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Kamala never meant to become New York University’s next greatest investigator. It just happened. As a sophomore in college, taking more electives than core classes, she should have known that drama would inevitably arise. But if Kamala loved one thing, it was a good story. She’d never been able to resist the rising tension, slotting together hints like a 1000-piece puzzle.
One moment, she was a diligent literature and history double major who color-coded her notes, complete with margin doodles; the next, she was running a full-blown covert investigation into whether two of her professors were secretly dating.
It started on a breezy Monday, the trees swaying dangerously as she walked through the quad, comparing schedules with her friend, America.
“I can’t believe we finally have a class together,” Kamala squealed, skipping over the loose stone in the center of the quad.
America snorted. “You begged me to take this business class with you. We sat side by side picking out which time slot and professor we wanted.”
“It’s good to know a little about the business world,” Kamala reminded. “Don’t you want to leave NYU with a well-rounded degree?”
“For fifty grand per semester, I certainly hope so. I heard Dr. Bishop is a fun professor. So, maybe this won’t be boring.” America skimmed Kamala’s schedule. “What other classes do you have today?”
Kamala pulled her journal from her bag, quickly sketching a singular bird sitting on the edge of the Business School’s roof. She titled it ‘Alone’ before answering. “I have Russian History later today with Professor Belova.”
“I do not envy you,” said America, eyeing Kamala as if this would be the last time she’d see her alive. “I had her last year for my Cyber Security class.”
“Why?” she frowned. “Is she mean?”
“Let’s just say Dr. Belova is the physical embodiment of a Google Calendar.”
The pair entered the building, finding their classroom with ease, and sat in the first row.
The clock struck eight in the morning, and the students sat in silence, staring at an empty room and a blank whiteboard. The second hand ticked past 8:05, and Kamala grew antsy.
“Are we in the right classroom?” she whispered to her friend.
America shrugged. “The schedule said room 101.”
A flurry of movement burst through the door. A tall woman clad in a sharp black blazer and plum dress shirt barreled into the room. Her arms were loaded with several binders, and a takeaway coffee cup was balanced precariously on top.
“Good morning, everyone!” she said brightly, taking the cup in one hand and slamming the rest of the binders onto the desk. “Sorry, I’m late. I didn’t anticipate the line in the coffee shop this morning.”
Squinting, Kamala recognized the brown-and-white image stamped on the Styrofoam cup. It was from her favorite café, where they also served the best donuts in the city. “We’ve all had one of those mornings,” laughed Kamala. “It’s a shame the place with the best coffee is the furthest from campus.”
“That it is,” the woman agreed somberly, sending Kamala a wink while she brushed dark locks away from her face. “I’m Kate Bishop, and I’ll be your Intro to Business professor this semester.”
The rest of the period consisted of reviewing the syllabus for the next four months. Dr. Bishop was incredibly friendly, always smiling. She was charismatic, scatterbrained, and incapable of remaining silent for more than five seconds. While enthusiastically discussing the fundamentals of marketing, she shared the gritty details of her dog's dental surgery and her former therapist's advice to leave some things to the imagination, all in the same breath.
A feat made even more impressive considering it was before nine a.m., and half the class was still asleep.
By the time their allotted fifty minutes ended, Kamala was even more excited for the rest of the semester. “Dr. Bishop,” she approached the front of the class as Kate wiped away the drawing of a Business Cat (really just a cat in a suit and hat). “I’m Kamala. I just wanted to say thank you for the introduction, and I look forward to learning more about business.”
She waved away her title, shivering slightly. “Dr. Bishop sounds too much like my mother. She pops up frequently in my therapy sessions. You can just call me Kate.”
Every axon in Kamala’s body raged against her at the idea of calling her professor by her first name. That concept was unheard of in her family, often viewed as a sign of disrespect, but she managed to grin her nerves away. “If you insist…Kate.”
“Well, I look forward to teaching you about business, Kamala.” Kate picked up the untouched coffee cup, her palm covering a Y and a purple marker-drawn heart. “Have a great rest of your day.”
As Kamala and America left their class, she leaned in conspiratorially with her friend. “Did you notice Dr. Bishop never drank from that cup?”
“Probably for the best,” America yawned. “I think the top of her head would explode if she consumed any more caffeine.”
After a quick lunch, Kamala and America split for their next classes. She trekked all the way across campus, but still managed to arrive five minutes early to her Russian History class.
Half the lights were turned off. A woman sat primly at her desk, the keys of her computer clacking as she wrote. Her blonde hair was short, neatly combed, and slicked back. She glanced at Kamala with soul-piercing green eyes, nodded in greeting, and went back to her screen.
Instead of a projector or a whiteboard, the entire front wall was one long chalkboard, already outlined with everything they would cover throughout the year. Based on the neat, loopy scrawl and the sub-bullets for each bullet point, Kamala discerned that her professor was rigidly brilliant and terrifyingly organized.
