Page 51 of Deep End

Free?It’s Lukas. My pulse trips, but quickly steadies. I tilt my head and type:

SCARLETT:In Sweden, when you text, do they charge you by the word?

LUKAS:There’s an emoji surcharge, but I’ll make an exception for you:

LUKAS:

I laugh out loud—a yappy sound that has me glancing around to make sure no one noticed.

LUKAS:Are you free tonight, Scarlett Vandermeer?

SCARLETT:For someone with proper grammar? Always.

LUKAS:Meet me at Green in ten.

Why does he want to meet in the library? Is this for Dr. Smith’s project? Am I . . . misunderstanding?

When I arrive, he’s already leaning against the wall by the elevator—eyes closed, thick neck, incongruous freckles. He’s wearing black joggers and a red T-shirt, once again an almost exactreplica of the outfitIhave on, and he looks . . . tired. Something that lives between curiosity and admiration has me stopping to observe him—him, and the energy that flows in his surroundings.

“That’s the guy who won the Olympics—the swimmer?” a boy whispers to a friend. Three girls walk past him in the opposite direction, sneaking glances that become progressively less covert.

I’d love an NCAA title or two, let alone the Olympics, but I don’t think I envy this facet of Lukas’s success. Being singled out. Generic appreciation from people who remember that swimming exists once every four years.

“Hey,” I say.

His eyes open slowly, as though whirring to life. For a moment he looks so exhausted, my instinct is to scream,Go home, to bed, right now. Then his lips curve, just becauseIamhere, and my heart beats in my belly.

“Come on.”

I follow him in silence to a study room. It doesn’t provide much privacy, not with glass walls. They’re all built like that—because, I assume, librarians have graduate degrees and better things to do than walk into teenagers groping each other. Or cleaning up used condoms.

I linger next to a chair, not yet taking a seat. Watch Lukas pull a folded piece of paper out of his backpack, toss it over the table in my direction, and stand kitty-corner from me.

I feel, instantly, very hot. Or cold.

“Why the library?” I ask, eyes fixed on the paper.

“We could go to my place, but I figured you wouldn’t want Kyle and Hasan overhearing.”

I nod, trying to come to terms with the fact that his list is rightthere. I could reach out and pick it up andknow.

“Scarlett.” Lukas leans forward, clearly amused. “We talked about this.”

“About what?”

“You need to breathe.”

I inhale sharply. Fill my lungs. “Right, yes, I’m fine. I . . . what should I . . . ?”

“Before we start, I’d like to know something.”

I sneak another glance at the folded paper. “Yes?”

“What happened with your father?”

My eyes bounce to his. I feel like he grabbed me by the neck without warning. “My father? How is this relevant?” An atrocious possibility occurs to me. “Please, don’t tell me that you’re looking for some deep-seated past trauma to explain what I like.”

His eyebrow arches. “I think you can give me a little more credit than that.”

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