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stood alone at her end of the pool, her stomach knotted with humiliation.
    It’s just practice , she tried to remind herself. You’ll have all year to beat her. But it was little consolation. The roomechoed with light applause as Dominique, surrounded by her admirers, threw a fist in the air. The other girls would remember this moment: Swimbot breaking down, losing a race to a mere human.
    At dinner that night, Emily’s mother tried desperately to make conversation as Emily and her father glowered at each other from opposite sides of the table.
    “So, how was work?” she asked Emily’s dad.
    “Fine,” he responded. “Except that one of the swimmers had a discipline problem and then tried to show off by having a little race—which she lost , by the way.”
    “Well, what about you, Emily?” her mom asked hopefully.
    “Fantastic. Except the stupid coach made me practice for an extra hour for basically no reason.”
    Emily’s mom nervously knotted her napkin in her hands. She avoided eye contact with her husband and Emily and looked across the table at the empty spot where Sara used to sit.
    “Well,” she said, trying to maintain her smile, “it sounds like everyone could use a little cheering up, and I have just the thing. A pint of a certain pair of people’s favorite ice cream that may or may not contain delicious dark chocolate fish—”
    Emily’s mouth immediately started watering. She hadn’t been allowed to have ice cream since her birthday in August, and the only chocolate she’d tasted since then came in theform of chalky protein shakes that reminded her more of liquid cardboard than cocoa beans.
    “Not for her,” said Emily’s father. “She’s already had her eight thousand calories, and that much sugar and fat would be terrible for her system, especially this soon before bedtime.”
    Emily’s mother frowned.
    “Well, just a few scoops couldn’t possibly hurt—”
    “I said no.”
    Emily popped a pair of vitamins from the side of her plate and finished the last of her water.
    “It’s fine, Mom,” she said. “He’s right. I’m not hungry anyway.”
    A few hours later, after Emily had plowed through a mountain of homework, including forty pages of reading for Honors History, she sat on her bedroom floor, stretching her aching muscles. After a week of intense training and equally intense homework, Emily wasn’t sure which hurt worse, her body or her head. She heard a soft knock on the door and opened it to find her mom holding a coffee mug.
    “I brought you some ‘tea,’ ” she said with a wink, handing the mug to Emily, who took it in both hands. The ceramic was cold to the touch, and Emily looked down to see not tea but ice cream.
    “I figured a few hundred calories couldn’t hurt,” Emily’s mom said. “Besides, conditioning is an art, not a science. Even your father says that.”
    Emily looked down at the ice cream, wanting it more than anything. She pressed the top of a scoop with her index finger and brought it to her lips. The entire focus of her being suddenly centered at the tip of her tongue and the sensation of chocolaty sweetness.
    She took a deep breath and handed the mug back to her mother.
    “Mom—I can’t.”
    “But—”
    “Sara wouldn’t have eaten a mug of ice cream,” said Emily, and her mother looked away.
    “Right,” she said. “Of course.” She hesitated for a moment, watching the melting ice cream, as if hoping Emily would change her mind. After a few seconds had passed and Emily stayed silent, her mother said good night.
    She turned down the hall, dipping a spoon into the mug and eating as she went. Emily closed the door behind her. She felt bad for her mom—she was always trying stuff like that. She’d been the one who insisted Sara and Emily go to public school instead of the private swim academy their father had wanted them to attend. In the end, they’d compromised on Twin Branches High, which had a good pool and was located close to