Deep End

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.

LUKAS: In that scenario, nighttime pool usage is the least of our problems.

SCARLETT: Yeah, good point.

SCARLETT: Heading for the airport to return to California. Gotta go!

LUKAS: Be good. And slow down with the murders.

I wonder when he’ll fly back from Europe, and where he’ll go after. Swimming and diving, men and women, sometimes are the same team in name only. There are schools in which the female team is stronger; others where diving is little more than an afterthought. When it comes to meets, we rarely travel together. The men’s swimming schedule is probably somewhere on Stanford’s website, but if Lukas wanted me to know where he is, he’d tell me.

Not that I have time to think wistfully of him. Traveling has a domino effect that never fails to shrink my heart: classes, labs, tests to make up for, which means that every meet is sandwiched by days stacked back-to-back. Moving as a team requires more social battery than I could ever scrounge up, even if the Gravelines power plant were to relocate inside my chest. Last but not least, I always, always get the cruds.

“Have you considered purchasing a new immune system?” Maryam asks when she catches me sniffling in the kitchen.

“Too expensive,” I mutter, pouring hot water into the Pipsqueak travel mug Barb got me for my birthday.

“I think Aldi sells ’em at a discount. Even a used one would be better than what you’re working with.”

I give her the finger and step outside. It’s windy and foggy, and the prospect of practice in preparation for the next away meet, in less than eight goddamn days, turns my will to live into a raisin.

I must not be the only one. When I get to Avery, Pen and the twins seem delighted by the sight that greets us.

“How did they even . . .” Bella looks at the dozens of seagulls that have taken residence in the diving well. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. Coach, what’s going on?”

Coach Sima ambles toward us. “They’re sanitizing everything, but apparently there are so many droppings, only a monster would force you to dive in these conditions.”

I tilt my head. “Did you ask if you could force us to dive in these conditions?”

“Yes, and you know what I was told. No practice today.”

“Oh, no,” Pen deadpans.

Coach Sima glares. “Strength training’s still on, smarty-pants.”

We glance up at the platform, which appears to have become the vacation home of a family of seagulls. A quiverfull one.

“The heroes we need,” I say.

Pen nods. “But not the heroes we deserve.”

Pilates indoors feels like a decadent step up from freezing my ass in the air. I’m jackknifing my way into oblivion when I overhear Pen chatting with Monroe, one of the swimmers.

“Where the hell is Lukas?” he asks. “I thought he’d be back by now. I owe him ten dollars.”

Pen laughs. Clearly, the rest of the team still doesn’t know that they broke up. “He got back a few days ago, but immediately left for Seattle. Med school interview.”

“No shit?”

“He should be back tomorrow.”

I force myself not to wonder why she knows, and I don’t.

It’s because they’re still friends. Best friends. Or because Pen didn’t chicken out of texting him every night for the past two weeks, typing and deleting and retyping until she fell asleep. The problem is, his list covered stuff like orgies and pony play, but offered no insight on whether I should contact Lukas if I simply miss him. I don’t want to overstep and ruin our arrangement. And Lukas . . . I have no clue what he wants. All I know is that he hasn’t been texting, either.

“Jesus,” Monroe says. “And then he’s heading straight back out to UCLA for the quadrangular meet?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Ballsy. Can’t believe he’s applying for med school during an Olympic year.”

“Kinda pointless, honestly. Even if he gets accepted, he’s going to defer. He might as well have waited, but hey. He loves to torture himself.”

He does, doesn’t he? And yet later, in the locker room, I find myself asking her, “Is he really going to defer?”

“What?”

“Lukas, I mean.” He never mentioned it to me. Then again, when would he? In between bouts of helping my therapist fix my post-traumatic issues? Or while defiling poor Dr. Smith’s pristine cancer research lab?

What about while you two were getting busy on top of me? The bench in front of my locker asks. It’s been calling me a slut for two weeks.

You know what you did.

I turn away.

First you disgrace me, then you ignore me.

Jesus.

“Yeah,” Pen says. “He physically can’t go to med school and still pursue swimming at the elite level.”

She’s right. I’m not sure why it never occurred to me. Maybe it’s because my intention has always been to quit diving after senior year, but . . . he’s a much more successful athlete.

“Don’t you miss Lukas?” Bree asks Pen. “He’s been gone for a while. I’m still trying to figure out how to deal with Dale spending Thanksgiving in Iowa.”

