Pavi Sharma's Guide to Going Home

by Bridget Farr

  “I was doing research.”

  “Research involves you breaking and entering?”

  “Technically it would have been climbing and observing, but yes, in this case, it does.”

  Hamilton frowns. “So you don’t normally spy into people’s backyards?”

  “No. Usually I can do all my research online. Or at Crossroads.”

  “What makes this case special?” Hamilton asks.

  “There’s this kid… and she’s going to a really bad home, like the worst possible home, and so I’m doing what I can to keep her out of there.”

  “Okay…,” Hamilton says as we run past our neighbors who are setting out their garbage bins for tomorrow’s pickup. “How bad? Like horror-movie bad? Are they… killers?”

  I frown, refusing to fulfill his need for drama. He must notice the look on my face because he immediately apologizes. We make it to the sidewalk of our house and under our tulip flag. The front drapes are closed, so we have a few minutes before Marjorie sees us and the flood of questions begins.

  “I wanna help,” Hamilton says as he searches for his key. Mine is already in my hand.

  “Thank you, but I don’t need your help.”

  “Why not? I’m very sleuth-y! I followed you for over an hour and you didn’t even notice me until I was standing above you like a ninja.”

  He’s right; I did have my guard down today. I’ll be more careful from now on.

  “This isn’t your thing, Hamilton. You have baritone practice and math homework and plans to Rollerblade with Piper.”

  “I don’t even own Rollerblades,” he says as he steps in front of the door.

  “Seriously, I appreciate the offer, but I got it.”

  I reach my hand toward the door, and he stops it.

  “But you don’t have to do it by yourself. I can help. That’s what brothers are for.”

  I look at his eager face, his eyes full of hope, and I know why I don’t want him to be a part of it: He doesn’t know what my world looks like. He thinks kids without parents are all singing songs like Annie before they run off to meet their Daddy Warbucks. I get why he would think that; he’s only ever seen his mom go to a couple of meetings before coming home with this quiet girl, but I had gotten all my crazy out before he met me. I never told him about any of the darkness Before. He thinks my worst problem is that I don’t have a copy of my birth certificate.

  If he goes with me, if he starts to see what life is like for those of us whose parents don’t put notes in our lunch boxes, then he won’t be so Hamilton-y anymore. I like that he doesn’t know. That there is someone out there who gets to believe in happy families.

  But I don’t think I can do this alone. It’s too big. I can handle the Front Door Face speech and the Google research, but I don’t know if I can save Meridee on my own, and she really needs a rescue.

  “Please, Pavi,” Hamilton urges, his hand squeezing my wrist. “Let me help.”

  “Fine,” I say as I push past him. “Meet me in my room after Marjorie goes to watch the news. I’ll fill you in on the plan.”

  “Yes!” Hamilton shouts as he punches the air in triumph.

  “You two get in here,” Marjorie yells through the closed door.

  “But it’s just this once,” I remind him. I need his help on this case, but after that, I’ll go back to how I do things best. Alone.

  “Stop playing with those,” I tell Hamilton later that night as he sits in the center of my floor, flipping through my folders of work materials. I’m sitting on my bed with Meridee’s empty case file. I don’t need to research this family. I already know all the sickening details: lonely nights, unwashed clothes, and, of course, the dogs. “We only have fifteen minutes before Marjorie comes to check on us, and you didn’t brush your teeth before you came over here. We also didn’t finish Ms. Hulsman’s math assignment, and that’s due tomorrow.”

  “It can be late. It’s only five points for daily homework.”

  “Fine, but you still need to focus.”

  I scan my brainstorming notes in my journal, and when I look up, Hamilton is sitting cross-legged in front of me, holding his own leather-bound notebook and a tiny golf pencil.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking notes.”

  “I take notes. You’re here to listen.”

  “But I learned speed-writing shorthand the last six weeks in journalism.” He holds out his notebook toward me, and it’s all a bunch of scribbles that look a bit like cursive.

