Pavi Sharma's Guide to Going Home

by Bridget Farr

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Bridget Farr

  Cover art copyright © 2019 by Abigail Dela Cruz

  Cover design by Marcie Lawrence

  Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  First Edition: September 2019

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Farr, Bridget, author.

  Title: Pavi Sharma’s guide to going home / by Bridget Farr.

  Description: First edition. | New York ; Boston : Little, Brown and Company, 2019. | Summary: Pavi teaches other foster children how to navigate the system, so when she learns a young girl is being placed with a terrible foster family, she recruits friends to help save her.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018050092| ISBN 9780316491068 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316491082 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316491099 (library edition ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Foster children—Fiction. | Helpfulness—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.F3678 Pav 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018050092

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-49106-8 (hardcover), 978-0-316-49108-2 (ebook)

  E3-20190713-JV-NF-ORI

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  1. FRONT DOOR FACE

  2. CROSSROADS

  3. THE NICKERSONS

  4. PIPER AND DAVY CROCKETT

  5. GOING TO THE NICKERSONS’

  6. HAMILTON’S IN

  7. SOMETHING FORGOTTEN

  8. RECRUITMENT

  9. SANTOS MAKES THE CALL

  10. THE POWER OF BEFORE

  11. HAMILTON’S BIG ADVENTURE

  12. OCTOBER BIRTHDAYS

  13. SOLVED

  14. APPENDICITIS

  15. OUCH

  16. THE GOTHS DESCEND

  17. FINAL PREPARATIONS

  18. NIGHTMARES

  19. AT LEAST HER ORGANS ARE SAFE

  20. PIPER’S PLEA

  21. MERMAN

  22. THE NEW PLAN

  23. GET THE CAMERA

  24. FALLING OFF THE BRINK

  25. SOLIDARITY

  26. THE CREW TAKES ON THE NICKERSONS

  27. GOING BACK

  28. WAKING UP IN THE NICKERSONS’

  29. TELLING MARJORIE THE TRUTH

  30. THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DISCOVER MORE

  For Shiva, who found his way home

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  FRONT DOOR FACE

  Front Door Face. It’s the perfect mix of puppy dog eyes and a lemonade stand smile, the exact combination to make the foster parents holding open their front door welcome you home. Or at least let you come inside so you don’t have to stand there awkwardly while your caseworker reminds them they already signed the paperwork. They have to take you, at least for the night.

  You don’t want to cry—makes you seem needy. Makes them worry you’ll sob all the time and maybe wet the bed they’ve tucked you into. Or the sleeping bag. Depends on the family.

  No sneering, no glares, because then they’re just picturing you tearing through the house, jumping on the couch and throwing pillows across the room. They’re expecting rage from the moment they see your wrinkled lip and scrunched-up nose. I know why you’re mad. And they would, too, if they knew your life. But they don’t. That’s why they’re taking you. So don’t make them regret it from the moment they see you through the screen.

  But don’t go overboard on the smile, either. Then you look psychotic, as if all the heartbreak in your life is just boiling under the surface, waiting to spill over and stain their new carpet. Mix it up. A little sad, but not broken down. Not happy, but with a bit of “chin up” spirit. Adults are going to tell you that all the time, so you might as well learn to do it. The sooner you get your Front Door Face down, the better.

  Trust me. After four foster families and a sixty-day shelter stay, I know it works. But nobody was there to teach me the first time. It was two in the morning when they took me to my first home. I was wearing stinky pajamas and my hair was a mess, since I’d been home sick for days, my only meals Hot Cheetos and Sprite. A caseworker with tomato-red hair practically dragged me up the steps of this craggily old house, and we waited until a man with brown shoes and shaggy gray hair finally opened the door. The caseworker called me “Pave-y” Sharma, not “Puh-vi,” but I was too tired to correct her, and before she could even tell him any more of my details, I threw up a bloodred mess all over his brown shoes. It wasn’t my fault—I had the flu—but I looked like demon spawn with red spewing out of me and dripping down my chin. Definitely not a good first impression. My foster dad didn’t really want to let me in after that. He did, but things could have been a lot better if I had showed up with my best Front Door Face.

  For now, have yours ready. And make sure you eat something normal before you head over. Just in case. Your caseworker should have some crackers or something in her desk. They always do.

  “Questions?”

  Santos, the eighth grader sitting across from me, shakes his head and his dark hair flops over his even darker eyes. He’s not my first eighth-grade client, but he’s a little intimidating to talk to because he’s so much bigger than me, and he’s been scowling the whole time. But I keep going since I’m the professional here.

  “Really, no questions?” I adjust my seat, since the brick ledge is starting to cut into the small part of my leg between my shorts and my knees. “I know it’s a lot of information, but it’s not your first family, right?”

  He shakes his head, not making eye contact. One white earbud dangles around his neck, the other hidden beneath his red hood.