“I’m used to it. We were long-distance for so long. And we text.” Pen shrugs, then grins at me. “What about you, Vandy? Do you miss Lukas?”

I choke on my coconut water, and Pen starts patting my back with unnecessary force and glee.

“Why would Vandy miss him?” Bella asks.

“It was just a joke,” Pen says. “No reason.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m threatening to stab her with a dining hall spoon. “Seriously?”

“Come on.” She lowers my weapon with her fork. “It was hilarious.”

“Was it.”

“For me, anyway. You should have seen your lustful little guilty face.”

“Lustful.”

“Or panicked. Mostly panicked. Don’t worry—any day now, Lukas and I will bite the bullet and tell the team that we broke up.”

I scoop up four peas, shaking my head. “Any news about Hot Teacher?”

“Yes, actually.” She plays with a sticker peeling off her water bottle. “He asked me to spend Thanksgiving with him.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Like, with his family?”

“He doesn’t have much of one. And mine barely remembers that I exist, so they wouldn’t even notice if I didn’t go back to New Jersey. Theo said we could just rent an Airbnb and chill for a few days, and . . .” She shrugs. Not very nonchalantly.

“It sounds like you’re considering it?”

“Well, I like being with him.”

“Is this . . .” I glance around, shaping my question. “Does it feel like it’s becoming serious, between you two?”

“I . . .” She stares at her plate. “We just have lots in common. It’s a nice change of pace, because of our shared interests. And the sex is amazing. And he’s so easy to talk to, and very affectionate, and really into me, you know? Luk was . . . I mean—it’s a personality thing. His range of emotions is kinda narrow, so . . .”

Are we speaking of the same person?

But she’s known him for seven years. If one of us is wrong about Lukas, that has to be me. Right? “Do you and Theo talk about the future?”

“A bit. Sometimes. He knows that I’d like to dive professionally. He wants to be an academic, but he’s so supportive.” She flushes a little, but there’s a giddiness to her I never noticed before. And it’s possible that I’m a little giddy, too, because in a scenario in which she’s happily and openly dating Theo, she wouldn’t care that Lukas and I might evolve into . . .

It doesn’t matter.

In November, Pen and I spend most of our free time together. Meals, homework, a game night at Victoria’s. We take the train and go to San Jose for a concert. I invite her over, and she’s once again exposed to Maryam (“Absolutely fucking terrifying”). Our next dual meet is in Minnesota, and we wipe the floor with the other team.

“That inward right there?” Coach tells me after my last voluntary dive. The temperature in the pool is lower than I’m used to, and my skin is bumpier than a chicken’s.

“I know, I didn’t get high enough, but—”

“No, Vandy. Look.”

I turn to the scoreboard. Seven. Seven. Seven point five.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

“Language,” he chides. “But yeah, holy fucking shit.”

We’re not scored individually, but the result sheet is right there, and my name is listed right after Pen’s. For springboard synchro, we’re only three points behind the twins. It’s mostly because Bella’s back has been acting up, but still.

My German test makeup exam is scheduled for the day we get back. After flash-carding throughout the dual meet, I’m optimistic in a reckless, if resigned, way. Afterward, with the sun already set and the lack of sleep making my head heavy, I walk to Dr. Carlsen’s office.

“The part about Gibbs sampling here?” I tap at my paper on his desk, perhaps a little too forcefully. “You docked off two points and told me to double-check my rate of convergence. Which I did, and I was correct, so—”

On the margin, Dr. Carlsen scribbles, Otis. Triple check your double-checking requests.

“Thank you,” I say, satisfied.

He sighs and sits back in his chair. “You’re welcome. Unfortunately,” he adds dryly, “your grade is already the highest A I’ve ever given in this class.”

“It’s a matter of principle,” I explain primly. “I’m sure you understand.”

He seems pained. “I do, and it’s making me reconsider several things about myself.”

“I think our profound respect for computational biology should only be cultivated.”

He almost cracks a smile—the closest I’ve seen him to showing emotions that don’t fall under the umbrella of irritation or contempt. It’s petrifying. “Dr. Smith tells me your work on her project has been invaluable.”

“Really? I feel like I’ve been so busy with meets and practice, I don’t get to work on it as much as I’d like.”

“Right. You said you’re an athlete.” He glances at my Stanford Swimming and Diving hoodie. “Swimming?”

“Diving.”

“Had a fifty percent chance.”

I make a sympathetic face. “And you got it wrong.”

“Try not to enjoy it too much.”

