Page 107 of Deep End

“You get letters from the alumni office, like, once a quarter,” Pen says, holding my hand as we crisscross through the throng.

“I know.”

“And they offer you the privilege of giving themmoney.”

“I know.”

“On the basis that you have already given them money forfour whole years.”

“Iknow.”

“Absolutely bonkers.”

It’s just a regular Sunday. Nothing special happens. There are no milestones or achievements, nor do I go to sleep secure in the knowledge that I’ve achieved perfection. And yet it’s a really,reallygood day.

On Wednesday, Sam is back, sounding nasal and clogged, like a virus is holding on to her for dear life. “So, your first big meet of the year. Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“Sure. From the platform, I dove well enough for the armstand—got eight point five . . .” I stop.

Do the scores really matter?

And the meet . . . does themeetmatter?

I clear my throat. “Actually, could we talk about something else?”

Her eyes widen. “Yes, of course. This is your time, Scarlett.”

“Okay. Thank you. It’s . . . about my accident, mostly. I wasn’t strictlylyingwhen I told you about my injury, but I did omit a few things.” She waits patiently, without looking mad or betrayed. It’s encouraging. “I had a boyfriend at the time. On the morning of the NCAA finals he called me to break up with me. And the day before I received an email from my father.”

“Your father? I thought he was . . .”

“Controlling. Abusive. Yeah.”

She doesn’t yell at me that I should have told her sooner—just studies me calmly, head tilted, no judgment. Like Lukas does. Like it’s fine that I mess up. Like it’s acceptable for me to be a constant work in progress.

Scarlett, beta version.

“I told myself that this stuff had nothing to do with diving, and that you didn’t need to know. But I realize now that it’s all connected. And the more I think about it . . . Do you remember when you asked what I was afraid of?”

She nods.

“I think I’ve figured it out. And it’s not to be injured again.”

“What, then?”

I grip the soft end of the armrest. “I’m afraid of the unpredictability of existing. I’m afraid of not being able to control the direction of my life. I’m afraid that no matter how much I plan, I won’t be able to avoid hurtful and sad things. But above all . . .” I take a deep breath and laugh softly, because what I’m about to say is ridiculous, even if it’s true. Even if it’sme. “Mostly, I’m afraid of attempting something and not being perfect at it.”

Sam nods. Smiles. And I realize that she knew this all along.

Later that afternoon, during practice, I manage two terrible inward pikes.

CHAPTER 44

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.

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