Kamala quickly sat at the front, keeping her mouth shut.
At one p.m. on the dot, their professor rose from her desk, spine straight, her heeled boots clacking like a metronome as she walked to the center of the class. She was short, but her primly ironed black dress pants, white V-neck dress shirt, and red blazer made her as intimidating as a twelve-foot giant.
A boy hurried in, no more than thirty seconds late, and grinned lazily at the woman standing at the head of the room. “Hey, Professor Belova. I had a question about your online syllabus.”
“Doctor Belova.” She corrected icily.
Kamala swallowed at the low, Russian accent, watching with horrified amazement as the boy’s smile slid off his lips. “Sorry?”
“It’s Dr. Belova, and you are late,” she said, voice clipped. “I do not appreciate students who don’t take my class seriously enough to show up on time. Sit down and save your questions for the end.”
He followed her instructions immediately.
Dr. Belova spent the next twenty minutes reviewing the rules of her classroom. Her lectures would be in bulleted formats only, and if they wanted to learn, they would need to take extensive notes. Deadlines were set with no extensions unless with a written excuse for a family or medical emergency. And she offered ‘consultation slots’ every Tuesday and Thursday at 11 am for those with questions or who needed help.
Kamala shakily raised her hand.
“Yes?” Dr. Belova eyed her.
“Are the consultation slots the same as office hours?” asked Kamala. “Or are they something else entirely?”
Her professor sighed. “Yes, they are office hours.”
The next thirty minutes of class were dedicated to an introduction to Ancient and Medieval Russia, covering the early Slavic tribes and their interactions with other groups, such as the Khazars. Dr. Belova was precise, deadpan, and stoic in her teaching mannerisms, but Kamala had to admit that she was an excellent educator. Her voice was cool and precise, syllables clicking like coins on marble. The students, slouched and blinking, scribbled only when she paused long enough to make them afraid not to.
By the time class ended and their first homework assignment was given, the students rushed out of the classroom, leaving Kamala behind as she gathered the courage to introduce herself, just as she had with all her professors.
“Dr. Belova?” she approached the woman erasing the chalkboard. Up close, they were similar in height. “I’m Kamala. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m looking forward to learning more about Russian history, especially the autocratic and Tsar era. My own family has a pretty rich association with pre-Islamic mythology. So, I’m always interested in other world histories.” She inhaled quickly, snapping her mouth closed. She didn’t think Dr. Belova could tolerate anyone talking to her for more than twenty seconds, but her professor simply blinked at her, listening silently.
Kamala diverted her gaze, desperate for a reprieve from her professor’s intensity, and nearly gasped as she spotted a white and brown Styrofoam coffee cup in her trash. The takeaway cup had the same purple Y and hand-drawn heart she had seen on the one in Dr. Bishop’s hand. No way!
“Anyway,” Kamala squeaked. “I just wanted to say thanks for the lesson, and I look forward to your other lectures.” She hightailed it out of the room.
That evening, Kamala dived into the greasy booth at her favorite pizza joint. “America, you will not believe what I found out today!”
America sipped her Sprite, chewing on the end of her plastic straw. “Oh yeah?”
“Dr. Bishop and Dr. Belova are dating!” She explained everything about the infamous coffee cup.
“No way,” America shook her head. “It’s impossible! Dr. Bishop is a chronic over-sharer, and she gives out tiny bottles of orange juice on Fridays so her students are always prepped for impromptu Sunday brunches.” She folded her slice of pizza vertically, continuing to talk while she chewed. “Dr. Belova is allergic to joy. Okay, no one has ever seen her smile, and she deducts points for formatting errors. There is such a thing as being too opposite to attract.”
Kamala stopped paying attention. She fished her journal out of her bag and opened it to a clean page. Despite what America said, Kamala was convinced of her two teachers’ romantic involvement. She just had to prove it.
She scribbled Operation Bishova at the top of the page and began to list her evidence,
- The Coffee Incident—two women, one cup, romantic gesture.
“You know, the letter Y could mean anything,” said America, reading her friend’s handwriting upside down. “Like, Y am I teaching a class at eight in the morning?”
Smirking, Kamala googled NYU’s faculty page and scrolled down to the B section, where she easily found Kate Bishop and Yelena Belova’s profiles.
“Coincidence!”
“I think not!”
Kamala was curious, some would even say nosy. She was smart, creative, observant, and from that point on, entirely too invested in her professor’s personal lives. But she’d get to the bottom of the mystery, one way or another.
Her sleuthing skills were put to the test, but it wasn’t until a month into the semester that Kamala was rewarded with her second clue.
On Monday, she and America entered their morning class to see Kate sitting at the front, nursing a giant mug of steaming tea.