  “That’s just gibberish.”

  “No! It’s very fast! It’s only missing vowels and has abbreviations for some common words, like v means ‘of,’ ‘have,’ or ‘very.’ I can write eighty words a minute now.”

  “But I don’t need you to take notes. I already have the notes.” I show him my full journal.

  “It helps me learn. I’m a visual learner.”

  “Whatever. Can I just start?”

  He nods thoughtfully.

  “Right now, there are two parts to the plan. One, make sure the right people know how bad this family is, and two, find Meridee a new home.…”

  “That’s her name?” Hamilton asks, looking up from his notepad.

  “Yeah.”

  He nods, adding to his strange, swirling notes. I continue.

  “The first step, then, is making a report to the police or Child Protective Services about the family.”

  Hamilton raises his hand.

  “Why are you raising your hand?”

  He shrugs. “Habit.”

  “Well, what?”

  “While I did note the house was awfully creepy with all those barking dogs, do we have a reason to not like this family other than that? You said they were bad, but do you know know or do you just think you know?”

  “I know.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me what you know?”

  “No. And stop saying ‘know’ so many times.”

  “Done. I trust you, Detective. What’s step number two?”

  I stretch my neck from side to side. “I need to get back to Crossroads to see if Lenny knows any families who might be willing to take in Meridee. I’d ask my caseworker, but she’s new and I won’t see her for a few weeks. They’re probably looking for a family connection now. Meridee’s mom might even be fighting for her.”

  Ma fought for me. For as long as she could. I shake away the memory.

  “But we’re not at that step yet. It doesn’t matter if there is another foster family willing to take her in as long as she’s assigned to the Nickersons.”

  Hamilton scratches a few more notes before raising his hand again.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  He drops it to his side. “Right. How are you going to make the call?”

  “I’m not going to make it. Adults don’t believe kids.” My heartbeat speeds up as I remember Lenny telling me to let it go. He didn’t believe me, and he knows me. No way CPS will believe some random kid. “We need someone who sounds like an adult, and I know someone who will be perfect.”

  Suddenly, we both freeze. Our nighttime lullaby is beginning fifteen minutes early. The first note: the click of the front door lock followed by a turn of the handle to confirm. We listen to the footsteps crossing to the kitchen, the creak of the kitchen cabinet, the beep of one minute on the microwave. We have one minute before Marjorie’s cup of tea will be reheated, and she’ll be on her way up the stairs to poke her head in our rooms.

  “Quick!” Hamilton whispers as he begins to swipe the papers lying on the floor into a hodgepodge pile.

  “Stop! You’re just messing things up!”

  He leaps to the door, pressing his ear against it. I get off the bed and quickly tuck the papers into the correct folders before sliding them into my bottom drawer. I meet him at the door.

  “Maybe I should hide under the bed!”

  I roll my eyes. “Just go! Walk fast and if you hear her on the stairs, step into the bathroo
m.”

  “Roger that.”

  The door creaks open. He peeks out, looking both ways before I give him a shove.

  “We’ll talk in the morning!” he whispers through the door.

  “Go!”

  Back in my bed, I quickly flick off my light and snuggle under my covers. Even with all his annoying hand-raising and weird note-taking, I realize it’s better to plan with someone else, and I’m glad Hamilton is going to help. I smile as I wait for Marjorie to check on me, knowing she’ll be here in a moment to see if I’m asleep.

  SOMETHING FORGOTTEN

  The next morning, I spot Piper through the car window as she waits for us by the flagpole. She’s wearing a plaid skirt and a white collared shirt as if she belongs to a fancy prep school. Instead of her regular backpack, she’s holding a black briefcase, and in her other hand, a seedling plant in the bottom of a cut-off plastic soda bottle.

  Hamilton bounds out of the car before I can warn him, kissing Marjorie through the driver’s side window.

  “Don’t forget to bring down your laundry after school and sort it. I’ll run loads when I get home,” Marjorie instructs us both. “And only three piles, Hambone: lights, darks, and colors. Nothing more.”

