Page 115 of Deep End

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 wasnogame, 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 impressionthat 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 wasnotit. “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. Askanyone. 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.”

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