Pavi Sharma's Guide to Going Home

by Bridget Farr

  “Could you get me outta basic math? I used to be advanced.”

  I swallow my shock. “Probably. We can talk about it once you’ve moved.” I take out my calendar and a pen. Suddenly there’s a yelp behind us, and we both turn to see Hamilton on the ground.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he says. I have no idea how that happened. I take a deep breath.

  “If your foster mom lets you stay at our school, we’ll do your session in person, otherwise we can do it online.…” I flip through the pages of my full-color calendar. Man, it turned out great. “Next Friday? You’ll have been there a few days. Be sure to fill out the First Week Information Packet in your envelope as soon as you get there. You need to do it while your first impressions are fresh. It helps me do more detailed research for you.” I also add it to my family files in case anyone gets sent there again. “That is about all I got. Questions?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You should try to talk a little when you first get there. You’re setting yourself up for trouble if you don’t.”

  He shrugs. It’s his life, I guess. “How much I owe you?”

  “About that,” I say as he slides off one strap of his backpack, turning it around to the front of his body so he can unzip it. He takes out a white plastic bag from Walgreens and hands it to me. Inside are two boxes of Ticonderoga pencils (the number one pencil), a set of colored Sharpies, and a three-pack of glue sticks (generic brand—I’ll have to remind him about my brand-name-only policy), and a family size bag of Hot Cheetos. “I want you to make a phone call for me. If you do, I’ll cancel your charges, and you can return these or use them for any follow-up sessions, like the New School one I mentioned.”

  Santos looks out across the field toward the people spending their afternoon on Congress Avenue. If he was going to say no, he would have walked away.

  “What kinda call?”

  “To CPS.”

  I hear Hamilton whisper “Child Protective Services” behind me. He’s been trying to learn all the foster acronyms. He even made flash cards.

  “His mom’s crazy?” Santos asks, and Hamilton’s head shoots up.

  “Hey! My mom’s not crazy!”

  Santos scowls, and I raise a hand to shush Hamilton.

  “It’s not for his mom. It’s for a Crossroads kid.”

  Santos shrugs his shoulders. “Tell a teacher. They’re always calling CPS.”

  “It’s best if adults don’t get involved. I don’t have a lot of time to save this kid from the worst home of her life. If you don’t want to do it, fine. Just give me the bag.”

  I snatch it out of his hand and start marching across the field.

  “That’s it?” Hamilton whispers as he joins me. “You didn’t even push him!”

  I ignore him, knowing I need to keep quiet for the question coming in three, two, one.…

  “What do you want me to say?”

  I turn around. “I’ll have a script. Basically, that you have suspicions that this family is using drugs.”

  “Are they?”

  “No,” I say, taking a step toward him. “The truth is worse, but apparently no one is interested in investigating the real reason.”

  “When?”

  His scowl softens, and for a moment I see it: the smallest adjustment in a face frozen by years of frowning. Hope.

  “As soon as possible. Monday, if we can. We need to find an unlocked classroom during fourth or fifth period. All the principals will be in the cafeteria for A and B lunches. The hallways should be clear.”

  “We can use Mr. Ramirez’s room,” Hamilton says from behind me. Santos and I turn to him. “He always goes and gets a coffee from 7-Eleven during A lunch, and the lock on his door doesn’t work.”

  I ask Santos if he can get out of fourth period, and he nods. “I got A lunch.”

  “Fourth period, then. Right after attendance. We’ll get a pass to visit his room, just in case he hasn’t left when we get there. Here.”

  I hand Santos back the bag of supplies and he clutches it in one hand, adjusting his earbuds with the other.

  “See you Monday. Don’t forget to fill out your First Week Information Packet. And keep practicing your Front Door Face.”

  He continues to push the gravel with the scuffed toe of his old tennis shoes. If he were a different kind of client, I might give him a side hug. Say I know how it feels. The days before you meet your new family are always the worst because your imagination is deadly. Even if they end up being awful, at least you’ll know when you meet them. Then you can deal. When all you have is a name and a date, you have nothing to do but worry. I could say all that. Instead I say, “Good luck.”

