Page 49 of Deep End

I poke at him. My index finger finds the side of his stomach, and for a moment I cannot process theeverythingof what I’m feeling. The solid muscle of his obliques, the lack of yield, the shock of warmth.

Because he may have touched me, butInever touchedhimbefore. And he knows that, too, because the following silence stretches long, as thick as molasses.

“How’s German going?” he asks quietly.

I let my head hang low. Listen to his soft, deep chuckle. “About as well as my other classes. I’m not good at this stuff.”

“What stuff?”

I gesture vaguely. “Pronouncing Foucault? Diving into the marketplace of ideas? Telling apart different waves of feminism?Opining.” I shrug. “Textual analysis is way harder than logarithmic differentiation.”

He stares down at me like I’m—god. Like I’mcute? I’m not a fan of that patronizing look. At least I shouldn’t be.All messed up. Yup, that’s me.

“Anything I can do?” he offers.

“I don’t know. Do you speak German?”

“Despite what you Americans believe, Europe is not a single country where everyone speaks—”

I quietly flip him off, and he laughs like I handed him the exact thing he wanted. Then there’s another silence, smaller, lighter, untilhe says, “You’ll text me, then.” Not a question, but I nod, feeling a warm, pulsating sort of anticipation spread through me, one that has as much to do with the list as with . . . I’m not sure.

“Go, Scarlett. You need to eat breakfast.”

Right. Yup. Did I tell him where I was heading? Doesn’t matter.

I feel the heft of his eyes on me all the way to the dining hall, even after it becomes a physical impossibility.

My first synchro practice is that afternoon.

I try to play it cool, like it’s not a big deal, but last year, while Pen and Victoria placed sixth at the Pac-12 finals, I was . . . home, probably trimming my toenails. Binge-watchingThe Great British Bake Offwas likely part of it, too. I’m the new kid here, and I’m painfully aware of it as I stand between Pen, Coach Sima, and two volunteer coaches who I really wish had not decided to stick around to witness my unavoidable screwups.

I bet they wish the same, especially thirty minutes and fifty takeoffs later, after Pen and I have been working on matching the simplest of hurdles without the blippiest trace of success. It doesn’t help that we’ve started with dryland, and that we cannot look at the fourth portable board without seeing Victoria and her sheared ligaments.

I know she asked for space, and I get not wanting to be inundated by condolences while still mourning the loss of her sport, but I can’t help wishing she were here to make some snide comments on the futility of carbon-based life-forms.

“Pen,” Coach Sima says between disapproving sighs, “you’re too fast. Your hurdle is about five inches too high, and ugly to boot. Vandy, you’re too . . .”

“Slow?”

Coach rubs his temple. “I’m not even sure what’s wrong withyour technique. Let’s say everything and just start from scratch, okay? Take ten, you two. Have some water. Think about your ancestors and ask yourself whether they’d be proud of your performance today.”

Synchro is a scary, three-headed beast. Pairs aren’t scored just on the success of the individual dives, but also on how well they harmonize. There areso many waysto lose points, and Pen seems to be thinking the same. We sit side by side on the deck, heads bent over our water bottles, and I want to apologize to her. I want to tell her that I’m a mess, and it’s my fault. That I’m sorry I’m not Victoria, and I’ll try harder, and to please not hate me.

But she’s silent, and I’m silent, too. I try not to stare as she takes out her phone and begins tapping at it, wondering if she’s mad at me, wondering if—

The first few notes of “Hot for Teacher” fill the air.

My snort is so sudden, I choke on my sip of water.

Everyone turns to give us curious looks, but Pen’s eyes are fixed on me, and after a couple of seconds, we’re laughing like we haven’t just been laid into within an inch of our lives.

Coach is not amused, but the weight in my chest feels a thousand pounds lighter.

CHAPTER 22

IT TAKES ME TWO DAYS TO GO THROUGH THE LIST.

I’d love to say that it’s because some of the items are things I’ve never heard of and require a large amount of research, but there are only a handful I’m not already familiar with. I may have to spend some time on Google to figure out what shrimping is—and come away with no more clarity than when I started—but I’ve known what a sybian is since I figured out how to use the incognito tab on my browser.

---