"Some stupid people are smart enough to hide their stupidity," I say.

A twitter runs through the cla.s.s. My cla.s.smates are laughing.

At Mekha and Meghna.

I stride past the twins as if they don't exist.

NOT ENOUGH.

Jim gives me a long, serious look

when I next see him.

"Remember what I said about having to make some big decisions?

The decision impacts you."

My heart pirouettes.

"I've decided," he says, "to return to America."

I bite my lip so hard it hurts.

"But don't you worry.

I'll be leaving you in good hands."

Not the hands I want.

"I'll miss you," he says, "but every project comes to an end, you know."

I should have known.

I can't believe I was stupid enough to think he cared for me.

That I was special to him.

"You'll do great, kiddo."

"I'm not a kid," I mutter.

"I know. I know." He pats the top of my head as if he's pacifying a baby. "You're one special young woman."

"Not special enough for you," I blurt.

Jim looks as though an earthquake just struck. "What?"

Awkwardness hangs in the s.p.a.ce between us.

I wish the earth would spin backward, erase the last minute and those words I never meant to say to his face.

"Veda-I'm sorry if-if anything I said or did made you think-"

I shake my head. It was all me.

My mistake.

I read too much into everything.

Dreamed, imagined, and let my thoughts get as out of control as my body.

"Veda," he says. His tone is kind, patient, gentle.

"It's normal to get attached to your caregiver.

You'll get over it soon."

I sense he's trying to make me feel better, though it only makes things worse to hear Jim say I'm as ordinary as any other patient.

"We'll meet before I leave. Okay, Veda?"

His forehead crinkles with concern.

Feeling more like a kid than when he called me kiddo, I nod my head and walk out the door he holds open.

BARE.

The words not special enough for you ring in my ears louder and clearer than when I actually blurted them to Jim.

My foolish words even interrupt my sleep, waking me in the early dawn.

Paati will be up soon.

But this problem she can't help with.

She wasn't allowed to think about boys or men.

Except the one her parents arranged for her to marry.

She couldn't possibly understand how stupid and confused I feel.

I get my leg on and pace up and down our balcony.

"Veda?" Ma's potu is a smudged red blur on her forehead.

She rubs a bare earlobe with her thumb.

"Ma? Why aren't you wearing your earrings?"

Ma looks at me with sleep-dimmed eyes.

Dr. Murali said Jim's project would subsidize the cost, not cover everything.

I never bothered to think how much my medical bills cost or where the money to pay them would come from.

"Ma? You sold your diamonds to pay my bills?"

"When we named you Veda," Ma says, "I remembered the four holy books called the Vedas.

I'd forgotten that dance is also called the fifth Veda.

Until after the accident, I didn't want to accept you'd chosen that fifth Veda over any book.

But I should have known when you and I argued about dance and I saw your jaw set in the same stubborn line as mine when I argued with my parents for permission to marry your pa.

My family wanted me to marry a richer man so I'd have the security of wealth.

I gave up wealth so I could have this family.

Yet I wanted you to have a well-paid career that would bring you the comforts I'd once had."

Ma shakes her head at herself.

"I imagined you'd wear my earrings on your wedding day.

But that was silly.

Even I didn't marry wearing my ma's jewelry.

So, yes, I sold my earrings to pay our bills."

Ma reaches for my hand.

Our fingers interlock.

Between us, shadows shorten and lighten as the sun creeps higher into the sky.

"For your sake," Ma says, "I'd have begged my family for money if I had no earrings to sell.

Your future matters more than my pride.

After all, you're my most precious jewel, Veda."

EXCHANGES.

Govinda walks me out of cla.s.s.

"Akka asked how you were doing.

I said you're doing so well we need to start working one-on-one."

We. Govinda said we.

And he not only thinks of me outside cla.s.s, he wants to give me private lessons!

"But-" I hesitate. "It would take up so much of your time."

"I learn when I teach.

You'd be doing me a favor."

He looks sincere.

"Or am I not a good enough teacher?"

He sounds hurt.

"You're an amazing teacher!

The best."