  “If you think of anything, write it down. Jamone, who gave you my information, can answer some questions, too. He just got his new family last month, so he remembers all of this.”

  I look over the rest of my list. Front Door Face. Check. Food. Check. Things to pack in your backpack. Check. School stuff. I’ll wait until our next meeting for that. I move to the next letter in the outline. FFR: Foster Family Research.

  “Do you know the name of your new family?”

  “Alma Graves.”

  Spooky.

  “I don’t recognize the name, but give me a few days to ask around and see what I can find out. I’ll google her tonight, too. When are they gonna place you?”

  He shrugs. “Lenny s
ays next week.”

  “I know Lenny! He’s a good guy. Do you know about giving him Snickers bars when you want something?”

  “Heard about it.”

  “It totally works. He loves Snickers. Eats them for breakfast. I once saw him dunk it in his coffee like a doughnut. Who’s your caseworker?”

  He shrugs. “Mary something.”

  “Mary Beth? The lady who laughs all the time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I’ll have to figure that out, too. I know the shelter staff better, but caseworkers make all the big calls. I won’t see my caseworker, Ms. Veronica, for three more weeks, or I would see if she knows anything about Santos’s caseworker.

  I close my notebook and pull out the calendar I made in yearbook class. I used the library’s color printer without permission, but color looks more professional than black-and-white.

  “Since you move sometime next week, how about I see you next Wednesday? Right after school?”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  He hops off the ledge and begins scanning the street in front of us like he’s getting ready to bolt. He shoves his hands in his pockets before turning back to me.

  “How much I owe you?”

  “You don’t need to pay me yet. The first meeting is always free, but have my payment ready when we meet Wednesday. I’ll get a message to you if I don’t find anything on your foster mom, and you won’t owe me the full price. Unless you want me to do more research.”

  “Cool.”

  “Oh, and practice your Front Door Face. Use a mirror if you can.”

  He nods and then looks both ways before running across the street, his hands clasping the bottom straps of his backpack so it doesn’t bounce on his back. I wonder where he’s running to.

  I carefully tuck my calendar into my work notebook, sliding both in the hot-pink backpack I’ve covered with Sharpie doodles of stars and moons to hide its Barbie-like hideousness. As I’m zipping it, I hear my name from behind me. It’s my foster mom’s son, Hamilton Jennings, ready to walk me home.

  Hamilton’s baritone taps against the sidewalk every few beats, marking the tempo like his very own metronome. I don’t know why he picked such a big instrument when he’s one of the smallest kids in seventh grade—he practically fits underneath my armpit. He says the baritone reminds him of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade that he and his mom, Marjorie, went to when he was five. Since then, he’s always wanted to play the tuba, but no seventh graders are allowed to. Thus, the little-brother baritone.

  “Mom asked Mr. Ortman to remind us that she has parent-teacher conferences tonight,” he says, his breathing heavy. “We are in charge of turning on the Crock-Pot when we get home. She says it’s curry.”

  When Marjorie met me and found out I was Indian American, she took a cooking class to learn to make Indian food: a few types of curries, daal, treats like samosas and biryani. Now she makes Indian food once a week, even though I don’t really remember the exact meals Ma cooked for me when I lived with her. I was pretty young then, so only certain smells are familiar. And mostly we ate a lot of sandwiches or macaroni and cheese or leftovers from the Chinese restaurant she worked at for a while. Hamilton doesn’t like all the spices in Indian food, so he just eats the naan with peanut butter and jelly.

  “I can’t walk home with you today,” I tell him as I adjust my backpack.

  “Why? Are you meeting that boy again?” Hamilton sets the baritone down with a thud. “How do you even know him? Isn’t he an eighth grader?”

  “He is, and I just know him.”

  “He looks like trouble.”

  “He is. Sort of.” For a kid in the magnet program, Santos skips a lot of his classes. I don’t know how he made it to eighth grade, since he hangs out on the second-floor stairwell practically every day.

  “You know we are not allowed to date until we’re sixteen, right?”

  I give him a look. “One, Marjorie is not my mom and therefore can’t make decisions like that about my life, and two, I’m not dating him. He’s just someone I know from Before.”

  The phrase works just like I expected. Hamilton always clams up when I talk about “Before.” I don’t know what he actually knows about my life before his mom took me in; probably little to nothing, which he turned into a melodramatic something. He doesn’t realize that while being a foster kid can be hard, families are families and houses are houses and school is school. Before is different, and sometimes scary, but mostly it’s just the past.

  “Can you at least tell me where you’re going?” Hamilton asks as he pushes up his red glasses. “So I can let Mom know?”

  “I’m going to Crossroads to see some kids I knew when I lived there. I won’t be long.” If I can get the basic information I need from Lenny about Santos’s foster mom then I should be able to get home quickly and do my typical Google searches. I’d like to find out what her house looks like and whether she speaks Spanish, since I know he does. Hopefully I can have his Future Family portfolio ready to go by tomorrow. At least with preliminary information. “We can do math together when I get home.”