  “I don’t need it.” His face is hard as he slides his backpack around to his back. I hope he doesn’t need luck, either.

  “Let’s go,” I tell Hamilton, and we race across the track toward the main building.

  “That guy should not be your boyfriend,” he says when we make it to the front gate. “He is not pleasant.”

  I laugh out loud as we head to our separate classes.

  SANTOS MAKES THE CALL

  Alone in Mr. Ramirez’s room, I wait by the door, my hand on the handle and my cheek pressed to the wood. The door is cracked the smallest bit, and I resist the urge to poke my head out and look again. I check the clock above me. It’s a few minutes past noon, fifteen minutes into fourth period. Hamilton and Santos should be here by now. It’s possible Santos bailed, but I thought I could at least count on Hamilton to show up.

  Suddenly, the door handle turns, and I yelp, realizing I have nowhere to hide. Thankfully, Santos’s face appears in the open door. He’s smiling, which is a first.

  “Whoa. Chill.” He slides past me and closes the door behind him.

  “You’re late.”

  “So’s the little dude.”

  “I’ll worry about him. You worry about you.”

  I pull the script out of my back pocket. It’s wrinkled now, but I didn’t want to bring my full portfolio. Now that I think about it, I would have looked less suspicious if caught. I could say I was dropping off an assignment or something.

  “So, we gonna do this?” Santos asks as he scans the room for the phone. “I have places to be.”

  “You don’t even go to class.”

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t have places to be.”

  I shake my head. “The phone is by the back window.” With Santos here, we could start, but I feel a strange desire to wait for Hamilton. “We’ll wait one more minute, and if he doesn’t show, we’ll call.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Santos hops on top of a desk, his feet swinging back and forth like he’s at the playground. He pops his gum a few times while he studies something on the ceiling. I decide to risk one last look and creak the door open so I can see out with one eye. A couple of kids pass, and then there’s a long stretch of no one. Then I spot him, scuttling down the hall, bent at the waist like he’s ducking under invisible branches.

  “Hamilton! Stand up!” I whisper, and he jumps. He sighs when he sees me. “Get in here!”

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I was trying to get out of there, but then we had this problem about analogies, and Piper kept saying that ‘eye’ cannot go with potato even though Ms. Cooper told us that an eye can be part of a potato because it’s some old-timey word, but anyway, Piper got me into it, and then I had to look it up in the dictionary for her.…”

  “Enough,” I say, pushing him toward the phone. “We don’t have time.”

  “Should I be a lookout?”

  “No. By the time you see him in the hallway, there’s no escape. You’re just here to…” I don’t really know why he is here. I make up a job. “Take notes.”

  “Yes!” Hamilton says with a fist pump before pulling out his miniature reporter’s notebook and the golf pencil. He begins scribbling, announcing each word. “October fifteenth, 12:05 PM. Mr. Ramirez’s room.”

  I don’t listen to the rest of his
notes and instead turn to prep Santos. He’s looking at Hamilton with a raised eyebrow.

  “Here’s the number. Your name is Victor Gonzalez. You don’t know the child, but you know the family—”

  “Is that ‘Gonzalez’ with a z or with an s?” Hamilton asks.

  “What?”

  Hamilton repeats the question.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s a fake name,” I explain.

  “Sorry. Just want to make sure the notes are accurate.” He takes another spin in the rolling chair before continuing to narrate his notes. “Student will be calling as a Mr. Victor Gonzalez; that’s ‘Gonzalez’ with a z.”

  I take a deep breath and turn back to Santos. “The family are your neighbors. Here’s their address. I used Google Maps to find a house nearby, just in case they ask where you live.”

  I point to the highlighted address.

  “I got this,” Santos says, and I hope he’s right.

  I dial the number before putting the phone on speaker. I take a step back so Santos can move closer. We stand side by side as it rings. I hold the script, ready to point to his lines in case he gets lost. Hamilton sits directly behind us, continuing to slowly spin in circles as he scribbles. Santos’s face is calm while the phone rings, but he bites his lip when the line clicks.