“I am. Desperately.”

Another sigh. “Ol—Dr. Smith mentioned that you’re applying to med schools.”

“Yup. Well, not yet. But soon.”

“If you need a letter of reference . . .” he says. And doesn’t finish the sentence, which is unlike him and a little befuddling. I blink owlishly, hoping he’ll explain himself, wondering how I’m supposed to read his mind, when suddenly—

I gasp. “Wait. For real?”

“Provided that your performance in my class remains up to par. And that you do not reveal objectionable support of superseded pseudoscientific theories.”

“Are you referring to homeopathy?”

“Of course.”

“Please,” I say flatly.

He nods once. “Excellent.”

I walk through the semi-deserted, pre-Thanksgiving campus, wondering how far a rec letter from Adam Fucking McArthur Fucking Carlsen could get me here, at Stanford. Or anywhere in the country. In the world? Maybe there’s a med school on one of Neptune’s moons. I should look into that.

Maryam is already in Florida with her family. Her note on the kitchen table reads i left some food for you in the fridge, but when I open it, all I find is our usual array of sauces and condiment bottles—and a gold medal. The Post-it stuck to it reads sike! how does it feel to be the roommate of the number one wrestler in the whole world?

I immediately text her.

SCARLETT: You mean, in a single dual meet and in your weight category?

SCARLETT: Either way, my answer is: it would feel better if you’d gotten me food.

MARYAM: New phone who dis

Our last practice is on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and I book a flight to St. Louis for that night. The USA Diving Winter Nationals are going to start next week, and I seriously considered not going home—stay on campus, have a lonely turkey sandwich and some cranberry juice, and spend the holidays practicing. But last week Sam asked me, “Do you really think it’s what’s best for you?” and the answer seemed so simple.

I miss Pipsqueak. And Barb (though not as much). “I just . . . how will I know if I’m cutting myself too much slack?”

“Oh, Lordy.” Sam actually laughed—a foreign sound I’d never before encountered despite our many hours together. “You’ve got a ways to go, Scarlett.”

Lukas returns from an away meet that Tuesday. I haven’t seen him in person in almost a month, and . . .

It’s odd, being aware of him. Noticing. Just a little while ago, he and I were strangers. But now he’s a presence and an absence in my life, at once ghostly and bulky.

I spot him poolside, talking with one of his coaches, Pen’s arms slung around his waist. I see him, but I have no right to go to him. Or do I? We never agreed to anything more than kinky sex. All I can do is shake off the heavy weight in my stomach and climb the diving tower. Stare at the water where we kissed in the silent hours of the night, while everyone else slept. Rise on the tip of my toes for my best inward dive yet.

After, it’s hugs with the twins in the locker room, wishes for safe travels, and the faint trepidation of knowing that we’ll next see each other in Tennessee, for the Winter Nationals. I step briskly out of the aquatic center, already dreading the shitshow I’ll find at the airport.

“Scarlett.”

It hits me hard when I turn around: Lukas, and his post-practice tousled hair, the rapidly fading freckles, the way he slouches against the wall of Avery and yet remains graceful. A million other trivial, mesmerizing things.

“Are you waiting for . . . ?”

“You,” he says.

My stomach opens like a sinkhole. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.”

I hang back for a second, my instincts confused, oscillating wildly. Run away. Run to him. As usual, he takes charge. Comes closer till I need to tilt my head to look him in the eyes. Smiles. Something faint and small, but no less committed for it.

“That email Olive wrote,” he starts. “About presenting at that bio conference.”

“Ah, yes! I was going to ask if . . . we should do it?”

He cocks his head. “Are you asking? Or telling me?”

“I . . .” I snort a small laugh. “Actually, I don’t know. What do you think?”

He shrugs. “I did something similar last year.”

“And?”

“It was boring.”

“Oh. No, then?”

“But with you, it would be fun.”

My heart races. “It would look good on med school applications, right?” I add quickly, to put a shield between myself and my enjoyment of his words.

“Probably.”

“Then let’s do it.” I smile. He doesn’t. A cluster of water polo players walks past us, and we fall into a silence that’s not quite as comfortable or familiar as I’m used to.

And then we start talking at the same time.

“Do you wa—”

“I’m go—”

We both stop.

“You first,” he says.

“Nothing much. I’m headed for the airport. Going home.”

He nods. “I guess I won’t need to ask my question, after all.”

Do you wa—

What were you going to ask, Lukas?

Do I want . . . what?

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.