  “Okay,” Hamilton says. “But be careful with that eighth grader. He looks kinda mean.”

  “He’s not mean. He’s just a foster kid, too.”

  Hamilton nods.

  “Foster kid” works the same way as “Before.”

  CROSSROADS

  In the twenty minutes it takes me to walk to Crossroads, I eat half a bag of Hot Cheetos and now have a burning stomach and red-stained fingers. I know all about the dangers of junk food and artificial flavors, but I can’t stop eating them. They’re tied to one of my worst memories, but also one of my best: me watching late-night television talk shows with Ma, a bowl of Hot Cheetos on the couch between us. Ma hated most junk food, but this was our special treat. I try to suck the tips of my fingers clean, since brushing them on my clothes will definitely alert Marjorie to my sneakiness. She hates junk food, just like Ma did. During my walk, I pass several bus stops full of people clasping grocery bags. I’ll probably take one of these buses back, since Marjorie doesn’t like me to walk in the dark.

  Eventually, I come to the open field around the gray brick buildings that are Crossroads. The same overused swing set stands between the main group building and the boys’ house to the left. You can’t see the girls’ dormitory from the street. It’s surprisingly quiet, but I guess most kids are still at after-school clubs.

  I open the fence, pushing hard, since the gate always gets stuck on the uneven sidewalk. I bound up the few steps to the front door and push it open. Immediately, I’m hit by the scent of Fabuloso, the lavender-scented floor cleaner the custodians always use. It was so different from the smell of my house, which always smelled like bleach. Ma loved to clean, especially on her bad days, her hands red and raw from scrubbing for hours. The sweet lavender at Crossroads was one of the only comforting changes in a world where everything was different.

  “Janie? Keisha? Lenny?” I call out, noticing the empty front desk. “Where is everybody?” No one responds, but I notice a small girl sitting on one of the waiting room chairs, her legs swinging back and forth. She looks kindergarten age, maybe younger, and her deep-brown face is smudged with the chocolate from a candy bar or even an ice-cream cone, but who am I to judge with my red fingers. Her hair is pulled into a variety of small braids, brightly colored barrettes attached to each end. Tiny limbs poke out of the pink T-shirt she has on, it’s so big I can’t tell if she is wearing shorts underneath.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She looks up at me with suspicion. “Hi.”

  “Do you know where anybody is?”

  She splays her hands. “She told me to wait.”

  “Who told you? Janie? Keisha?” I step forward to see if I can spot anyone down the hallway.

  “The lady.” That was not helpful. I almost ask her if Lenny is here before remembering she doesn’t know names yet. It usually takes the little ones a while to learn a
nyone’s name.

  We wait in silence for a few minutes before Janie bursts through the side office door, a stack of folders and a bucket of sidewalk chalk in her hands.

  “Hey, Pav!” She reaches over the counter so she can give me a high five. Janie loves high fives. She should be a kids’ soccer coach or something. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Look at you now!”

  What does she see? Have I changed that much from the scrawny nine-year-old with tangled black hair and pants so short you could almost see my knees? Do I look like a kid who eats three meals a day and sleeps eight hours every night and participates in clubs that have a fee? I know I’m different, but sometimes I don’t feel like it. Sometimes I feel exactly the same as the day I showed up here. Tiny, smaller than the space between protons and neutrons. Almost invisible, like a dandelion seed about to be blown away. But helping kids has made me bigger.

  I readjust my backpack. “Is Lenny here?”

  “Yeah,” she says, taking a seat again. “He was checking the boys’ hall, but I’ll radio him. You can wait for him in his office.”

  “No problem.” I take one more look at the little girl waiting, wondering if I looked that small when I first got here.

  In the hallway, I turn into the first office, which Lenny shares with Keisha. A pennant for the University of Texas at Austin hangs above his desk, right next to his newly framed diploma. Keisha isn’t here, either, so I take a seat on the metal folding chair across from Lenny’s desk. Looking at the stack of files, I’m tempted to stash one in my backpack, but I’ve never had to steal my information. Give Lenny enough Snickers bars, and he usually tells me what I need, even if technically he’s not supposed to. I think he doesn’t worry about it because he thinks, She’s a kid. What’s she gonna do with the information? He appreciates that I chat up the new kids. He thinks I’m mentoring them, which technically I am. He just doesn’t know about the research or the payment in snacks and school supplies.

  I’m only there a few minutes before I hear Lenny’s booming voice. “Pavi Sharma. Superstar.” He gives me a fist bump. “Honor roll, perfect attendance, over a year with the family. So, what’s up? I haven’t seen you in a couple weeks.” Lenny grabs a pen from his desk and begins to twirl it, dropping it every three or four spins. Some kids leave Crossroads and never want to come back, but I need Lenny for information, and the center for clients, so I stop by at least once a month.