Page 80 of Deep End

“Right, right.” She shrugs. “What about Luk?”

“You know how he . . . tries to prove to himself he’s above wanting things?”

She gives me a baffled look, like I just announced that I’m moving to a farm in Vermont to tend to pygmy goats. “Lukas Blomqvist? Are you sure—holyshit.” Pen slaps my forearm, staring somewhere into the stands.

“What happened?”

“He’s here.”

I squint into the distance, looking for a non-otherwise-specified he. “Who?”

“Theo. Teacher. The teacher I’m hot for!”

I gape. “Is he here to see you?”

“I—maybe?”

“Did you invite him?”

“No! No? I mentioned in passing that I had a meet and now he’s over there . . .”

Pen sinks her obviously delighted smile into her knees, and I bite my lower lip to avoid laughing.

My first competing dive after my (forced) hiatus is a thing of beauty, and the judges agree. I get eight point fives and a nine, and for a moment—a beautiful, brilliant, blooming moment—I allow myself to cradle the hope that I might be back.

“That was the most elegant reverse two-and-a-half-somersault tuck I’ve ever seen,” one of the UT coaches tells me while I stare up at the scoreboard from under the shower. Austin tried to recruit me, and she and I met when I visited their campus.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling—wow. I might actually beproudof myself. What a concept.

“Hope to see many more from you.”

Pen goes after me, but her entry is not the cleanest. Sunny’s good, but her degree of difficulty is low, which reflects on the score. The twins don’t compete from the platform, which means that with the UT divers, there’s seven of us overall.

The second round—forward three and a half—goes even better, as do my twist, my armstand, and my backward dives. By the time the fifth round is done, I’m second on the board, trailing Pen by just two points, but am fifteen ahead of Hailey, a UT sophomore.

“Andthisis where I get fucked,” I mutter, trying to keep my shoulder warmed up.

“No. Nope.” Pen steps in front of me. “This is diving, Vandy.Negative thinkingis how you get fucked.”

I take a deep breath. Force myself to nod. “You’re right.”

“I’malwaysright. And listen.” She takes both my hands. “Taking a break from trying inward dives was a great strategy. You’re gonna go up and get that inward pike done, because you are amazing. Andif you don’t, I’m going to . . . I don’t know, beat you up? So you better.”

I laugh. Accept her hug. When the referee gestures at me to start climbing the tower, I do that, lingering halfway, waiting for the two girls before me to complete their dives. When I hear the second splash, I dry whatever droplets are left on my skin, throw down my shammy, and walk toward the end of the platform.

It always feels momentous, stepping toward that edge—throwing one’s body off a cliff can never be a light decision—but today the ten meters between me and the water are absolutely life-changing.

I visualize. Not thedive, this time, but the way I’ll feel after I manage an inward pike. Waking up tomorrow morning and leaving what plagued me in the past few months firmly behind. Going to practice without being defined by the one thing I cannot do—once again among peers, instead of an intruder. Returning to St. Louis for the holidays and not having to skulk around in the hope I won’t meet any of my former teammates—or, even worse, Coach Kumar.

Feelingwholeagain.

I visualize all the good things that will come from me flying through these ten meters in the right way, and none of what will happen if I don’t. Because Pen is right, and a defeatist mentality has no place in diving.

My eyes slide to Coach Sima, Pen, Victoria, the twins, all rooting for me. A few thousand miles away, so are Barb and Pipsqueak. On the far end of the pool, leaning one arm against the wall, a towering, cap-tousled figure in sunglasses stares up at me.

“One minute,” the referee yells.

A time warning, but it’s okay. I’m fuckingreadyto bury the last two years of my life.

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