Deep End

DURING THURSDAY MORNING DRILLS, AFTER I HAVE EXHAUSTED every other group of basic dives, I stand on the edge of the three-meter springboard, head hanging, eyes closed, two words beating against the wall of my skull.

Inward.

Tuck.

Inward.

Tuck.

It’s an overcast day. A little foggy. The early breeze brushes against my too-tight muscles and breaks me into shivers.

I lift my arms above my head and let them fall again, limp as noodles. I rotate the tension out of my shoulders, and after a deep breath I arrange myself into position again. Backward press.

The number is 401C.

One of the most boring, simple dives.

I first learned it when I was seven or eight, barely heavy enough to get the elevation I needed to fit my tuck in. Its degree of difficulty is low enough that I retired it from my dive sheet somewhere in high school. It’d be leaving points on the judges’ table, Coach Kumar had said.

And now, here I am. Deltoids shaking. Heart in my throat. Too close to tears.

If you’re not afraid of getting hurt, what are you afraid of?

Sam’s voice is needling and insistent and so loud, only one thing will shut it up: I take off, the rush of the air drowning every other sound, the water swallowing all my doubts.

When I lift myself out of the pool, Bree is there, holding out my shammy. “That looked great. Seriously, Scarlett, your rip entry is one of the best I’ve ever seen. Barely any splash.”

I smile as I dry my face. She’s the most easygoing twin. Bella remains a shrouded, aloof mystery to me.

“Toes were so pointed, too. I love your back tuck.”

Back.

Tuck.

I almost say it. Almost admit to her that it’s not the dive I was going for. There’s several of us in the pool at any given time, training is hectic, and I’m not sure whether anyone but the coaches is aware that in the sixteen months since my injury, I haven’t managed a single inward dive.

“Vandy, come here.” Coach Sima motions for me, and I head over, bracing myself for a (gentle?) reminder that if I don’t figure out my inward dive before the season, I might as well not bother competing, I ain’t trying to put pressure on you, ’cause the pressure’s already there . . . How’s that therapy going?

If you’re not afraid of getting hurt, what are you afraid of?

“You done with drills? Come to my office for a minute.”

My heart jumps in my throat. Coach is not the type to request privacy. He lives to make fun of us, put us on the spot and watch us squirm. Every correction, criticism, conversation, is public.

The office is for the bad ones.

I nod helplessly, wrap a towel around my body, and follow him inside, taking the chair he points at. I squeeze my eyes shut while he walks around his desk. By the time he’s sitting, I’m almost collected.

“Listen, Vandy. This is gonna be hard to hear.”

I swallow, but my mouth is dry. “I know,” I say. “I know, and—I’m working on it. My therapist gave me some mental exercises that—”

“Exercises? Ah, that. No, it’s fine. It’s not what this is about.”

I frown. “What, then?”

“Victoria’s out. It’s official.”

I look at my lap and take a deep breath, blinking against the pressure at the back of my eyes. I knew this was a possibility, but there’s something about the words being said out loud that’s so devastating, I stop breathing for a handful of seconds.

“Is she redshirting?”

Coach shakes his head. I’m not surprised. Victoria could take the season off and come back for a fifth year with NCAA eligibility, but she’d have to delay graduation, and she already has a job offer from the startup where she interned in the summer. “It’s a bad injury, Vandy.”

It’s over, then. Victoria spent her entire life training, hours every day, every week, every month of every year. Traveling for meets. A constantly bruised body, and early mornings, and Sorry, I cannot hang out this weekend. A damn gap between a portable board and a crash mat, and it’s all over.

I blink fast. I have no right to cry. It’s not my injury to cry about. “Do the others know?”

“Pen’s telling the twins right now.”

The twins, and . . . that’s it. Because there’s only four of us left. Like a shark bit a limb off. I clench my jaw. “It’s so fucking unfair.”

“Language, Vandy.” He slouches back in his chair, rubbing his face with one hand, and I wonder how many other times this has happened to him. How many careers, interrupted. Heartbroken divers and unfulfilled talents. “And yes, it’s very fucking unfair.”

I swallow and pull myself together. This is not about me. “Do you know where she is? I’d love to see her—”

“Vandy, there’s a reason I’m telling you separately. I want you to consider pairing up with Pen on the synchro.”

“What?”

“You two won’t have much time to train together, but this could work. You’re both stronger on the platform than on the board, and your height and body types are nearly identical—judges love that.”

“My inward—”

“Listen.” He gives me a level stare. “If you haven’t recovered your inward dives by the start of the season, we have other, more serious problems than the synchro.”

He’s painfully right.

“You don’t have to say yes. As you know, Pen is very strong in all her individual events, and doesn’t need to be doing synchro. But I think there is potential here.”

“What about . . . I don’t like the idea of replacing Victoria.”

“This is not a tribute band situation. You and Pen will have your own dive sheet and partnership. You’re not filling anyone’s shoes—you’re starting from scratch.”

I rub my temple. “Still, how will Victoria feel about this?”

His round, scraggly face curves into a small, sad smile. “It’s not you or Victoria, Vandy. It’s you, or nobody else.”