Page 35 of Deep End

“At least Coach didn’t bust out the spotting rope.”

“Or the twisting belt.” She makes a gagging sound and goes in for her turn. We only have four dive stands, which gives me a compulsory break. I sip on some water. Take out my phone. Write a text to an unsaved number.

SCARLETT:Please tell me that someone else drew a convolutional neural network on your hand in the past two days.

Immediate reply.

UNKNOWN:Are you calling me a computational slut?

SCARLETT:How has it not faded?

UNKNOWN:Someone used indelible marker.

Shit.

UNKNOWN:Looks like I’ll need you around this year.

And: fuck.

SCARLETT:As in, I’m in charge of drawing a CNN on your hand before every meet?

UNKNOWN:Nah.

Thank god.

UNKNOWN:Just the international ones. And Pac 12. NCAA.

Jesus.

SCARLETT:Do you really want to be reminded of my computational superiority that often?

UNKNOWN:I do. I have a thing for women who are smarter than me.

My heart hiccups.

SCARLETT:I’m not ready for the responsibility of being part of your lucky routine. If you lose, will the King of Sweden get mad at me?

UNKNOWN:My country is a parliamentary democracy.

SCARLETT:You’re a man of science. You’re not really superstitious, are you?

UNKNOWN:Maybe I am.

I sigh.

SCARLETT:On the one hand, I want to shame you for it. On the other, my worst dive ever happened the day after someone stole my tie dye shammy.

I’m ready to admit that as far as evidence supporting the efficacy of competition-adjacent rituals goes, it’s pretty thin—until a scream startles me.

I drop my phone and run toward the sound. When I reach the portable board farthest from me, my heart drops into my stomach. Because Victoria is lying on the floor. Her eyes are full of tears, and her ankle is bent at an unnatural angle.

CHAPTER 16

WHAT CLINGS TO ME LIKE SMOKE THROUGH THE NEXT FEWdays is something Bella says right after Coach Sima disappears inside the aquatic center, carrying a sobbing Victoria in his arms.

She’d just bought that new chlorine treatment for her hair. Was so excited about it not looking like hay this year.

I think about it throughout my workouts, my meals, my German homework, my fight with Maryam over washer cycles. Bella’s resigned, despondent tone. The way she sat on the coaches’ bench next to Bree, cheek on her sister’s shoulder. I sat, too, hugged my legs and rested my chin on top of my knees, stared at the empty diving well while the obnoxious cheers of the Pool Wars and the late afternoon breeze made my skin break into goose bumps.

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