I ran toward the balcony—and almost tripped over Veena.
She sat barefoot and cross-legged on the floor between our beds, eyes closed. She rocked a little, and her lips moved. Although I’d practically kicked her in my hurry, she didn’t open her eyes, so I tiptoed to my bed.
The forest smell came from the sticks of incense burning in the holder on the shelf. On the laptop, a woman with a high voice sang in another language—maybe Hindi? Every so often, Veena rang a small silver bell or touched the figurine of the woman, now on the floor in front of her.
The woman was brightly painted, and she had four arms. Two ceramic hands held red flowers, and a flowered necklace hung around her. She smiled secretively. The dishes of water and rice lay next to her on the floor.
Pulling out my books to study felt wrong, like yelling in Mass. Gram made me go once or twice a year before she died. She said it would comfort me if I let it. I guess I didn’t.
My chest squeezed in the familiar way when I thought of those last few months of Gram’s treatment, then hospice. Mom was a wreck; I could barely get to school. I just didn’t see how going to Mass would help. But this, this seemed soothing somehow.
After a few minutes, Veena opened her eyes, blew out the incense, and stretched, arms above her head. She turned to me with a relaxed smile. I tried not to flinch as I got a good look at her face. Dark blooms flowered around her eyes, and her lips swelled grotesquely.
“Veena, I’m sorry.” I felt responsible, but what could I have done to prevent it?
She turned the music off and sat on the edge of her bed. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Brown will talk to Muth about Darya,” I said, “but we aren’t sure she did anything.”
She nodded. “I just wish I could train tomorrow.”
I thought she was lucky the doctor said she could train as early as Friday and only because she somehow hadn’t been concussed. “Take a rest. Heal. You’ll be back on the slopes in a few days, and maybe we’ll have a suspect by then.”
She looked at the figurine again. “Would Darya do something like that? I could’ve . . . I mean, I might have…”
I knew what she was saying, and she was right. Had she flown a few feet farther to the side, she would have hit bare concrete instead of the mat.
“Some people will do anything to win,” I said. “Did you hear about that Olympic ice skater whose ex-husband hired someone to attack her competition right before the Olympics?”
“But those were ice skaters. They’re total drama.”
I snorted, then loosened my tight braid, gathering my thoughts. “Veena—are you sure this is worth it?”
“What?”
“Staying here. Putting yourself at risk.” In more ways than one. Every time she trained, her life was on the line. But that wasn’t what I meant.
Moving onto her bed, she lay back against the pillows and crossed her arms. “It is to me.”
“I guess I’m trying to understand why.”
“Riding is what I love to do. I thought you’d understand that.” She flung a hand at me. “I mean, why are you a bodyguard? It’s not exactly a normal job.” When I don’t answer, she goes on. “When I’m snowboarding . . . I feel like . . . an artist. The pipe is my canvas. I can paint it any way I want. When I’m out there, I take any risk I can handle, conquer my fears. If I give up now, it would be like an artist giving up their art. Letting fear win.” She picked a feather from the seam of her comforter. “That must sound stupid to you. You’re so, I don’t know, practical.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I didn’t completely understand her obsession with snowboarding, but I could hear the passion in her voice. That, I got. “I just want to be sure you’ve thought this through. You could go home any time and be a lot safer than you are out here.” As much as it grated on me to say it.
Her jaw set. When she answered, her voice was quiet but determined. “I’m not going home.”
We were quiet for a few minutes. She pulled a textbook into her lap but only messed with the pages.
I gestured to the things on the shelf. “You were praying?”
“Sort of praying, sort of meditating. It’s called puja.”
I went over to take a closer look, and she followed.
She ran a soft finger over the figure, which she’d put back on the shelf. “This is Lakshmi. She’s a devi, a Hindu goddess. She represents good fortune.”
“Why does she have four arms?”
“To represent the four main goals of human life: dharma, kama, artha, and moksha. Virtue, passion, prosperity, and self-actualization. The rice is an offering, and the water is to bathe her with. I don’t do everything exactly the way you’re supposed to, but I try.” She glanced at me, her expression shy. “No one’s ever watched me perform puja before.”
“I can leave next time.”
“No, it’s kind of personal, but I don’t mind. My mom prays to Lakshmi, too. I have lots of memories of her with her shrine at home. She also has one to Ganesh.” She looked at me. “Have you heard of him?”
I shook my head.
“He’s a god who looks like an elephant. He helps take away obstacles from our paths. Anyway, I picked up the habit from her. Praying puja helps me feel closer to my family when I’m not at home.”
“I’ll do it with you next time,” I said.
Her brow wrinkled. “Why?”
“I need to pray not to murder Darya.”
She grinned and then grimaced, touching her face. “I just thought of something. Lakshmi is married to the god Vishnu. He’s also known
