Page 134 of Deep End

“Like . . . what?”

“Like you’re afraid I’ll bite your head off while you’re asleep. It’s not your fault if you dove better than Emilee.”

“Technically, I didn’t—”

“You dove more consistently.”

I’ve never felt less inclined to contradict someone. I reallydorespond well to a firm hand.

“So, you’re this year’s pariah?”

“Looks like it.” I clear my throat. “Is there always one?”

“It’s a small sport.” She shrugs. “People have history.”

I sigh. “I kinda walked into my pariahship. I’m not very good at these kind of games.”

Akane studies me with stern, wide eyes, and says, “There’s hope, then.”

“Hope?”

“For the two of us to get along.”

The pool is bright, warm, and clean—the trifecta. I practice during the time slot assigned to the US, pleased to notice that I can spot the water easily and the platform doesn’t feel weird under my feet. Some do, and careening off them at twenty miles per hour is terrifying.

Coach Wang, who wants to be called Mei, stops me on my way out.

“Vandermeer, come here.” God, she’s intimidating. “Your forward.” She lifts a tablet and shows me my most recent dive. I had no idea she was TiVoing. I fully expected to be ignored in favor of more promising athletes. “You see how you washed over?”

I nod at the slo-mo replay. It’s not a disaster, but also not world championship material. “You come out a little too early, that’s why. Here.” She shows me the error twice more. Each time I cringeharder, till I’m ready to throw my body out of the window for the carrion birds to feast upon. “I think I can correct that,” I tell her.

Tomorrow I’ll do better.

But Mei looks at me like I’m a pimple, newly sprouted on her nose. “Why are you standing here like a lamppost, then? Go back up. Fix your dive.”

Wincing, I haul ass.

Go back up.

And fix my dive.

We repeat the process for three more dives. She tells me what parts look “uglier than starvation,” gives me precise corrections, and shows me how improvement can be driven by tiny adjustments. “This pike? There’s half a dozen points here.”

I nod, bewildered.

“You know,” she tells me. “I’d written you off.”

“I . . . excuse me?”

“I remember you from Junior Nationals. Even told a couple scouts to check you out. But then you got that injury, and I thought you were over.” Her eyes eviscerate me. I’m a salmon, and she’s carving my spine out. “But you’re not bad. Even better, you’re good at taking directions. Where are you training?”

“Stanford. With—”

“Sima.” She nods. “He’s good. Some things, though, even a good coach stops being able to spot. A second pair of eyes is always useful.” I nod, until she starts looking at me like I’m a wart again. “Are you gonna stay here all day? Training slot’s over. Beat it.”

I vow to learn to tell whether I’m being dismissed.

The event mascot is a horrific seahorse with piercing blue eyes. I walk in desperate search of a snack station, trying to avoid his too-long snout. Athletes move in packs, wearing their countries’ colors,and I feel weird wandering alone. I’m about to take a shuttle back to the hotel, when I come across a basketball-court-sized room, sectioned in different areas.

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