Deep End

THE THING I DREAD THE MOST ABOUT JUNIOR YEAR BEGINS on a Wednesday morning, a couple of weeks before the start of the autumn quarter. It’s penciled into my Google Calendar for the ten to eleven slot, a single word that weighs more than the sum of its letters.

Therapy.

“This is somewhat unconventional,” Sam tells me on our first meeting, no judgment or curiosity in her tone. She appears to have mastered neutrality in all facets of life—her beige pantsuit, the medium grip of a handshake, an ageless, graceful look that could be anywhere between forty and seventy. Is it too early in our acquaintance for me to want to be her? “I was under the impression that Stanford Athletics had its own team of licensed sports psychologists.”

“They do,” I say, letting my eyes skim over the walls of her office. Diplomas outnumber personal photos, four to zero. Sam and I may already be the same person. “They’re great. I did work with them for the past few months, but . . .” I shrug, hoping to broadcast that it’s on me if it didn’t work out. “I had some issues a few years ago—unrelated to diving. At the time, cognitive behavioral therapy worked well for me. My coach and I talked it over, and since it’s your specialty, I decided to try Counseling Services.” I smile like I have full trust in this plan. If only.

“I see. And in the past, when you did cognitive behavioral therapy, what issues did you—”

“Nothing sports related. It was . . . family stuff. My relationship with my dad. But that’s all solved now.” I realize that I spoke a whit too quickly, and expect Sam to challenge what’s obviously a half-baked, still-frozen-in-the-middle truth, but she just stares, assessing and hawkish.

Lots of attention, all on me, all at once. I squirm in the chair, feeling the ache that always clings to my muscles. Her presence is not particularly calming, but I’m here to be fixed, not soothed.

“I see,” she says eventually. Bless CBT and its lack of bullshit. There is this thing you do that’s bad for you. I’ll teach you to not do it, your insurance will give me money, and we’ll each go our merry way. BYO trauma. Tissues are on me. “And just to be clear, Scarlett, you want to be here?”

I nod emphatically. I may not look forward to the agony that comes with exposing the squishy bits of my soul, but I’m not some cliché detective refusing to see a shrink in an eighties crime show. Therapy is a privilege. I’m lucky to have it. Above all, I need it.

“I must admit, I don’t know much about diving. It seems like a very complex discipline.”

“It is.” Lots of competitive sports require a delicate balance of physical and psychological strength, but diving . . . diving has trained long and hard to become the mind-fuckiest of them all.

“Would you be willing to explain?”

“Of course.” I clear my throat, glancing down at my joggers and compression shirt. Black and cardinal red. Stanford Swimming & Diving: Fear the Tree. Whoever designs our gear clearly wants for our identity to be reduced to our athletic performance. Never forget: you are what you score. “We jump off things. Plunge into pools. Do some acrobatics in between.”

I mean to make her laugh, but Sam’s not prone to amusement. “I’m assuming there’s more?”

“Lots of regulations.” But I don’t want to bore her, or be a difficult client. “I’m an NCAA Division I athlete. I compete in two events. One is from the springboard, that bouncy fiberglass board that . . .” I mimic its up-and-down motion with the flat of my hand. “That’s three meters high. About ten feet.” As tall as an ostrich, the voice of my first coach reminds me.

“What’s the other event?”

“The platform. That’s ten meters high.” Thirty-three feet. Two giraffes.

“No bounce?”

“Static.”

She hums. “Does the scoring work like gymnastics?”

“Pretty much. A panel of judges looks for mistakes and subtracts points accordingly.”

“And how many dives do you perform per competition?”

“That depends. And it’s not . . . it’s not really about how many.” I bite the inside of my cheek. She lets me take my time, but stays engaged. “It’s the group.”

“The group?”

“The . . . type of dive, if you will.”

“And how many groups are there?”

“Six in total.” I fidget with the tip of my ponytail. “Forward. Backward. Reverse. Twist. Armstand.”

“I see. And in your email, you mentioned that you’ve been recovering from an injury?”

Therapy is a privilege. I don’t like it, though. “Correct.”

“When was that?”

“About fifteen months ago. At the end of freshman year.” I clench my fists under my thighs, wait for her to demand the gory details, ready to recite my list.

Sam, though, spares me. “Did you say that there are six groups of dives?”

“Yes.” I’m surprised at the topic shift, and let my guard down.

It’s a misstep of catastrophic proportions.

“And this injury of yours, Scarlett . . . does it have anything to do with the fact that you only listed five?”