  “Texas Department of Family and Protective Services Abuse Hotline. Are you calling to report the abuse of a child or of an adult over the age of sixty-five?” The female voice sounds bored.

  “A child,” Santos says without missing a beat.

  “And your name, sir.” A crunch.

  “Victor Gonzalez.”

  “Is that ‘Gonzalez’ with a z or with an s?” the voice asks, and Hamilton lets out a triumphant “I told you so!”

  Santos and I both turn and glare, and he shrinks back into the chair, sliding a few inches away from us. In a whisper, Hamilton adds, “I was RIGHT!”

  “Excuse me?” the voice asks, and Santos confirms that it is “Gonzalez” with a z.

  “And your relationship to the victim?” More crunching. Is she eating lunch?

  “I don’t know the kid. I’m calling about a foster family. My neighbors. They were talking about getting a foster kid, and I suspect they’ve been doing drugs in their backyard.”

  “Do you have proof of illegal substance use?” A swallow.

  “I didn’t see it, but I could smell it.”

  Suddenly there is a loud crash, and we both turn to see Hamilton wide-eyed, the rolling chair having collided into a stack of Mr. Ramirez’s bins. The floor is now covered with highlighters and glue sticks.

  “I’m sorry,” Hamilton mouths, and my finger flies to my lips.

  “Is everything okay, Mr. Gonzalez?”

  Santos looks furious as he explains that everything is fine, he’s just at work.

  “What’s the contact information for the foster family in question?” the voice continues.

  He reads the Nickersons’ names and address. “It’s about a kid,” Santos continues. “So you should probably check it out.”

  “We will do the best we can. Is this the best number to contact you at if we have further questions?”

  “This is my work phone. You should call me on my cell.”

  He makes up a number. He sounds so formal, too, like all these words were just buried inside him, waiting to burst out. I can suddenly picture him in a suit with a briefcase.

  “Do you have any other information to report?”

  “Nope.”

  With one final crunch and a thank-you, the voice hangs up, and the three of us are left staring at the phone.

  “Can I cheer now?” asks Hamilton, back in the chair after picking up the supplies.

  I smile. “A small one.”

  Hamilton whoops and spins three times. Then we hear it. The turning of the door handle. I shove Hamilton out of the chair and under Mr. Ramirez’s desk. He doesn’t see us right away as he turns on the classroom lights, balancing a tray of coffee cups in his hand and holding a croissant in his mouth. When he turns to us, he yelps, the croissant falling onto the cups below him.

  “Pavi! What are you doing in here?” He brushes crumbs off his lime-green tie. Quickly, I grab Santos’s hand. Better he thinks we are here on a date than a robbery. Mr. Ramirez frowns when he recognizes Santos.

  “None of your business,” Santos says, not letting go of my hand. I was not planning to make trouble, but Santos seems determined. I can feel Hamilton shifting under the desk, and I give him a nudge with my foot to remind him to stay quiet.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Ramirez says, setting the coffees down on a desk and making his way toward us. “You’re in my classroom. In the dark. Without permission.” He looks over at me. “I’m disappointed in your choices, especially yours, Pavi.”

  Mr. Ramirez seems to believe our fake reason for being here. I drop Santos’s hand, feeling guilty that one of my favorite teachers is disappointed in me. I wish I could explain, say it was all for a good reason. That I’m really a Robin Hood, not a villain. Maybe saving Meridee will turn me into a bit of a bad guy.

  “You two need to come with me to the office.”

  With one last glance at Hamilton, I follow Mr. Ramirez out the door, Santos trailing us. As we walk to the main office, I imagine Hamilton crawling out from under the desk, dusting off his knees, and slipping out into the hallway. Back to class. Back to being a star student, untainted by me.

  THE POWER OF BEFORE

  Santos and I sit outside the assistant principals’ offices. He stretches all the way down to his tennis shoes before swinging his arms above his head, grazing the framed photo above us. “I gotta get out of here,” he mutters. I’m sure he’s waited for the principal hundreds of times. I’ve been in a principal’s office before. Once to get an award, but mostly to talk about my foster families.

