Pavi Sharma's Guide to Going Home

by Bridget Farr

  Yes, I cheated. Yes, it’s from Google. Yes, I understand I’ll receive a zero and probably another punishment I didn’t really think about when I did it.

  “Do you know how serious this is?” he asks, and I nod. “If you were an adult you could lose your job. Or your scholarship to college.”

  He sets the paper down on his desk before leaning toward me. Behind me, I can feel the students nearest us cocking their heads to listen, the rhythm of their cuts and conversations slowing as they wait for his next word. The gentle piano music he has playing from his computer speakers isn’t loud enough to block their snooping ears.

  “I called your guardian during lunch, and she’ll be here right after school. We’ll meet in the front office with her and Ms. Taylor. We need to—” He’s cut off by a growing roar from his electric teakettle. “Sorry. I forgot I was making tea.”

  He reaches over to click off the kettle, leaving the tea bag resting in his I WOOF YOU mug some kid got him for Valentine’s Day. He offers me a tissue.

  I refuse it, not wanting anyone to see me wipe my eyes. They can’t tell what’s happening as long as my hands stay clamped at my sides.

  “We need to figure out what’s going on, Pavi. This isn’t like you.…”

  We’re cut off this time by the buzz of the class bell.

  “We’ll finish this after school. I’ll meet you in the front office.”

  Does he really think this matters? A stupid essay about farming techniques that I will never need to know, since I have no plans to be a farmer? Do the grades of a seventh-grade kid matter to anyone but parents? I don’t have those. Know what does matter? Real life. Real people like Meridee. And if I had to do it over again to help her, I would.

  After school, I fly down the hill to the bleachers to where Santos, Piper, and Hamilton are already waiting.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” Hamilton says when I reach them. “I was just telling Piper about Meridee.”

  “What about Meridee?”

  Hamilton recoils at my tone, sliding his glasses up his nose with his pointer finger.

  “Just that you met her at Crossroads, your old shelter, and that she is living with one of your old foster families and how we don’t want that.”

  I breathe. Okay. That wasn’t that bad.

  Santos pulls a single Hot Cheeto out of his hoodie pocket, and I almost lunge for it, suddenly craving the tang and spice.

  “I thought you could explain what we need the camera for,” Hamilton says, setting me up to take over the conversation before he steps to the edge of the grass. I put a hand over my eyes to block the bright afternoon sun.

  “We need to get some film evidence of the family that we can use to help persuade Meridee’s caseworker to send her somewhere else.”

  “What type of evidence?” Piper asks, the back of her swinging tennis shoes clanging against the bleachers.

  “Just some… events, okay?”

  “They’re a bad family, Pipe, trust me,” Hamilton adds, and she shakes her head.

  “I’m all for helping a little girl, but I’m not going to some criminals’ house without you telling me what’s going on. How bad are they? Are we talking robberies? Or human trafficking? We learned about that in World Cultures last year, and it is really a problem.”

  “They’re bad enough. That’s all you need to know.” I take a step so that I’m one inch closer to her than is comfortable. Even though I’m below her, I don’t break eye contact. “You don’t have to help us. I didn’t even want to ask you, but Hamilton said you were the best person for the job.”

  Her face twitches; I have her hooked. Only took a compliment.

  “Okay, god, I’ll loan you the camera; I just wanted to know what was going on.”

  “You’ll know what you need to know,” I say, checking to see if Santos is listening. It’s then I notice he doesn’t have his earbuds in; they’re drooped around his neck, the white ends dangling beside the ties of his hoodie. He looks up, staring straight into my eyes, and I answer the question he’s silently asking.

  “Really bad.”

  “How?”

  I instantly think in terms of foster care urban legends, the stories that swirl around the shelters and playgrounds, some nightmares, some daydreams.

  “Not the cannibal family, but not the just-ignore-you bad.”

  His lips tighten as he digests that information, his brain surely jumping to the visions of a family sitting down to a dinner of their latest foster kid. We all knew that there’s no way a foster kid could actually get served for dinner. No one could get eaten, at least not in that sense. We get consumed all the time, but not with forks and knives.

  “What does that mean?” Piper asks. “Why does he get to know?”

  “It’s a foster kid thing.”

  Piper huffs. “So when are you planning to shoot this?”

  “Tonight.”

  “What?” Hamilton asks, taking a step toward me. He leans in and whispers, “We don’t have a plan yet for tonight. I need some time to develop logistics and—”

  “We need to film it tonight.” I don’t know how long I will be grounded, and it’s not like I can get in much more trouble anyway.

