In Deep (19 page)

So I don't. Instead I post without hesitation across the board. And then I sit there and smile as the comments start coming in.

AS MUCH AS I'M DESPERATE
for sleep, there are bad dreams that night. The worst one's about being held inside some giant warehouse where there are a lot of Chinese kids making video-game parts. I'm walking around observing them under a wolf mask. Maria's dad is up on the catwalk, looking down at all of us. And I know he's going to jump. It jerks me so hard out of sleep that it takes what feels like a whole minute for my heart to calm down. I spend an hour on the couch by the TV, but it doesn't work, and I finally go back to my bed, where I guess I do sleep for a couple of hours. When the alarm goes off though, I want to kill it.

But I'm also getting sick of all this. I march down to the bathroom, turn on the cold water, and splash several handfuls
over my face. I don't grab a towel. I just lean forward over the sink, glaring at myself in the mirror and watching the droplets slide down, following the snaky lines of my wet hair around the edge of my forehead. I seize my rib cage in the claws of my two hands and squeeze, hard, feeling the edges of my bones roll under my thumbs. When I can't take a normal inhale, I let go.

“It's handled for now,” I say into the mirror. “So get over yourself. Get over yourself right this minute.”

•  •  •

For the first time ever, I down a Dr Pepper right before school. I slug another one at lunch, and then after Enviro, where I sat on the total opposite side of the room from Kate. As soon as that class ends, so that there isn't any confusion about my obeying her wishes to never speak to her again, I beeline past her and across the building down to the vending machines, where I stand there, one hand still on the button, slamming down a Coke Zero. I know it's only false strength, and probably I'll still be late to Conflicts, but yesterday was bullshit and if this works, so be it.

When I pause in my glugging for a much-needed burp, though, I see Nora and Maria walk past. At first I think they're just going to pretend I don't exist, but then Maria tugs on Nora's elbow and turns around.

I finish my soda and make off for the recycling bin, but she's quickly beside me.

“You really broke his heart,” Maria says, her pretty brown eyes glaring.

I blink, wide, chemicals pulsing in me. All the tiredness and confusion are gone; I feel like I could break her over my knee.

“And you think I need this news flash why?”

It makes her back down half a notch. She sees me seeing it, and I smile.

“It's just that . . .” she tries again, switching from bad cop to good cop right in front of me. “He's not the kind of guy who dates around. You're the first since Sarah.”

“I know it.”

It's like she wants tears from me or something. But the ones from yesterday were already too much. I stare at her, bored, saving my energy for more important things.

“It must be nice for you up there on your high horse,” she finally says, exasperated. “I just hope it doesn't trample you when one day you fall off.”

I laugh as she heads, flustered, back to Nora. It's not that I'm really laughing at her. It's just that she has no idea how wrong she is: I'm not on this horse; I've fucking fused myself to it. I couldn't fall off if I wanted to.

•  •  •

The outrage at Nora and Maria helps fuel me through Conflicts. I make it through Kate ducking her head down the moment I come in, make it through her stinky-ass feet and the cold silence
rolling off her back. At the end of the day, I wait for her to leave, faking a question for Woodham, and then I trudge, alone, out to Louis and the car. We drive to practice. He doesn't ask me anything.

It's fine.

Still, when we get there, everything looks edgy and bright under the fluorescent lights at the pool, like on a high-def TV, and my insides feel lined with aluminum tendrils, but at least I don't feel like my body's just walking around with a soggy, weepy brain inside anymore. I'm still getting the silent treatment from everyone in the club, but since Grier, interesting enough, isn't at practice, the hate beams are a little more diffused. At least Dylan gets in the same lane as me today. Gavin's trying to catch my eye too, wants to say something, I guess, since I've ignored all his texts since Saturday, but I keep my eyes on the water. On the clock. On Van's face. I can't mess with him or anyone else.

There are only three more easy practices after this one until qualifiers.

And nothing else matters.