“Hey, professor,” Kamala greeted. “Did you have a good weekend?”
Kate toasted them with her mug. “That I did. Maybe a little too good. I finally got around to checking out that new club, Rampage. I think I had a little too much to drink.”
Kamala sat straighter. “Oh? Wow, and you went in by yourself? That’s awesome. I don’t have the confidence to enter a club on my own.”
Kate’s grimace faded to a dopey smile. “Actually, I went with my partner.” She fondly rolled her eyes. “She never gets hungover.”
Vibrating in her seat, Kamala opened her mouth, desperate to ask, “Because she’s Russian?” but America’s elbow to the ribs stopped her.
“Don’t get us expelled,” she hissed.
Grumbling, her interrogation was cut short, but Kate entertained the class for the rest of the period by showcasing her signature dance moves, including The Windmill, used specifically to distance herself from unwanted dance partners.
Kamala spent her lunch poring over her Russian History textbook, cramming for her first test with Dr. Belova, or Yelena, as she cheekily called her in her head.
She took her seat at the front of the class, smiling nervously as Yelena approached her with a stapled packet of paper. The lights were dimmed, giving everything the color of over-steeped tea, a usual occurrence, but what caught Kamala’s attention was the flash of ink on the back of her professor’s hand.
“Dr. Belova!” Kamala exclaimed a little desperately when Yelena turned away, but she pivoted back, eyebrow raised. “Could I ask a question before I start the exam?”
Nodding, she bent down at Kamala’s desk, leaning in slightly to hear her student’s whisper.
Kamala thought she had asked something about the formation of the Kievan Rus' and its early statehood, but really, she was staring daggers at Yelena’s hand. Her blazer sleeve covered most of her skin, but Kamala swore that was a stamp on the back of her hand, like the ones they give out at clubs to identify who was over the legal drinking age. Thanking her professor for the information she had definitely not paid attention to, Kamala began her test.
The rest of the period passed as if underwater. The clock hands crawled, but the image wouldn’t leave her, the brief glimmer of color against the pallor of her professor’s skin. There was something intimate about it, something that didn’t belong in the sterile air of academia.
Thirty minutes later and three-quarters done with her exam, Kamala stared blankly at the essay portion, trying to format a depiction of the Mongol invasion and the subsequent Muscovite Russia period that followed.
Kamala’s pen stilled mid-sentence.
Her mind kept drifting back to the image of the stamp, a spinning centrifuge, transforming ink into speculation. She had to know. It was driving her crazy!
Jaw set, Kamala scootched back her chair and, ignoring her classmates' incredulous expressions, marched toward her professor.
“Finished?” asked Yelena, without looking up.
“Not yet,” Kamala swallowed. “I was wondering if I could ask another question?”
Dr. Belova’s gaze, pale and unreadable, pinned Kamala to the floor in a heartbeat. “You are in the middle of a test,” she said coldly. “The time for questions was at the beginning.”
Sweat gathered at the base of Kamala’s neck. “I know,” she breathed. “It’s not a question about the information, but I had a clarifying question about how the essay is supposed to be structured.”
“Fine.”
Kamala edged closer, probably too close for comfort, judging by Dr. Belova’s pause in her explanation. She squinted. From her vantage point, the stamp was just a smudge of dark blue, half-hidden by shadow.
“Does that make sense?” Yelena asked with finality, indicating that it better be, and for Kamala to retake her seat.
Yes,” she panicked. She was so close to figuring out what it was. “But what about the three-step procedure we discussed. Can we only do three, or can we do four or five?”
Her professor pursed her lips, reaching for a pen, underlining key hints in the question. The mark flashed again: a circle? Were those horns? However, Kamala’s persistence paid off when she could make out the three blocky letters not obstructed by fabric and shadow. Whatever word was above the image of the stamp ended with ‘AGE’, and Kamala would bet her last dollar that the whole word spelled RAMPAGE.
She’d take the win.
“Thank you, Dr. Belova. That makes sense.”
Kamala finished her test with ten minutes to spare and handed it over with a mischievous smile. As she exited, she pulled out her journal and added to her evidence.
Operation Bishova
1. The Coffee Incident—two women, one cup, romantic gesture.
2. In Da Clerb, We All Fam—Kate “has a partner” Bishop, Yelena “tramp stamp” Belova.
Outside, the hallway was all gray tile and echo. Kamala walked slowly, her thoughts unwinding into small, ridiculous threads: maybe it was a stamp from a museum, or, no, impossible, some kind of matching couple’s mark? Yet, she didn’t remember seeing one on Kate.
She laughed at herself for thinking it. But once a thought like that arrived, it didn’t leave politely. It settled in the back of her skull and crossed its legs.
By the time she reached the quad, the air had cooled into a fine autumn drizzle. She opened her umbrella, mind still humming, and thought: she doesn’t seem the type for stamps at all.
