Deep End

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—”

“I get it, I get it.” Barb rolls her eyes, but she reaches out to me. My fingers twine with hers. “What you’re saying is, unless I’m willing to break my Hippocratic oath and shank a handful of young women, I shouldn’t buy nonrefundable tickets to Amsterdam?”

“Pretty much. But it doesn’t matter,” I hasten to add. “It’s not black or white, you know? Winning or losing. As long as I can do my best and be proud of my performance, I don’t care.”

“Whoa. Who are you and what have you done to my stepdaughter?”

I laugh. “There is a little bobblehead living inside my skull. She looks just like my therapist and looooves to remind me that if I don’t redefine my concept of failure, I’ll die of acute ventricular tachycardia before turning twenty-five.”

In fact, plastic Sam is my main companion for the first two days of the qualifiers. I’m in Knoxville alone, because Bree, Bella, and Pen already have their spots. I have acquaintances from the junior varsity circuit, but for the most part I’m on my own, and don’t mind. I qualify for all my events easily, acquaint myself with the diving well, rest.

No pool is like another: The way the water looks from above; sounds and temperature; where the judges sit, hostile, merciless. Every springboard has a fulcrum that needs to be adjusted. Want a stiffer, easier-to-control board? Move it forward. Love to be propelled into the sun by a massive rocket of elastic energy? All the way to the back. It all needs getting used to, and I’m glad for the opportunity.

The night before Winter Nationals start, I get an unexpected invite to dinner. “Vandy, we’re tired of hotel food—want to get Chinese with us? There’s a cheap place three minutes away.”

It’s Carissa Makris. I know her from my recruiting trip to the University of Florida—the team she ended up joining. We were shuttled around together and got along well enough to stay in touch afterward, but I think she hoped to have a college buddy, because after I told her I’d be going to Stanford, she never contacted me again. At the time she was mostly a springboard diver, but she’s made a lot of progress on the platform. And now, after three years of ignoring my existence, she’s inviting me to dinner. “Oh. Really?”

“Come on. We’ll be back early.” She runs a hand through her dark curls and grins. “It’s gonna get so crowded here tomorrow, we’ll be eating stacked in each other’s laps.”

Chinese is my weakness, so I head over with her and five other girls from Florida, and have lots of fun. We complain about FINA, NCAA, USADA, about our respective institutions and coaches, about swimmers, about the aches in our joints, about the academic work we’ll have to make up for.

“I was there when you got injured,” Carissa tells me later, while the others are getting soft serve and it’s just me, her, and Natalie, her synchro partner. “I teared up. True story.”

“She did,” Natalie confirms.

“It looked so painful, and it could have happened to anyone.”

I fold my napkin into little triangles. “Yeah, it sucked.”

“I’m glad you’re back on.”

“My friend up in Pullman,” Natalie adds, “said you are at the top of your game.”

Compared to last year, when there was no game, for sure. “At this point, not hitting my head against concrete would be a raving success.”

They chuckle. “So, you’re doing synchro?” Carissa asks.

“Yup, with Penelope Ross.”

“Ah, right.” Natalie nods, but I get the discomfiting impression that she already knew that. “Won silver for the three-meter springboard at the NCAA last year, right?”

“And a gold for the platform.”

“Right. Well.” Carissa steeples her hands, elbows braced wide on the table.

All I can think is: There it is. The true reason for this dinner.

“I’m not one to beat around the bush, Vandy. I like you. You’ve never shown anything but good sportsmanship. I remember you at the Olympic trials, four years ago, you know? You didn’t make the team, but I thought, ‘She’s got something. She’s good.’”

“Thank you,” I say, instead of pointing out how slightly patronizing this sounds. We’re the same age. Carissa was at those trials, too, and placed lower than I did.

“I’ll just say it straight to you. Pen Ross? You need to watch your back with that one.”

Whatever I expected, this was not it. “What do you mean?”

“Plainly, she’s a backstabbing bitch. Back in Jersey I dove in the same club as her, and she was universally despised. Ask anyone. She may be the next big thing in diving, and she may have grifted Stanford into believing that she’s not a sociopath, but I know better. And you should, too.”

I try to digest Carissa’s words, trying to reconcile what she just said with my own experience, but my brain instantly rejects it. In the last few months Pen and I have been growing closer, and . . . “I don’t like this.”

“Being stuck with Pen Ross?” Natalie snorts.

“Pen is a friend. Nothing in her behavior has ever suggested what you’re saying.”

“How many years have you known her?”

“About three.”

“I more than double you, then.”

“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.

“Scarlett,” she says, voice trembling. “I need to talk to Lukas. Right now.”