Page 22 of Deep End

“You mispronouncedheinous.”

“But we have synchro practice.” Pen sneaks up to Victoria, pressing a surprise kiss to her cheek. “I know you like it.”

“What Ilikeis being on the couch feeling my atoms rot as I succumb to entropy.”

On paper, Victoria and I are the same person: two promising athletes who sold Coach Sima a bill of goods, then merrily proceeded to never fulfill their potential. I was injured, but Victoria’s talent simply . . . fizzled. Bad luck, competition anxiety, skills that never quite turned out right—it all conspired together, and she never qualified for the NCAA championship. Her perennially crotchety state is the mask she put on when her diving started goingsouth. I know this because a few weeks ago I overheard her admit to Pen how much sheneededa successful senior season to go out with a bang.

As for Pen . . . she’s always cheerful, but I’m not going to try to guess where today’s extra spark comes from, because it’s none of my business. I stuff the thought in the same corner of my head where I painstakingly shoved Lukas’s email—it’s a bad idea, he’s my captain’s ex, maybe he just wants to get back at her, make her jealous, bad idea, what is he into, what do I need, bad idea.

I focus on training. Field questions from Coach Sima about my “issues,” and his demand that I “stop changing those dives at the last minute. What is this, improv class?” Listen to Pen and Victoria’s golden retriever and black cat banter throughout lifting and drills, marveling at their unlikely friendship.

I wonder what that’s like. My old synchro partner and I had a good relationship, but she was older than me. We dove together for only a year or so, and outside of that we had little in common. I’ve never been bullied or maliciously isolated, and I hardly everdon’tget along with people. Unfortunately, I rarely ever get along with them enough to qualify as more than an acquaintance. And, of course, mybest friend, Josh, hasn’t talked to me in over a year.

I spend the next hour focused on my lecture, but find myself scowling at the end, when Otis, Dr. Carlsen’s TA, returns last week’s homework. Comp bio was supposed to be my safe place this semester, but here I am, leafing through the pages, finding no letter grade. I covertly eye the guy sitting in front of me, the one with the cowlick the size of an orca.

D, his paper says in red ink. Below:You still have time to drop this course. AC

Orca Cowlick buries his face in his hand. I frantically look for asimilarly inspirational quote on my own paper, and find it at the bottom of the second to last page.

See me after class. AC

My entire body goes hot, then cold, then damp. Every student knows that there is only one infraction egregious enough to warrant a summons.

Plagiarism.

The Great Expellable Offense.

I’m about to be accused ofplagiarism. Which I amnotguilty of. Which I canprove.

I still have the Word file. I can run it through the plagiarism detection software. I already would have, if Dr. Ozone-Hating Triassic Dinosaur Carlsen didn’t demand hard copies.

I power walk to his office. Every door in biology is wide open—except the one of Dr. Adam J. (Jackass?) Carlsen, which is just ajar enough to not be considered closed. Clearly a department policy loophole.

I knock with trembling hands, a little belligerent, mostly terrified. My diving, my other courses, my MCAT, my lack of meaningful social connections, my mean roommate, my long-distance dog—everything in my life is fucked up, or painful, or beyond my control,except for comp fucking bio. I can’t be kicked out of this class.

Dr. Carlsen spares me a three-nanosecond glance and turns back to his monitor. “My office hours are Thursday from—”

“I’m Scarlett Vandermeer.”

His look is a barely disguisedand I should give a fuck, because?

“You asked me to come see you.”

And I should give a fuck aboutthat,because?

“From your computational biology class?”

“Ah. Come in, please. Take a seat.”

I don’t want to be alone with this inflexible, bloodcurdling man. I leave the door wide open and park my butt on a chair. “I can prove it,” I say.

“Prove what?”

“That I didn’t plagiarize the essay.”

His brow furrows. “Of course you didn’t.”

Oh?

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