But then, what type was Yelena Belova?
By mid-semester, Kamala’s “research” was nearly a dissertation in itself. She told herself it was just for fun, a mental exercise in observation; practice for her thesis someday. She had compiled several of Dr. Bishop’s throwaway lines about her unnamed partner, counted the precise number of rings on Dr. Belova’s fingers (eight), and identified what could be a promise ring on her left ring finger. She was currently fifty percent sure of her professor’s involvement with each other, much to America’s grievance.
She should have felt silly. Instead, she felt alive, as though her own world—gray dorm hallways, overbrewed coffee, polite applause after presentations—had tilted slightly, revealing color beneath the varnish.
Yelena fascinated her in that detached, almost frightening way people of immense competence do. Kate, on the other hand, was pure sunlight, talking too loudly, offering unsolicited chocolate bars, sending entire seminar groups into affectionate chaos. Together they formed a kind of gravitational system, discipline orbiting delight, and Kamala, despite herself, had been caught in it.
She started noticing things.
The way Yelena’s tone softened whenever Kate entered the room, like a bow relaxing against a string. The way Kate occasionally finished Yelena’s sentences, only to grin when Yelena raised an eyebrow instead of scolding her.
And once, briefly, how Yelena’s hand brushed Kate’s sleeve when they crossed paths in the hallway, a gesture so fleeting Kamala almost doubted she’d seen it.
Almost.
Her rational mind whispered that she was projecting, spinning fictions from trivia. Her other mind, the one that drew half-formed comics in the margins of lecture notes, insisted that art is built from noticing what others overlook.
By mid-October, she’d developed a whole methodology.
Sit in the front row. Record what Kate wore (crisp collar, hair twisted and tangled from the wind) and note if Yelena appeared in the same color palette later in the day, slicked back hair typically resembling sculpted marble (once: both in navy: statistically meaningless, emotionally devastating).
Sometimes Kamala laughed at herself for being so invested.
Other times, she felt a strange pang, like envy, but not quite. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to uncover a secret or to belong to the intimacy it implied.
America caught her staring at her laptop one night and said, “You look like you’re trying to solve a murder.”
“Worse,” Kamala replied. “Professors.”
“Not this again!”
Kamala just needed a few more scraps of evidence to be sure, and the universe answered her plea in the form of essays.
She tiptoed through the library, lightly placing both her graded papers in front of America. “Bishop and Belova both returned assignments the same week—different subjects, different classes—but the same feedback.” She flipped to the last page of both her essays.
Consider revising your conclusion to reflect the complexity of your argument better.
“Kamala,” America whined. “That is the most vague academic statement I’ve ever heard. How does this prove they are together?”
“Vague, yes! But the fact that they show up on two separate occasions makes it not vague.”
“That doesn’t make sense!”
“Word for word. Same punctuation.”
Finally, America took the papers from her friend and read them intently. “Different handwriting,” she dismissed.
Kamala wasn’t to be deterred. “Either they share a Google Doc,” she muttered, “or a bed.” She wasn’t sure which was more scandalous.
It was time for drastic measures.
Kamala marched into Kate’s office hours, pretending to ask about a mark made on that very same essay. “Do you know Dr. Belova?” she blurted, interrupting her professor’s explanation.
Kate’s uplifting speech about proper finance stuttered to a stop. “ I-I do.” The tips of her ears reddened.
Gotchya. “Well, you and Dr. Belova must think exactly alike,” Kamala joked.
Her professor froze. “Oh?”
“Oh yeah,” Kamala said triumphantly. “I’m taking her Russian History class, and the two of you gave me the same feedback. Identical.”
Kate gave an uncharacteristically high-pitched laugh. “That certainly is a funny coincidence. Anyway, the reasoning for the financial perplexity…”
Unfortunately, Kamala got no further with her business professor. She attempted a similar trap for her Russian History professor, but when asked if Yelena knew Dr. Bishop, she merely hummed. For a moment, all was lost, but Kamala bit back a grin when she explained the feedback scenario. Yelena’s gaze flashed dangerously, snapping her pencil in half before Kamala’s very eyes.
Kamala silently pulled a fresh pencil from her bag and set it on her teacher's desk before taking her seat.
She was a star pupil for the remainder of the class.
That night, she updated her journal:
Operation Bishova
1. The Coffee Incident—two women, one cup, romantic gesture.
2. In Da Clerb, We All Fam—Kate “has a partner” Bishop, Yelena “tramp stamp” Belova.
3. The Grading Coincidence—Same feedback. Minds merged. Relationship certain.
The following week, Kamala found herself in the faculty café, the one tucked beside the art history wing, where the espresso machine hissed like a tamed dragon and the room buzzed faintly with the sound of old wiring. She came here more than she liked to admit, under the pretense of finding a quiet place to study, but mostly because she liked to surround herself with the professors who drifted through like rare birds, glimpsed only briefly between lectures.
