In the early afternoon sun, Vail glittered like piles of white diamonds. At least a few inches of snow covered the streets, roofs, and cars. Up on the mountain, long triangular stands of gigantic Christmas-style trees divided the vertical slopes. I knew from my flurry of research that VMA was on the eastern edge of the resort near the Vail Ski and Snowboard Club, where the student athletes kept their equipment, met with coaches, and prepped for their training sessions. On the hill above the club was a U-shaped halfpipe, a terrain park with massive jumps and rails, and ski racing runs.
As we pulled up to the three-story, stone covered school, it looked nothing like my old high school in Vegas—or like any other school I’d seen. It looked more like a hotel, probably because it once was. A couple of years before, an endowment allowed VMA to renovate an old hotel as their new campus. Conference rooms became classrooms, hotel rooms were now dorm rooms, the restaurant turned into the dining hall, and the hotel gym was upgraded to a state-of-the-art indoor training center complete with an in-ground trampoline and foam pits for safely practicing aerial tricks.
“Ready?” Everything from Bart’s snotty British accent to his cold glance in the mirror screamed skeptical.
“Thanks for the ride.” I got out, retrieved my bags, and slammed the trunk of the sleek black BMW sedan extra hard. This shit was already getting old.
An administrative assistant with short dark hair talked on the phone at the reception desk in the lobby and gestured to me to wait with a harassed expression. They’d always looked harassed at my school, too. In a painting over her head, skiers and snowboarders plunged down a slope in a swirl of colored snowsuits, a bluebird sky over their heads.
“Nicole Rossi. I’m a new, uh, student,” I said when she hung up.
“Of course. I’ll let Dr. Muth know you’re here.” Muth was the head of the school. She picked up the phone and spoke into it, listened, and hung up. “He’s in a meeting. If you’ll just have a seat? Your roommate, Veena, should be out of class in about two minutes. I believe she’s coming to meet you as well.”
All according to plan so far. The woman locked my suitcase and messenger bag in a closet for me and went back to work while I wandered around the lobby.
Polished wood, lots of glass windows, and worn leather furniture dressed the place. My gaze caught on something dead and antlered—a deer or elk or something—staring at me from over a fireplace. Someone had slapped a sticky nametag on the mount with the name Bode written in Sharpie.
I tried to sit, but I was back on my twitchy feet in thirty seconds. My stomach ached, and my hands couldn’t find anywhere to settle.
Xene had told us stories of bratty rich teens who tried to ditch their CPO every chance they got. They saw us as intrusions, babysitters hired by their parents to ruin their fun, or worse, hired help. Servants they could order around. She’d advised me that starting off on the right foot with Veena and the school administration was “imperative.” This was maybe the most important moment of this assignment and maybe even my career.
Without any warning, the doors along the dual hallways sprung open, and teens erupted out of them. The school was small, only about one hundred-fifty students in four grades, but they could make some noise. A familiar face emerged from the fray.
She had golden brown skin, a round face, and a wide smile. Her black hair, striped with pink now, twisted into a messy braid over one shoulder. She wore calf-covering snow boots, a tiny skirt, a T-shirt that said Burton, and an unzipped purple ski jacket. A battered backpack hung over her shoulder. As she got closer, I saw her nose was pierced with a small diamond, like her mother’s. She came right up to me, no hesitation.
“Hi.” Her smile was wide, and her teeth were polar-ice-cap white. “I’m Veena.”
“Nicole Rossi. Call me Nic.” What to say now? Hello, I’m here to protect you? I took a deep breath and glanced around to be sure we couldn’t be overheard in the din. “So. We have a lot to talk about and go over—starting with what I should call you.”
Xene taught us adult principals might prefer Mr., Ms., or a title like Senator or Your Majesty, if that fit. I wasn’t sure about teens, so I thought I’d ask.
She looked puzzled. “Isn’t Veena okay?”
“Sure, if you’re okay with it.”
Her smile faltered. “It’s my name. Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?”
Right. Okay. Neither of us seemed to know what to say after that. We stood stiffly, half facing each other, half watching the other kids streaming by, throwing us curious glances. One boy’s eyes lingered on me for longer. He wore ski pants that hung down on his hips, a tight long underwear shirt, and a beanie with a blue yarn ball on top. He winked at me.
“Can I give you a little advice?” Veena said, her eyes on him, too. “Stay away from that one. His name’s Jake, and the word asswipe was invented to describe him.”
I smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As if my upturned lips were a secret sign she was waiting for, Veena grabbed my hands and her dark brown eyes lit up. “You have no idea how happy I am that you’re here, Nic. Do you want to go somewhere?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on!”
With a thrilled look on her face, she took me by the hand and dragged me out of the front door.
“Veena, wait. Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
I thought I’d sit and talk with her and then take a few minutes to introduce myself to Dr. Muth, but she obviously had other plans. And, as we were taught at Juno, the client’s plan always trumps ours.
Outside, she let go of my hand to zip
