Page 111 of Deep End

“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.”

Healmostcracks a smile—the closest I’ve seen him to showing emotions that don’t fall under the umbrella of irritation or contempt. It’spetrifying. “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. Forreal?”

“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 And that you do not reveal objectionable support of superseded pseudoscientific theories.”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 readsi 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 readssike! 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

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