. “Was it karma?” C. J. has been universally considered The US Diver for the past six or seven years, but has an interesting reputation. Less than nice, some say. Mean as a banshee, most say.

Personally, I’ve had enough experience with the way not-beamingly-outgoing women tend to be written off as bitches to mistrust the rumors.

“No idea,” Coach says, “but she was as good as guaranteed to take up a world championship spot on most events, so that ups y’all’s chances by . . . fifty percent? That sounds right.”

I frown. “Actually, the math isn’t—”

“No one likes a know-it-all, Vandy.”

Pen pats my knee.

What did you do? I text Barb—who has, I’m informed, notifications silenced. Probably busy buying crowbars to off the rest of the competition. Or in surgery. Who knows.

“Of course,” Coach continues, “C. J. doesn’t compete in synchro, because of her . . . ”

“Distaste for anything that houses a soul?” Bree offers.

“Sure, let’s put it like that. But Madison Young, who was at TAMU till last year, is disqualified. Not sure why.”

We all fall silent. There’s usually one reason for people to be disqualified, and I can’t picture Madison taking stimulants and screwing up her career. “And Mathilde Ramirez is coming off last month’s injury.”

Pen and I exchange a glance. “All of this is . . .”

“Convenient?” she finishes.

“I’m just glad you didn’t make me say it.”

She laughs. “By the way, Luk asked me to give you something.”

My eyes widen. “Lukas?”

“You forgot it at his place, or something?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. I glance around, relieved to find that no one is paying attention.

“I never forgot anything at his . . .” Oh my god. Is it my underwear? Did he give Pen my dirty underwear?

“Here you go.”

She hands me something soft and colorful, then turns to reply to something Bella asked. It’s for the best, since I think I might be shaking, and blood pounds in my temples, and my chest is suddenly red-hot.

Because in my hands there’s a tie-dye shammy.



We all progress easily to finals, but Bella’s back is not getting better, and she misses qualifying. She’s a good sport about it, but Bree must notice something I don’t, because she looks at her sister with a worried expression and disappears with her for a couple of hours. It’s a hectic competition, with simultaneous and combined events and little buffering time. We’re all exhausted by the end of day one .

Carissa is diving, too. The first couple of times her name is announced, I sneak glances at Pen for signs of discomfort, but she seems indifferent. One-sided feud, I decide. Likely jealousy. I put the whole thing out of my mind. I don’t have the constitution for drama, not if it includes me or people I care about.

My dives are a mixed bag: I mess up an entry like I’m Flipper’s fucking blowhole, but my pikes are tight. It makes me proud—not that I dove well, but that I manage to dust myself off and put my mistakes behind me. Not perfect can still be good. What a mind-altering thought, huh?

In the locker room, I zip up my hoodie and turn to Pen. “I need a snack, but do you want to practice synchro after?”

“Isn’t the pool closed?”

“Dryland, I was thinking.” I hold the door open for her as we head out. “Mostly, for the running approach—”

“Look what the hyena dragged in.”

We halt. Carissa stands in our path, staring daggers at Pen. Natalie scowls at her side, channeling the henchman of the scariest lunch-stealing bully at the playground.

“Carissa.” Pen’s face is polite and pleasant, but . . . different, too. “We have to go. Sorry about—”

“Ruining my life?”

A beat of silence. Pen’s voice takes a conciliatory tilt. “This is not the time, nor the place.”

“There is no time or place, is there? You got what you wanted, and we all have to get over it.” She tries to shrug, but it doesn’t work, like a chip is physically tilting her shoulder.

“Carissa, I—”

“I don’t wanna hear it.” Last night I thought she was bitter and angry. Today she can’t conceal the hurt in her words. “I just wanted to let you know that you’re not forgiven.” She turns on her heels and walks away, Natalie’s arm slung over her shoulder, pulling her closer as if for comfort.

I turn to Pen, at a loss for words, and find that she’s already looking at me.