•  •  •

I do check Grier's pages from my own accounts when I get home, just out of curiosity. Every single photo I posted yesterday has been deleted, and the comments have disappeared with them. Which means she saw them and freaked out.

Which is very, very good.

WEDNESDAY IS THE SAME THING
, including the caffeine, because even though I feel better, I'm still not sleeping right. Last night it wasn't dreams, but instead me lying there worrying about what I'd do if I had them again, and then what if I couldn't fall back asleep. That went on until about one in the morning. And then I had to be up at six thirty.

The sodas work their magic though, and the day itself is unremarkable, except that Kate is still ignoring me, and also that Van seems really distracted at practice. He spends a third of the time pacing around the end of the pool on his phone, and twice he snaps at Dylan for goofing around. Grier's still gone, and when Phoebe asks about it at pep talk, all Van says in his terse voice is that Grier's not feeling well and needs to really
rest up for Saturday. The way Phoebe bites her lip and looks at Kelly, I can tell she's thinking what everyone's thinking, which is that with zero practice this week, Grier probably shouldn't even show up to the meet.

Whether it's glee over Grier, or caffeine or what, I'm far better today than the last two days, even though we're still supposed to go slow. I don't know what my problem was Monday, but that's obviously all over. I'm back on my game.

•  •  •

So when I see Gavin talking to Louis when I come out of the locker room, I'm more amused than anything else.

“You didn't tell me Louis was a track man,” Gavin says right away, clapping my stepdad on the shoulder like they're old pals. “Hurdles aren't for sissies.”

I look at him, then Louis, trying to hide my confusion. Not about the two of them talking, but about the two of them talking about something I've never heard of.

“Ah, it was a long time ago,” Louis says, rubbing his knee, the one he wears a brace on sometimes doing yard work, or when he and Mom go ride bikes. The look he gives Gavin makes it clear he doesn't want him to say anything more, but I already get it. Suddenly the whole supersupportive stepdad routine makes a lot more sense.

“So—what?” I ask, deflecting the topic, and my own minor shock. “You guys just standing around, trading war stories?”

“A little bit like that,” Gavin says jovially. “But really, I was waiting for you. Thought we could maybe go catch a bite. Talk more about . . . Auburn. I could give you some tips for Saturday.”

I glance over at Louis. The week before a major meet, Mom makes sure to have these elaborate dinners at home to help me calorie-load. It's kind of a big deal. At least for her. Besides, I know Gavin doesn't really intend to talk about college, and there isn't anything else to say about the rest. It happened, and it's done. I don't give a shit about whatever's going on with Grier or him. I'm finished with letting him screw with me. I have to stay focused for the rest of the week.

“Karen's got something planned tonight,” Louis apologizes.

“Oh. Well—a milk shake or something?” Gavin's apparently determined. “It won't take long. I just had some pointers I wanted to—”

“Why don't you join us for dinner?” I say to shut him up, get him to go away.

The panicked look he gives me is priceless. “Oh, I wouldn't want to impose.”

I hook my elbow in his, realizing this will be a great way to torture him.

“Come on. You're such a stiff. We can talk while Mom and Louis make dinner. You probably could use a home-cooked meal anyway, right? I mean, your times are still important on Saturday too. College bracket still counts, after all.”

I blink up at him, giddy at my own unexpected brilliance. He wants to “talk” about what happened with Grier? Fine. But we will do it on my terms.

“Sure, yeah,” Louis says, scratching his head and reaching for his phone. “Let me double-check.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Gavin whispers fierce while Louis steps away. “I only wanted to talk.”

“So we're going to talk.”

“This isn't what I meant.”

“So what did you mean? That you were going to drag me off on your own and get me half naked again? Hm? Then, since it seems like that's your pattern, go back to Grier and start all over? That what you had in mind? Not enough of it on Saturday?” My voice is thickly sweet but bitter-bright. I am dizzy with power.

“That isn't what happened, and you know it. Jesus. You're as crazy as she is.”

