Ali came out of the showers a few minutes after Veena went in, her towel-wrapped dreads cream puffed on top of her head. She leaned toward the mirror to examine her face, poking a spot on her forehead. “VV’s in a bad mood.”
“Yeah, I noticed. What happened?”
“Rough day. Couldn’t land the double V. She’ll be right, though. She shouldn’t worry so much.”
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Ripper! My run’s coming together.” She finished prodding. “See you at dinner.”
The showers turned off, but Veena didn’t appear. I called to her and walked that way.
“I’m here,” she finally said in a small voice. My pulse slowed again. She wore a bra and was zipping up her jeans, so I turned around to give her privacy while she dressed.
“I’m sorry I brushed you off,” she said after a minute. “When I have a bad day out there, I get super grumpy. It’s getting so close to the Olympics, and I . . . ” She sat, rested her forearms on her knees, and stared at the tiled floor between her feet. She glanced up at me, her dark eyes watery. “I can’t land the double V, Nic.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just listened.
“I miss my mom,” she said. “She always tells me not to take myself so seriously. To laugh more. To drink less coffee and pray.”
I thought about my mom. I knew what she’d tell me to do: forget all this CPO crap and go to college.
“Pray?” I asked.
Veena messed with a bootlace. “It helps me, especially when I get—” She waved her hand around in the air. “Too intense.”
“What religion are you?”
“Hindu.”
“Do you speak it, too?” I asked.
“Speak what?”
“Hindu.”
She snorted. “Nic, that’s like asking if I speak Christian.”
Heat spread up my neck to my cheeks. “Oh, sorry. I don’t know much about it.”
“Trust me, you’re not alone here in the U.S. Hindu is my religion; Hindi is the official language of India. Although people there speak hundreds of other languages and dialects, too. My grandparents are from Tamil Nadu and speak Tamil, but because they raised my parents in New Delhi, they also spoke Hindi, which is what my parents taught me. Although I understand more Hindi than I can speak.”
I tried to follow all of that. “Do you pray in Hindi?”
“Sometimes, sometimes in English.”
“Wait! Do you pray with that stuff on the shelf?” I thought of the candles and rice and everything.
She stood and pulled her coat on. “That stuff is my shrine.” She glanced at me as we headed toward the locker room door. “I’ll tell you about it later, if you’re interested.”
“Thanks. Wait, how do you say thanks in Hindi?”
“Dhanyavaad.”
I tried to repeat that and butchered it, but at least it made her laugh.
“Koi baat nahin. You’re welcome. Let’s go. I’ve got so much studying to do, and I’m starving.”
She reached for the locker room door to pull it open, but she didn’t get the chance. It rocketed into her. She blocked it with her forearm and jumped back, sucking in a breath and grimacing.
“Sorry,” Darya said from the other side.
My eyes narrowed. She didn’t look sorry. Her expression was as flat as before.
“Watch where you’re going,” I said to Darya as I guided Veena past her.
“Are you okay?” I asked for the second time today as we walked away.
She held her arm against her chest. She nodded, but her jaw was clenched with pain. I stared back at the closing door. Could Darya have known Veena was on the other side when she’d slammed it open like that? Had she heard our voices, maybe?
“Has she picked on you before?” I asked.
“I mean, she’s never seemed to like me, but no, she hasn’t. I don’t know what’s up with her these days.”
I didn’t either. Maybe it was time to have a little talk with Darya and find out.
Eight
I walked Veena to our room, where she hit the books while I stepped into my unofficial office—the bathroom—to call Xene. I flicked the fan on for privacy, now that I knew Veena could hear my conversations.
“How are you?” my mentor asked.
“Well, I still have a job.” I filled her in on how Veena helped keep me employed, and my suspicion that Darya might have it in for her.
“Motivation?”
I sat on the edge of the bathtub. “Jealousy? She wants her out of the way so she can win?”
“That could be.” Xene sounded thoughtful.
“What do you think I should do?” I asked.
“Tell your chief and the administration your suspicions.”
“VV won’t like it.”
“She does not get to make all the decisions.”
“I know, but—”
“Nicole, you called her VV.”
Crap. It slipped out. “That’s her nickname.”
“Do I need to remind you that you are there to do a job?”
No, she didn’t need to. I knew I should keep my distance, be a professional, fade into the background, keep my eyes open and mouth shut. But I share a room with Veena. I’m all up in her life from her classes to her religion. And she was awesome. How was I supposed to not have friendly feelings toward her? I couldn’t say all that to Xene. She’d be disappointed and say she taught me better. Instead, she surprised me.
“When I was a new CPO, I was hired to protect a young woman, the daughter of a South American leader. She was a few years younger than me, and she treated me well. I liked her. I got too close.” She paused. I pictured her smoothing her hair back with one manicured hand, something she did when she was thinking.
“One night, at my principal’s invitation, I went with her and some friends to a café. We were talking, laughing; I wasn’t paying enough attention to my surroundings. A man, opposed to her father’s regime, attacked her with a knife. I was fortunate to see him out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t get to her—but it was far too close. Nicole, your reputation, your career, will be built on keeping your clients
