Page 114 of Deep End

“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 infivedays, at the same pool in Knoxville.”

“And what’s our goal at the diving Winter Nationals?”

I love the royalwe, 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 onlytwoathletes for every event, which means that if I place first, or second, I’ll get to go.”

“Hmm. And how likelyareyou 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’mbasicallya 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 acabin in the woods and live their cottage-core dreams? I’m flexible when it comes to—”

“I get it, Igetit.” 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 andloooovesto 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.”

Chineseismy 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.”

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