That part makes me curious, but before I can say anything back, Louis tucks his phone back into his pocket. “All set,” he says, coming toward us with a smile. “And Karen's looking forward.”

OF COURSE GAVIN ALREADY KNOWS
where my house is, but it's still delicious watching Louis signal way too early for the turns, constantly checking his rearview, making sure not to lose Gavin following behind us. He pumps me for all the information I have, which, in terms of what I can tell my stepdad, isn't much, and then tries to act all in the know when he finally introduces Gavin to Mom. They grill him about Auburn, his high school team, his plans for the future, and it's funny for a while to watch Gavin squirm, but I finally pull him off to the den where he can “help me out as much as possible.” I worry at first that Mom might ask me later if Gavin's why I'm not hanging out with Charlie anymore—the look on her face when she sees how good-looking he is means it crosses her mind—but after a few minutes in the kitchen, Gavin all stiff and formal, it's
clear she and Louis think he's some impressive coach for me, which makes the whole thing even funnier. I didn't even mean to play it this way, and still I'm winning.

“I shouldn't be here,” he grumbles when we're finally alone, each tucked into our corner of Louis's giant L-shaped couch.

“Oh, come on. It's just dinner. And Louis loves you.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. You girls are nuts.”

I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “I thought you wanted us to be into those.”

“It's not like that, Jesus. Will you calm down? It's what I wanted to talk about if you would just listen. I don't know what Grier's said to you, but I'm sure you saw what she did.”

I hold my face still, but it's hard not to smile.

“That shit she posted online? That was all her. I didn't even want to take those pictures.”

I scoff to hide my delight. “Don't pretend you're sorry. Besides, nobody knows for sure it's you, so why do you care? And why do you think that I would?”

“I don't know.” He sighs. “Everything was just so fucked up on Saturday, and you won't answer my texts or even look at me in practice, so I wanted to make sure.”

Victory swirls over me, making me dizzy.

“You wanted to make sure of what, exactly?”

He rakes his hand over the top of his head. “Make sure you knew I was done with her. That girl is a disaster. It isn't like that with you. I mean, the way it was with me and her. I wasn't—”

I cross my arms, pretending to be mad. “So, what? I'm not hot enough for you?”

The weak, exasperated look on his face is so satisfying, I almost exclaim aloud.

“That's not what I mean,” he whispers, glancing at the den's entryway, though the kitchen's down the hall, and Mom and Louis have some Internet radio program going on anyway, so it's not like they could hear.

I scoot closer to him, put my hand up high on his hard thigh. “What exactly do you mean then, hm?”

I can see he thinks he should push me away, but he doesn't.

“I mean, you're different. You aren't like half the girls I know at school. Sure, you're unbelievably hot, don't get me wrong, but maybe I want to actually know you.”

I want to hop up, right there, and do a touchdown dance in the middle of the living room. I wish I had a recorder on so I could play what he just said over and over. Take that, Grier. Take that and that until you die purple.

The sound of Mom's house shoes in the hallway breaks us apart.

“Well, that's all very interesting, and I really appreciate it,” I say, leaning back in the couch cushions and away from him.

“I just want you to know, I'm serious,” he says, voice all coachy-enthusiastic, but eyes still making a point.

“Sounds like it's going well,” Mom says, peering in at us. “And I hope you're hungry.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, growl, rubbing my tummy, and flashing a grin. “Totally starved.”

•  •  •

Mom's made lemon-roasted chicken and the wild rice salad with dried apricots that I like, plus a spinach salad for extra iron, and there's dessert, of course. She and Louis sit at their ends of the table, which leaves Gavin and I across from each other. Through most of the meal, because it's hilarious, I keep snaking my bare foot under the table and up his leg. For almost three whole minutes my foot's there, heel pressed against the taut fly of his jeans, moving up and down. At one point he reaches under the table and presses my foot even harder against him, which makes me flush. He gives me a glimmering look under those thick eyelashes, and then coughs and half-stands, reaching over to take another chicken leg from Mom and then pushing my foot away with his other hand.