Page 42 of Deep End

“Is he a senior?”

Her silence stretches so long, I half wonder whether she didn’t hear me. I’m about to repeat my question, when she says, “He was actually my TA.” She rushes to add, “Buthe’s a PhD student and, like, only three years older, and that class is over, and he’s really cute and has, like, a man bun, which istotallymy weakness for some reason that I cannot even fathom, and—” She stops and gives me a pleading look, as if expecting me to tell her that it’s not a big deal.

I remain quiet. Pick up her phone.

“Vandy? Please, say something?”

I don’t. Instead, I scroll down her Spotify app.

“I don’t think I’m doing anything, like, unethical.” Her voice is unusually high-pitched. “I’ve always liked him.Iapproached him. It’s not like I’m milking him for better grades or . . .”

I set the phone down just as the drums of “Hot for Teacher” by Van Halen fill the cabin.

“Oh my god.” She turns to me, exhaling an outraged laugh. “Vandy, I hate you so much.”

I pout. “Is it because I cannot grade your macroeconomics homework?”

“It’s micro and—” She slaps me on the arm. “Oh mygod.”

I sigh dramatically and tap my chin. “Maybe I should give Mrs. Sima a heads-up.”

“Aboutwhat?”

“Your insatiable hunger for older pedagogues, of course.”

She shouts a new peal of laughter, and by the time we make it to the party, the song has played twice, and we both have tears rolling from our eyes.

CHAPTER 20

SOME STUDENT ATHLETES ARE ABLE TO HAVE HIGH GPAS,sport their little hearts out, and maintain fulfilling and exciting social calendars that yield solid lifelong friendships.

I amnotone of them.

In high school, my catchphrase was “Sorry, I’m busy”—to the point that a bunch of people in Josh’s friend groupgaspedwhen I showed up for prom with him. I still remember the icy slither in my stomach when I overheard them from the bathroom stall, something giggled likeDid she not have to throw herself from a cliff tonight?

I didn’t take it personally. Josh was outgoing and kind and had lots of buddies I never bothered to get to know. They probably thought I was just another athlete with a god complex, and maybe they weren’t wrong. At the time, I felt invincible, like all I had to do was put in the work, and I’d reap the rewards. I feltin control, tungsten coated, and the people making fun of my dedication to diving or studying oroverachievingwere never going to scratch my shell.

But that armor is long gone, stripped off by time, injury, and the painful realization that deserving and obtaining are two vastly different things. When I trail after Pen inside the Shapiros’ hallway, and Kyle’s eyes widen in shock, I feel a little tender.

“ScarVan?” he booms over the generic pop music. “Showing up for aparty?” He sounds like a children’s librarian seeing Judy Blume show up unannounced: happy, but nonetheless baffled.

“Is that a thing people call me?” I murmur in Pen’s ear.

“People? No. Kyle? I was PenRo for half of sophomore year. Don’t let him see that you don’t like it, or it’ll stick forever and he’ll use it at your eulogy—at which, yes, he’ll manage to book a speaking engagement. He’sthatgood.”

I take that advice to heart and produce my most unbothered smile. “Hey, Kyle.”

“Look at you.” His eyes travel down my sweater and shorts. “Haven’t seen you in civilian clothes in years.”

“She was observing the period of mourning that is customary for her religion,” Pen says solemnly.

Kyle lifts a hand to his nape, taken aback. “Oh, man, I’m sorry. Who did you, um, lose, if I may—”

“No, you may not,” Pen scolds.

He winces, steals an unopened can of Budweiser from a passing freshman, and presses it into my hand. “Here. Feel better, ScarVan.”

“Don’t laugh,” Pen mutters in my ear, pinching my hip. “Kyle, where’s Luk?”

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