Page 32 of Deep End

“Seriously, what is this word soup? Did you kidnap a middle school dropout and force him to write this at gunpoint? Is it AI generated? What was the prompt? ‘What if crotch smell was anessay?’”

I groan and let myself fall back onto the couch. “Is it that hard to believe that I’m just that bad with words?”

“You could be an illiterate praying mantis, and my answer would still be a resoundingyes.” She scoffs. “None of this is true, anyway. Just be honest. ‘Hi, my name is Vandy McVandermeer and I’m a neurotic, perfectionist, overachieving student athlete who memorized the workings of the musculoskeletal system by the age of nine but is still unable to timely replace toilet paper rolls. Hobbies include staring at the As on my student transcripts. I want to become a physician because I love my stepmommy. And because I’m a control freak and this job is as close as I’ll ever get to mastering life and death. Aside from maybe holding the nuclear codes. Do you happen to know if there are any openings forthatposition?’”

Icoulddo that. Icouldbe honest. But if I went that route, I’d have to admit to the low C I’m currently pulling in German, to howunderI’ve beenachieving, to my inability to exert control overanything.

I bemoan my language constipation on Saturday, on my way to practice. There are student services I could use for help, but they’re for fine-tuning and wordsmithing, not the nuclear makeover I need. I should ask Barb, but she got into med school nearly three decades ago. Maybe Lukas would be willing to share his essay with me? I have his number. And his email, of course.

It should be me.

Nah. Better not.

Avery is larger than my entire high school used to be—one diving well, three pools, a million satellite structures—and today it’s packed full. I follow the cheers and music to the competition pool until I spot Coach Sima, who’s glaring resentfully at the crowd.

“What’s going on?” I ask him.

“Pool Wars.”

“Oh, right. I always forget that it’s a thing.”

“As you should. It’s damn unnecessary.” Coach’s resentment forthe swimming team is legendary, and mostly due to how many more resources they get compared to diving. He has a point, though: intramural competitionsarea waste of time.

“Is it almost done?”

“It’s a damn pentathlon.”

It means, I think, that all swimmers race one hundred yards for every stroke, plus individual medleys. Not sure, though. Also: don’t care. “When does it end?”

“Daylong infestation, apparently.”

I pat his shoulder. “There, there.”

“The rest of the diving team is over there.” He points to under the stands. “They wanted to watch the medley race. And apparently it would be too much of a tyrant move for meto demand we begin practice on time.” He raises his voice, as though anyone but me could hear him. “We’ll start dryland once it’s over, which cannot besoon enough.” I give him one last pat and head toward the others. “If any of you is late, I’m making y’all run laps!” he yells after me—a frequent threat with zero percent follow-through.

Pen is delighted to see me, in a way I’m not used to experiencing from anyone but Barb or Pipsqueak. She asks the swimmer next to her to scoot over to make space for me, then twines her arm with mine. We had dinner yesterday, just me and her. We talked for hours without mentioning diving or Lukas Blomqvist. Nothing special, but it’ll go down in my top five Stanford moments.

Who am I kidding? Top three.

“I think it’s the first time I’ve seen you at a swim meet,” Pen says.

“I think it’s the first time I’ve been to one since I was in high school, and my ride home was the mom of one of the backstroke guys.”

She laughs. “In your defense, you’re always taking so many classes and—” She stops, as if recalling something. “I heard about the project with Luk! That’s going to look so nice on your CV when you apply for med school!”

“I hope so.” A pair of distrustful eyes flashes into my head. “I . . . did Rachel tell you?”

“Rachel? Which Rachel, Hale or Adrian?” Her brow furrows. “Either way, Luk told me. Why do you ask?”

No reason, I almost say. But this is Pen, and . . . I don’t know. I trust her. It’s a gut feeling. “The other night Lukas and I were together in the dining hall, and she looked at me like I was doing something wrong.”

“Wrong in what way—oh.” Pen’s eyes widen. Then she laughs. “Nah, Rachel’s just chilly. Freshman year she’d treat me like I was crashing swimmers’ parties or distracting Luk just byexisting.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Plus, he’s single. AndI’m the one who got wasted and cosplayed a Tinder algorithm to set you two up, remember?”

“Hmmm.” I squint. “Nope. I’d forgotten. It’s definitelynotseared into my mind.”

She laughs. “Don’t worry about Rachel. She has no idea what’s going on.”

A lump of tension I wasn’t quite aware of dissolves. “Will she, though?” I remember Victoria’s questions on media day. “Are you and Lukas planning on telling people that you broke up?”

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