  I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the wall, Santos’s bouncing foot now causing mine to vibrate. I need to think of a story, should maybe get Santos on board with a lie.

  “Oh my god, Pavi? Is that you?”

  I cringe, not ready to open my eyes to the smug face I know I’ll see.

  “Hi, Piper.”

  I open my eyes to see Piper across the counter from me, her OFFICE AIDE badge twirling around her finger as she stares at the two of us.

  “What are you doing in here?” she whispers, as if the secretaries don’t already know why I’m here. Or even care. “Are you… with him?”

  “I’m waiting for Ms. Taylor. Cougar Pride Award.”

  Piper absorbs the lie, her face saying she doesn’t quite believe me. She grabs a stack of papers out of a small wooden bin. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing so well… if only our Davy Crockett lyrics could have turned out like that. Mr. Ramirez already put the grades online. Eighty. Two.”

  Ugh. Worse than I thought, but I don’t have time to deal with that right now. It was a major project grade, but we can still bounce back from that.

  Piper stares at me before quickly turning on her heel, almost bumping into Ms. Taylor, the seventh-grade principal, who’s coming in the front door. Ms. Taylor listens to her walkie-talkie as she makes her way around the front counter. As usual, she’s dressed like she’s running for president, in a red business skirt and suit jacket and very shiny blonde hair. She only needs a tiny American flag pin. She stops a few inches from my chair. “Pavi Sharma. Didn’t expect this call.”

  I stay silent, pleading the fifth like we learned in Intro to Law.

  “Ms. Jennings is on the way over. She had to get someone to cover her class.”

  Noooooo. I knew they’d call Marjorie, but I didn’t think they would make her come here!

  “Santos, since you’re in eighth grade, Ms. Williams will take care of you. Do you know if anyone’s called your parents?”

  I cringe, but Santos doesn’t flinch.

  “No.”

  “We’ll look up their number and give them a call, then.”

  “
Good luck with that.”

  Ms. Taylor’s eyebrows fly up her forehead. “Excuse me? Don’t take that attitude with me.”

  “I don’t got attitude, Miss.”

  I wait for him to explain that he’s in foster care, but he just leans back in his chair, fiddling with the cord on his black hoodie.

  “Williams, pick up,” Ms. Taylor barks into her walkie-talkie. “Have you called Santos’s parents yet? About the incident in Mr. Ramirez’s room?”

  Ms. Williams’s voice crackles over the radio. “He’s in foster. His new placement came up to school Monday, so we have her info, but he isn’t legally in her custody for a few days. Check his file to see what number to call.”

  “Ten-four,” Ms. Taylor says before looking at Santos with a familiar wash of guilt. It’s the same look teachers give me when they ask if I want to call my mom or my dad. Or when they give an assignment to interview a grandparent. Marjorie always loans me her mom for my interviews, but when I bring in the required pictures, they know we don’t go together. When I did my heritage report on Ireland, where Marjorie’s family is from, people kept asking, “But where are you really from?” They knew my dark hair and dark eyes didn’t match the redheaded, freckled faces looking out from the photo. I know I’m Indian American, but I don’t know exactly where in India my ancestors are from. I don’t have any stories to tell about holidays or foods or geography. Ma was born in Houston. I never met my grandparents. Or my dad. It was easier to choose Ireland. And Marjorie had a lot of stuff with shamrocks on it.

  “Santos, you can wait here for Ms. Williams. Pavi, we can head into my office.”

  As I stand up, Hamilton peeks through the front office windows, his head just above the counter.

  “Are you okay?” he mouths, and I shake my head, hoping he’ll read it as “Not now. Go away,” and not “I’m doing terrible! Come in here and save me!”

  Ms. Taylor heads into her office, and I quickly mouth “Go” at Hamilton before turning to follow her. Ms. Taylor is already furiously typing something on her computer, her manicured nails clicking against the keys. Every few seconds, her radio beeps with messages about student names and locations. She answers a few, practically ignoring me, until we both hear Marjorie’s voice.