  Last week, Hamilton sorted his clothes into sixteen different piles based on color, fabric, and age. Some piles contained a single item.

  “Have a great day, you two. Be learners!”

  After I wave good-bye, I slink over to where Piper is waiting with a tight-lipped smile. Unlike me, Hamilton doesn’t remember what we forgot.

  “Hey, Pipe!” Hamilton calls as he walks up to her.

  “I’m assuming you brought the typed lyrics with you, since Hamilton said you guys would finish them and e-mail them to me last night.” Her eyes drill into me over Hamilton’s shoulder. I can tell by the way he freezes that he is just now realizing what I remembered the moment I spotted her face: In the middle of yesterday’s craziness, we forgot to finish the lyrics.

  “Mom’s printer broke, so we are going to print it in the library,” Hamilton lies before I can even jump in. “We’re going to do it at lunch.”

  I’m surprised he looks so relaxed.

  “I’m going to get us a pass from Mr. Ramirez this morning,” I add.

  Piper looks from him to me, trying to decide if she believes us. After a few seconds, she picks up her briefcase.

  “You better have it done by seventh period.”

  She turns on her heel and marches through the front door. Hamilton looks over at me, guilt covering every inch of his face. I don’t think he’s ever forgotten an assignment, especially not a project worth such a large part of his grade, but then a tiny smile reveals his pride in his little lie.

  “Meet me in the library at lunch. We’ll get it done.” I push him toward the door. He nods before taking off after Piper.

  Alone, I wait for the morning bell.

  During lunch, Hamilton and I sit at one of the library computers, our trays across the room on a table by the door.

  “Raccoon hat with buttons he wore? I’m pretty sure raccoon hats don’t have buttons. Give me that,” I say as I reach for the lyrics Hamilton is holding an inch from his nose.

  “It’s not my fault I can’t read Piper’s attempt at cursive!”

  “Just let me look at it! We’re running out of time! We only have ten minutes left, and I would actually like to eat some of my lunch.”

  “Fine,” Hamilton says as he thrusts the paper toward me. He’s right: Piper’s handwriting is incredibly hard to read. The loops and curves of her letters look like she’s written it with a feather pen, and the lime-green ink she used isn’t helping.

  “It’s gotta be buckskin, because that’s what he wore,” I say. “A raccoon skin cap and buckskins.”

  “That makes more sense.”

  I type the last few lines before realizing we don’t have the paper Mr. Ramirez gave us for formatting. He’ll take off ten points minimum if the margins are off or I put the title in the wrong spot. That’s a B before he even starts reading it. I don’t tell Hamilton, because he’s stressed out enough, and instead use my best judgment to make the changes. I push PRINT on two copies and race toward the printer.

  “I don’t think I can handle this,” Hamilton says when we finally scarf down our lunches. “Too much stress.”

  “If you can’t handle this, then you definitely can’t handle working with me. This is just grades. I’m talking about people’s lives.”

  “It’s my first day,” Hamilton argues as he takes a bite of his chicken patty on a bun. “I bet you weren’t perfect on your first day.”

  “Yes, I was. I had to be.”

  Hamilton sticks out his tongue, which is covered with chewed-up bun.

  “Gross.”

  He takes another bite and smiles, this time bits of broccoli in his teeth. “Give me a second chance,” he says as food sprays onto his tray. I laugh out loud and am reprimanded with a stern “shhhh” from the librarian. I look at the clock; we are down to a minute.

  “Okay,” I say, getting ready to speed through my plan. “Use a restroom pass during band to get out of class, and I’ll meet you in the courtyard. He always skips fifth period, so we’ll be able to find him back behind the portable classrooms. He hangs out there when he skips.”

  “Who skips?”

  “Santos,” I say as quickly as possible, hoping Hamilton won’t make a fuss.

  “Santos?” he says with his mouth full of chicken patty. “I knew he was your boyfriend!”

