Deep End

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, WHEN I ATTEMPT ANOTHER INWARD dive from the springboard, my core twists itself into some backward career-ending abomination.

Guess What Dive Scarlett’s Body Will Come Up with Instead of the One She’s Supposed to Do has been a recurring segment in my practices, but this time I did not expect to fail. In fact, I’m so virulently outraged at having once again fucked up, I inhale about a liter of chlorine.

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” I scream underwater. The cutesy, almost cartoonish bubbles that spill out of my mouth only heighten my fury.

But when I resurface, coughing and sneezing and generally miserable, no one pays attention to me. Coach Sima is doing dryland with Pen. The assistants are focused on the twins practicing at one meter. Not a single glance slides in my direction, and in all honesty . . . why would it? Congrats on your one thousandth missed dive, Vandy—here’s a cake made of Swiss chard and anchovies!

I suspect that their expectations of me have been permanently downsized. After all, I haven’t told Coach that last night at 2:00 a.m. I managed an inward dive. Oh, that’s amazing, Scarlett! In which facility did that happen? he’d unavoidably ask. I’d be left with the choice of throwing Lukas under the bus, or pretending that I’m a patron of the Palo Alto public pool.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s not about what others think. What’s important is how I feel about my own mistakes, and that’s where I sense something new.

I’m not as mortified as I used to be. I am . . . combative. Determined. Ready to be over this.

Last night didn’t heal my mental block, but I shed some helplessness, and that seems as big a win as the Powerball.

I think of texting Lukas, to inform him of this new step in my recovery journey. He seems fascinated by the workings of my slightly dysfunctional brain—maybe he plans to go into psychiatry? But he’s on a plane, forty thousand feet on top of the Eiffel Tower, a neural network haphazardly drawn on the back of his hand. Likely watching reviews of cleaning supplies.

Do flights to Tallinn enter the French airspace? I could google and find out. Alternatively, I could just do my damn German homework.

On Sunday, instead of spending the day getting ahead with homework, I do something groundbreaking: celebrate my MCAT results. Pen and I eat industrial amounts of ice cream and walk around campus, taking in the homecoming alumni crowd, mildly befuddled by their unwavering support, wondering if there’s something wrong with the school spirit part of our brain.

“You get letters from the alumni office, like, once a quarter,” Pen says, holding my hand as we crisscross through the throng.

“I know.”

“And they offer you the privilege of giving them money.”

“I know.”

“On the basis that you have already given them money for four whole years.”

“I know.”

“Absolutely bonkers.”

It’s just a regular Sunday. Nothing special happens. There are no milestones or achievements, nor do I go to sleep secure in the knowledge that I’ve achieved perfection. And yet it’s a really, really good day.

On Wednesday, Sam is back, sounding nasal and clogged, like a virus is holding on to her for dear life. “So, your first big meet of the year. Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“Sure. From the platform, I dove well enough for the armstand—got eight point five . . .” I stop.

Do the scores really matter?

And the meet . . . does the meet matter?

I clear my throat. “Actually, could we talk about something else?”

Her eyes widen. “Yes, of course. This is your time, Scarlett.”

“Okay. Thank you. It’s . . . about my accident, mostly. I wasn’t strictly lying when I told you about my injury, but I did omit a few things.” She waits patiently, without looking mad or betrayed. It’s encouraging. “I had a boyfriend at the time. On the morning of the NCAA finals he called me to break up with me. And the day before I received an email from my father.”

“Your father? I thought he was . . .”

“Controlling. Abusive. Yeah.”

She doesn’t yell at me that I should have told her sooner—just studies me calmly, head tilted, no judgment. Like Lukas does. Like it’s fine that I mess up. Like it’s acceptable for me to be a constant work in progress.

Scarlett, beta version.

“I told myself that this stuff had nothing to do with diving, and that you didn’t need to know. But I realize now that it’s all connected. And the more I think about it . . . Do you remember when you asked what I was afraid of?”

She nods.

“I think I’ve figured it out. And it’s not to be injured again.”

“What, then?”

I grip the soft end of the armrest. “I’m afraid of the unpredictability of existing. I’m afraid of not being able to control the direction of my life. I’m afraid that no matter how much I plan, I won’t be able to avoid hurtful and sad things. But above all . . .” I take a deep breath and laugh softly, because what I’m about to say is ridiculous, even if it’s true. Even if it’s me. “Mostly, I’m afraid of attempting something and not being perfect at it.”

Sam nods. Smiles. And I realize that she knew this all along.

Later that afternoon, during practice, I manage two terrible inward pikes.