Spotting them was an art in itself.
She was flipping through her notes when a sudden, familiar voice lifted over the clatter of cups.
“No, listen, Yelena, it’s not about the grant deadline, it’s about self-care. Have you tried breathing that isn’t purely disapproving?”
Dr. Kate Bishop.
Kamala froze. There she was, and beside her, of course, Dr. Belova, immaculate as ever, coffee in one hand, expression as neutral as a still lake.
Kamala ducked slightly behind her laptop screen, feeling absurd, but the professors didn’t seem to notice her.
“I breathe perfectly well,” Yelena replied in her low, measured way. “I simply do not announce it to the world.”
Kate laughed, bright and unguarded. “That’s because your resting face screams ‘under review.’”
Yelena sipped her coffee with what Kamala could only describe as a dignified exasperation. “You are impossible.”
Kamala should have looked away. She knew she should have. But the moment had an odd magnetic field; the quiet, the slight domestic familiarity in the way Kate handed Yelena a sugar packet without being asked.
Kamala’s stomach made an embarrassing swoop, like a rollercoaster starting its descent. She shouldn’t be watching this. She shouldn’t be ogling her two professors like a southern man ogling Kat Dennings.
“Kamala!”
The voice snapped her upright, and she nearly catapulted out of her chair.
Kate was waving at her. “Come join us!”
Kamala’s heart tried to climb out of her chest. “Oh, hi! That’s okay, I don’t want to intrude.”
“Nonsense,” Kate said, patting the empty chair beside her. “Sit. We were just arguing about leisure.”
“About what constitutes leisure,” Yelena corrected.
Kamala sat gingerly, aware of her own breath, of the faint coffee smell, of the way Yelena’s gaze seemed to take in everything and nothing at once.
Kate smiled at her. “So, tell us, Kamala, when you’re not learning about stocks and bonds or reading about the Russian Renaissance, how do you unwind?”
Kamala hesitated. “Um, I like mysteries.”
Kate’s eyes lit up. “Mysteries! Excellent. You mean books? Or in life?”
The way she said it made Kamala’s stomach twist again, half amusement, half guilt.
“Both, I guess,” she said. “Sometimes things just…catch my attention.”
“Healthy curiosity,” Yelena said mildly. But something flickered behind her tone, not annoyance exactly, more like the awareness of being seen too clearly.
Kate grinned. “Careful, Kamala. That’s how it starts. One day you’re analyzing brushwork; the next you’re cataloguing your colleagues’ coffee habits.”
Kamala smiled weakly. She wanted to disappear. And yet, she wanted to stay longer; to observe, to understand. “Brushwork?” she asked timidly.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the doodles on your test,” Kate jabbed kindly. “They make my evenings, actually.”
When Kamala finally gathered her things, Yelena inclined her head in that small, gracious way she had. As she left, Kamala caught their reflection in the café window; Yelena leaning in slightly, Kate laughing.
She told herself not to read into it, not to add this encounter to her journal.
She absolutely failed.
Operation Bishova
1. The Coffee Incident—two women, one cup, romantic gesture.
2. In Da Clerb, We All Fam—Kate “has a partner” Bishop, Yelena “tramp stamp” Belova.
3. The Grading Coincidence—Same feedback. Minds merged. Relationship certain.
4. The Café Crush—Private moment. Definitely a date. Old married couple banter.
The most challenging part in all this was convincing America that she was right. Which, hello, the evidence was piling up right in front of them! Still, her friend was adamant that she was looking too deeply into signs that didn’t exist.
America partly got her wish. Due to the semester's increasing workload, Kamala put her investigation on the back burner, not forgotten, but she’d allow it to simmer…for now. She hopped off the bus, braving the cold air on a Tuesday (her free day usually spent rotting in bed) to visit Dr. Belova’s ‘consultation period.’ Kamala needed her teacher to clarify Peter the Great and the Soviet Union's command economy before next week’s test.
She arrived at the history department earlier than expected and bumped straight into Kate in her haste to feel the office’s heat on her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry!” Kamala whined, grateful for her professor’s steadying hand on her shoulder. “I wasn’t paying attention and—” her brain short-circuited as she stared at her professor’s easy smile. Kate had her signature dark slacks and a dark gray dress shirt, the collar around her neck slightly ruffled. “This is a long way from the business department.”
Kate smirked. “Never too chilly for a walk around NYU’s beautiful campus. Besides, I needed to chat with Dr. Belova. Assessment methodology, boring teacher talk.”
“Right,” Kamala drawled, unconvinced. She let her business professor walk around her and out into the late fall air. By the time she walked down the long carpeted hallway, an excited smile was permanently etched onto her face. “Good morning, Dr. Belova.”