  “Enough with the boyfriend thing! I’ll tell you when someone is actually my boyfriend. Santos was held back in fifth grade, so his voice has matured already and he sounds like an adult. I technically don’t have a meeting with him until next week, but I already found some information on his foster mom. I’ll share that and then ask him. I can give him the next session for free in exchange for the call.”

  The bell rings, and we both swig down the last of our chocolate milks.

  “Don’t dump those in here!” the librarian chides. “Take them to the garbage in the cafeteria.”

  We scoop up our backpacks, balancing our trays with one hand.

  “You think he’ll help?” Hamilton asks as we push open the library doors.

  “I think so. He’s a foster kid. He knows what a bad family is like.” The stream of students begins to separate us. “Don’t be late!”

  Hamilton nods before disappearing into the mass of moving kids.

  RECRUITMENT

  Across the field, Santos is standing next to the shed where they keep all the gym supplies, like dumbbells and jump ropes. He’s peeling off the tape from the motivational posters adhered to the side, sending them fluttering to the ground, one by one. Down goes a crew and their rowboat, their cry of TEAMWORK sinking with them. Then a mountain climber with AMBITION joins the dirt. Finally, some lone person in the Sahara desert falls to the ground, unable to handle the all-caps CHALLENGE.

  “That’s him?” Hamilton whispers as we cross the track. “Why is he out here?”

  “Shush,” I say as we near Santos. “Stand back a bit. Let me talk to him first, and then I’ll call you over if I need you.”

  “Sure, sure. I can be cool.”

  I doubt that, but I hustle toward Santos.

  “You can’t do that if you want to stay at your new home,” I say when I’m close, bending to pick up one of the fallen posters. He doesn’t turn around right away, so I shout his name. When he does finally turn, I notice the earbuds in his ears and the glare on his face. He better not expect to take his bad mood out on me.

  “You said next week.”

  “You don’t look busy now. And I’ve already found a few things on your foster mom.” I unzip my backpack and grab the manila envelope full of the documents I compiled yesterday during lunch. He frowns.

  “Seriously, if you don’t want the information, just tell me. Oh, and take out your headphones. You can at least be polite when I did
all this for you.”

  “You didn’t do this for me,” he says as he presses his earbuds in tighter, heavy beats escaping into the air. “You don’t even know me.”

  I sigh. “Maybe I don’t, but I do know some stuff about Alma Graves, and that’s why you hired me.”

  He doesn’t respond, just kicks one of the posters with his foot. “Who’s the kid?”

  I turn to see Hamilton suddenly looking off into the sky, dragging his foot in a semicircle in the dust. This must be his I’m-minding-my-own-business pose.

  “My foster brother.”

  At his mention, Hamilton steps one foot forward, bending into a small bow. “Hamilton Jennings.”

  Weirdo. I can’t take him anywhere.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Ignore him.” I give Hamilton the stink eye, and he backpedals like he’s moving away from a grizzly bear. I turn back to Santos. “So, Alma Graves…” I point to her picture on the first page. I talk him through the highlights: her job, her house, the motivational posts on her Facebook, which match the posters he’s sent tossing to the ground. I show him the resumé I found on the county clerk’s office home page, and even a picture of her from her high school yearbook. He’s silent as I go through the pages, but he occasionally runs a finger along a sentence, so I know he’s listening.

  “She used to do emergency nights, so it’s possible someone has spent a night or two there and can tell us more about her house. I’ll keep asking. I used the address on her resumé to pull up some old real estate listing pictures, and the house looks nice: two bedrooms, so you should have your own, a little backyard.”

  I hand Santos the packet and ask him when he moves in.

  “Tuesday.”

  “She’s out of this zone, so you’ll probably have to go to a new school. Unless she gets you a waiver. Then you can probably stay until the end of the semester. At least until the end of the grading period.”

  “I know.”

  “New schools are an add-on to your regular package if you want it. I can help with collecting materials from teachers, grades, shot records. I even once helped a kid skip a grade.”