Page 92 of Deep End

Then,harder, when I realize thatdisappointmentwas my instinctive reaction to a friend calling and asking for help—a supportive, generous friend, who always makes sure I don’t have globs of sunscreen on my back, who grabs me protein bars from the snack shed before they run out, who held my hand after I fucked up my first meet of the season and said nothing, just like I needed her to.

It shames me. So much so, I can’t look Lukas in the eye.

“Of course,” I say, glancing out of the window.

“Scarlett—”

“It’s totally okay.” I turn back to him with a forced smile. “We can hike whenever.” Or never. That would probably be for the best, actually. What the fuck am I even doing, organizing cutesy excursions with Lukas Blomqvist? “Just drop me off around campus,since it’s on the way. I can make my way home.” I try to sound absolving, but he doesn’t return my smile. “Hey, can I tell you about the progress I’ve made for Dr. Smith’s model? It’s exciting stuff.”

It takes him a while to nod, and he says next to nothing until we pull into the parking lot of my apartment building.

CHAPTER 38

THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY SAM IS OUT SICK—HEART-swooping reliefandunspeakable tragedy.

Inevitably, no Sam equals no progress. Then again, the discipline of psychology may have done all it could for me, and it’s hard not to see therapy as the squillionth thing I’m failing, especially after the mutterings I overhear through Coach Sima’s ajar door.

I’m stopping by his office to let him know that I’ll be late for afternoon practice, when something in his tone halts my knuckles just inches from knocking.

“. . . a waste,” he’s saying. “But it’s out of her control.”

“For real.” It’s Coach Urso. “It sounds like her shape is otherwise pretty good? Theremightstill be some hope for higher levels of competition, since only five groups of dives are required.”

“She ain’t qualifying for nationals, though,” an assistant says.

A few more mumbles I cannot make out. Then: “. . . that she’ll just grow out of it?” It’s Bradley. The conditioning director.

“Well,” Coach Sima says, “mental blocks are common, but this long-lasting . . .” More unintelligible words, and I should leave. It’s not good that I’m here. “. . . great talent that’s just . . . I feel for her . . . bad injury, but physically she’s fully recovered. There are no excuses.”

“She’s seeing a professional?”

“The second in six months. No progress.”

“. . . a junior, right?”

“Yup.”

“We’ll have to think long and hard if she should continue taking up a spot on the team—”

I push away, hands trembling, throat full of something that could be tears or bile.

I hate it—I fucking hate it.

I hatethem, these men talking about me like I’m a malfunctioning waffle maker that should be harvested for parts and landfilled.

Most of all, I hatemyself, because—what choice have my constant failures given them?

“Hey.”

I nearly walk face-first into Pen. I must have autopiloted my way to the locker room. “Oh. Hey.” I push my knot of self-loathing under the surface. “Hi.” I sound high-pitched and way too cheerful. Definitely overcompensating. “Did you get everything sorted out?”

“Everything?”

She seems confused. It occurs to me that the last time she saw me, she’d been hopping off a podium after a stellar diving performance. She probably has no idea that I was with Lukas when she called, and that he dropped everything—droppedme, to go help her. She simply reached out to her ex, with whom she still has a great relationship. For all I know, the two of them are still—

“Vandy? You okay?”

“Yup.” My smile stretches. “Ready for synchro training?”

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