Yelena actually looked relaxed for once, her spine slumped, leaning over her desk to read an email on her computer. She looked smaller in stature today, primarily because of the oversized blazer swallowing her frame. The shoulder pads were slightly too large, the sleeves too wide, engulfing her hands, and it was the exact shade of black as Kate Bishop’s dress pants.
“I ran into Dr. Bishop on the way in here,” Kamala tested, sitting in the offered seat and pulling out her textbook.
For her part, Yelena didn’t flinch. “Yes, we needed to discuss grading policies.”
Busted! Caught in the act!
Although judging by the way the blazer lapel hid most of Yelena’s throat, that second thought might have been accurate. Kamala grimaced.
After Kamala clarified what she needed, she tried one more tactic to get the couple to spill the beans. “I really like your jacket, Dr. Belova. Where’d you get it? I have an interview next week, and I could really use one like it.”
Yelena’s eyes never strayed from her screen. “Have a good rest of your afternoon, Miss Kahn.”
Contrary to popular belief, Kamala did know when to call it quits. She thanked her professor and left the building before she was suspended for inappropriate behavior.
Operation Bishova
1. The Coffee Incident—two women, one cup, romantic gesture.
2. In Da Clerb, We All Fam—Kate “has a partner” Bishop, Yelena “tramp stamp” Belova.
3. The Grading Coincidence—Same feedback. Minds merged. Relationship certain.
4. The Café Crush—Private moment. Definitely a date. Old married couple banter.
5. The Office Hour Debacle—Secret meetings. Sexy time? Suspicious deflections.
“Dr. Belova could have a dog,” America supplied helpfully, reviewing Kamala’s investigative journal.
“You think she brings her dog to the club?”
“We still don’t know if she actually went to the club. That stamp could have been anything.”
“So, you agree it was a stamp.”
America sighed tiredly.
But just to cover all her bases, Kamala decided to test out America’s theory. She skipped lunch and entered her Russian History class ten minutes early, sending a silent thank you to the universe as Yelena was already sitting at her desk, eating a salad. On the container lid was a quickly written, “Enjoy! –K.” Which Yelena flipped over so Kamala couldn’t read it, but nothing got past her keen eyes.
“Hey, Dr. B. How was your weekend?” She tested her professor’s personal limits. If she were in a good mood, she’d let the incorrect use of her last name slide.
“It was fun,” she answered evenly.
Jackpot!
“We hit the park, went for a long walk, fell asleep watching TV.”
“Ah,” Kamala grinned. “A fun weekend with a special, fun someone. So, who is we?”
Yelena’s jaw clenched mid-chew. “Kamala,” she warned bracingly.
“Alright, alright,” Kamala quickly continued. “So, what did you do at the park?”
Her professor speared a chicken breast with her fork. “Walked around.” Yelena paused. “She gets antsy if she doesn’t get outside enough.”
A victorious balloon began to fill in Kamala’s chest. She! There is a she in Yelena’s life! “Oh my gosh, what’s her favorite food?”
Yelena’s lips twitched in a slight smirk. “Peanut butter. She’ll eat it right out of the jar.”
The balloon popped. Please don’t let America be right. Please don’t let my professor be talking about her dog. “How old is she?” Kamala fired off rapidly, desperately trying to get the conversation back on track.
“Well, she’s getting up there, but she’s pretty spry for her age. Especially since she got hit by that car a few years ago.”
“Oh,” Kamala nearly sobbed. “That’s so awful. Did she chase something into the street? Or—?”
Yelena snapped the lid onto her finished salad container. “She was running after a dog.”
The room began to fill up, and Kamala lost her chance for a private chat with her professor. Dr. Belova was unusually cheery for the remainder of the lecture, and Kamala wasn’t sure if her professor had just played her or not.
“It’s a dog,” America decided over dinner. “Went for a long walk. That’s what you do with a dog.”
“You can go on a long walk with a person,” Kamala argued, her papdi chat untouched. “You know, talk about nothing. Talk about everything.”
“Sounds awful,” America spoke around her butter chicken. “Hit the park, that’s a dog.”
Kamala threw her head back, exasperated.
Operation Bishova
1. The Coffee Incident—two women, one cup, romantic gesture.
2. In Da Clerb, We All Fam—Kate “has a partner” Bishop, Yelena “tramp stamp” Belova.
3. The Grading Coincidence—Same feedback. Minds merged. Relationship certain.
4. The Café Crush—Private moment. Definitely a date. Old married couple banter.
5. The Office Hour Debacle—Secret meetings. Sexy time? Suspicious deflections.
6. DOG????
Winter had fallen over New York City. A light dusting of snow covered the ground, beckoning the NYU students to play within its icy crystals. However, with finals starting the following week, no student had a moment to spare.
