Page 108 of Deep End

“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 thatthisis 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,alwaysget 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 thenextaway 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.”

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