“Kamala, let’s take a break.” America held out a knitted hat and scarf. “We’ve been cramming all weekend! Why don’t we take a walk around Central Park? It’ll help clear our heads and relax us before the real stress starts.”
Kamala considered her friend and roommate, torn between getting some crisp, fresh air or rubbing her nose raw in her Russian History and her Intro to Business textbooks. “Fine,” she whined. “But you’re buying me a hot chocolate.”
“Deal.”
The air had that sharp, crystalline quality that only came after a night of snow. Central Park was muffled and bright, every branch sugared white, the paths edged with uneven footprints and glimmers of ice.
Kamala kicked a patch of slush with the toe of her boot. “You know, if I fall, you’re carrying me.”
“Absolutely not,” said America, her breath puffing in front of her like smoke. “I’ll leave you for the squirrels.”
She laughed, the sound echoing softly off the trees. They walked side by side, their shoulders brushing every few steps, the cold working its way through their coats.
A horse-drawn carriage clopped by, the driver bundled in a blanket, tourists wrapped like mummies under fleece. “Hard to believe this is the same place we nearly got heatstroke last July,” America said, watching a jogger crunch past them.
“Yeah. Back then, you wouldn’t stop complaining about how the air felt like soup.”
“It was soup,” she insisted, laughing. “This is better. Clean. Quiet.”
They paused on a small bridge overlooking the frozen pond. Children were skating in slow circles, arms flailing, cheeks pink. Someone fell, then laughed so hard they couldn’t get up.
Kamala leaned on the railing, watching. “Isn’t ice skating in Central Park on your bucket list?”
America shook her head. “I know my limits. Walking’s already risky.” The lamplight pooled in soft yellow circles around them, and somewhere below, the ice creaked faintly. America suddenly stiffened, gripping Kamala’s arm like her life depended on it. “I need you to be totally cool and not freak out, but look to our left.”
Confused and slightly alarmed, Kamala cricked her neck to her left. Further up the bridge. Two figures stood at the center of the bridge ahead, silhouettes against the glow. One tall and broad-shouldered, the other shorter, wrapped in a long coat. At first, Kamala thought they were just tourists taking in the view, until the taller one leaned in.
“Oh my,” Kamala nearly screamed, but forced her trembling vocal cords to a whisper. “That’s Dr. Bishop!”
“And that looks like,” America swallowed, aghast. “No way. That’s Dr. Belova.”
There was a pause where both of them just stared, as if by squinting hard enough they could make their brain comprehend what their eyes were seeing.
The taller figure laughed softly, the unmistakable laugh that had cut through every 8:00 a.m. seminar, allowing Yelena to reach up to fix her scarf before pulling her back in for another kiss.
America clapped a mitten over her mouth. “They are dating.”
“I told you!” Kamala nearly combusted, dancing on the spot. “The strictest and the chattiest professors in the school.”
“I’m so mad that you were right. Please don’t do your ‘I told you so’ dance.”
They stood frozen on the path like two deer caught in the headlights of an academic scandal.
Finally, America whispered, “We should go before they see us.”
But as they turned, the snow betrayed them with a sharp crunch.
Both professors looked up.
There was a split second of silence, four pairs of eyes meeting under the lamplight.
“I’m going to die,” America trembled, placing herself slightly behind her friend. “They’re never going to find out bodies.”
Kate broke the tension, waving at them with a warm, easy smile. “Hello, you two! Lovely afternoon for a walk, isn’t it?”
Kamala nodded too fast. “Beautiful! Very, uh, educational afternoon!”
America elbowed her, mortified.
Grinning secretively, Yelena took Kate’s hand, heading toward them.
“What do we do?” America chanted frantically. “What do we do?”
Yelena’s expression softened, the faintest curve of amusement in her eyes. “Some fresh air to clear your minds?” she asked. After four months of monotone recollections and her mouth in a permanent thin line, it was very jarring to see her smile.
The private, perfect world Kamala had been imagining for months expanded around them. She noticed the warmth in Dr. Belova’s voice, the ease in Dr. Bishop’s posture, and how, together, they seemed less like professors and more like two people who had always been waiting for each other in a crowd of deadlines, syllabi, and essays.
Still, after four months of investigation, Kamala could barely stop herself from squealing. “You weren’t talking about your dog!”
“No,” Yelena chuckled, gazing at Kate with bright, happy eyes. “It was fun to watch you flounder for a bit, though.”
Kamala wanted to melt into the snow. She had spent so long chasing this mystery, and the answer was human, warm, ridiculous, and perfectly ordinary. And somehow, it was beautiful.
“How’d you know I was onto you?” she pouted.
“Kamala,” Kate laughed. “You are very smart, in both our classes, but you are a little obvious.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” America blurted.
Their professors shared a conspiratorial glance. “Well,” started Dr. Belova. “Considering the Dean was invited to our wedding, I think they already know.”
“Wedding?” Kamala screeched. “Can I see pictures?”
“Maybe after finals,” said Kate, wrapping her arm around Yelena’s shoulder. “I hope you two have studied.”
“Yes,” said America, tugging Kamala away from their teachers. “And we should probably get back to studying.”
“Probably,” said Yelena. “It was nice to see you again, America.”
America nearly collapsed. “You too! Bye!”
They half-walked, half-ran back down the path, faces burning. Behind them, laughter echoed faintly over the frozen lake.
Kamala glanced back once, committing the scene to memory: the curve of Yelena’s smile, the way Kate’s laughter caught in the frigid air, and the improbable, lovely fact that even in the vast city of New York, some intimacies were perfectly private.
Instead of studying, Kamala raced back to their dorm, a new project in mind.
Kate didn’t show the wedding photos before or after their final test. Kamala didn’t expect her to, but when she finished with her exam, she carefully approached the front desk, an extra piece of paper tucked between the stapled pages.
“All done?” asked Dr. Bishop, taking the test.
“Unfortunately,” Kamala spoke lowly so the other students wouldn’t hear her. “I wanted to say thank you for a truly memorable semester.” She gestured to her exam. “There’s something in it for you.”
Brows scrunched, Kate opened the pages, eyes widening at the hand-drawn image greeting her. For a moment, the room was silent except for the ticking clock and the scratch of pencils on paper. “Wow,” she breathed. “I can’t wait to show it to Yelena.”
Kamala nodded, cheeks warm. “I plan on giving her one as well,” she said nervously. “Hopefully she takes it well.”
Smiling, Kate gave her a one-armed hug. “Have a good winter break,” she whispered. “Maybe I’ll see you around campus in the spring.”
Kamala left, clutching her journal like a talisman. This semester, she’d learned more than Russian history, more than business theory. She had learned about patience, about observation, about how the quiet details, tiny stamps, incidental gestures, laughter shared in shadowed corners, could reveal truths about the human heart that no textbook could.
Kamala’s Russian History final went much more smoothly than she anticipated. She had nearly perfect recall for all her questions, completing the essay portion in mere minutes. She swore she saw sparks flying as her graphite pencil swooshed over the paper. She guessed she was the first student to finish, but she sat at her desk and watched as the other students went up to the front, one by one, and handed in their final exams.
She waited until she was the last one in the room.
Yelena looked up from her laptop, signature eyebrow raised to see Kamala sitting in the front row, already staring at her. “Is there an issue, Kamala?”
“No, no issue.” Kamala packed her bag and handed over her test, glancing around to ensure she was alone with her professor. “I wanted to say thank you for a great semester. I really learned a lot, and you made all the confusing parts of the Czar lineage sound easy.”
Chuckling, Yelena stood and faced her student. “I’m glad. I will say I don’t think I’ve ever had a student ask so many questions.”
Kamala smiled sheepishly and reached into her bag. “I also want to give you something. As a sort of apology for stressing you out all semester. If it’s appropriate, I wanted you to have this.” She handed her professor a picture. An afternoon of meticulous graphite work had produced a drawing she felt proud of: the yellow lamplight catching the snow as it fell around Yelena and Kate, huddled together, the world paused in a perfect snapshot. The viewpoint was from across the water, where the bridge cast a semicircle of reflection on the frozen lake.
Yelena didn’t say anything for a long time, studying the image silently. Kamala felt the weight of her gaze, intense and quiet. And then, surprisingly, Yelena pulled her into a firm, almost shy hug. “Thank you,” she said softly, releasing a startled Kamala. “This is very impressive. I’m surprised you aren’t an art major.”
Kamala smiled, heart still racing. “It’s more of a hobby.”
“I suppose,” said Yelena. Her lips curved, barely, but just enough. “I think you have a lot of promise as a history buff. I hope to see you in my next class.”
“You want me to take Russian History 2? I heard that was really hard?”
Yelena smirked. “It is. But if you keep being your inquisitive self, I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
Kamala walked out of the classroom, cheeks warm, clutching her bag. Operation Bishova was officially closed, and maybe, just maybe, her next investigation would be something a little less personal.
Probably not, though.
Kamala stepped onto the quad, exhaling. The semester had ended, the mystery resolved, and yet, she felt only anticipation, not closure. Life, she realized, was composed of these small, beautiful discoveries: the quiet revelation that ordinary people carried extraordinary stories. She shouldered her bag, feeling simultaneously lighter and impossibly full. Snowflakes drifted down, soft and silent, and Kamala let herself walk slowly, smiling at the ordinary magic of a world glimpsed through curiosity, observation, and the sharp, thrilling edge of wonder.