  “I have ballet after school on Monday nights,” Piper says.

  “You can go to ballet, just see if you can drop off the camera at our house on the way. Say Hamilton needs it for a project.”

  “You’re not getting my camera without me. I’ll cancel ballet.” She claps her hands and turns to Hamilton. “Now we can shoot another video! Before we film Pavi’s thing!”

  “We need your camera. We don’t need you,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “She should come,” Hamilton says, reaching out to place a hand on my arm. “It is her camera, and we could use the help.”

  “We don’t need another person to possibly get caught.”

  “Why’s he here, then?” Piper asks, her thumb pointed at Santos. “What’s he offering?”

  “He’s going to do surveillance.” I turn to him. “I’ll explain in a minute.”

  “It’s me and the camera or no camera,” Piper says, raising her eyebrows in challenge. “You said you couldn’t do it without me.…” Ugh. I need her and she knows it.

  “Fine, but this is not going to be like one of your DIY videos. I’m in charge. My plan. My rules. You bring the camera and stay out of the way.”

  The school’s call system crackles over the field.

  “Pavi Sharma, please report to the front office immediately. Pavi Sharma to the front office.”

  Hamilton’s head whips to me.

  “Why do you have to go to the—”

  “I’ll tell you later. No time now. The plan…”

  I look at all three of them, and I hope they’re ready to do this. I hope it’s something we can even do.

  “Santos, do you remember the address from the phone call? It’s 702 Lovely Lane. Do you think you could skip your after-school club and go there? We need to scout out the house again, check for nosy neighbors, broken glass in the backyard, anything dangerous since we’ll be there at night. I can pay you back for your bus ride.”

  “I got it,” he says, pulling on his hoodie cord.

  “Tonight, we all meet here by the lamppost at eight. Can everybody sneak out?”

  “Definitely. I’ve done it before,” Piper says, her hands on her hips.

  I doubt she really has, but maybe her confidence will help Hamilton, who is starting to hyperventilate.

  “Okay, then. We’ll meet here and then take the bus to the Nickersons’. Do NOT tell anyone where we are going. Dress in black. Comfortable shoes. Be here at eight. I gotta run.”

  I leave them on the field and take off running back toward the school. I feel myself starting to be pulled under, but I just have to keep my head above water long enough to reach Meridee.

  I slow down when I get to the sidewalk outside the main office. Through the front window, I see Marjorie laugh
ing with the attendance secretary, her hand on the woman’s shoulder as the two of them shake. Mr. Ramirez leans against the back wall, furiously texting with one hand as he adjusts his red bow tie with the other. A few parents are sitting in the chairs across from the front counter, and I take a deep breath before grabbing the metal handle and yanking the door open.

  The tone of the room changes as Marjorie spots me, disappointment filling her eyes. Suddenly Ms. Taylor comes out of her office, adjusting her earpiece as she waves toward us. “So sorry to keep you all waiting. So many phone calls! Come in! Come in!”

  She ushers the three of us into her office, and Marjorie and Mr. Ramirez pause at the door to introduce themselves and shake hands. Ms. Taylor pulls three chairs into a semicircle around her desk before patting the center chair.

  “This is for you, Ms. Sharma.”

  I take a seat, resting my backpack on the floor as Mr. Ramirez and Marjorie sandwich me. Ms. Taylor reaches down to rub her ankle and I think I hear her shoe clunk to the floor. If I smell body odor in a few minutes, I’ll know she took it off. She straightens a folder on her desk before adjusting the earpiece of her radio again. “It seems we need to talk, don’t we, Pavi?”

  She stares at me, her eyelashes so long they seem to close in slow motion each time she blinks. I count three eyelash flaps before she says something. “Do you have something you need to tell us?”

  “Didn’t Mr. Ramirez already tell you what happened?”

  “We do in fact know the details,” Ms. Taylor says, “but we want to give you a chance to tell your side. We are here for you.”

  “What’s going on, Pavi?” Marjorie asks, reaching out a hand to place it on my knee. Her nails are painted. Red. She must have done that last night after we went to bed. I notice the thumb even has a little flower painted on it. She always offers to do mine. I’ve never said yes.

  When I don’t say something right away, Mr. Ramirez jumps in. “I’m really surprised by this downturn. First with breaking into my room…”

  Technically it was unlocked.

  “And now with the plagiarism? You’re so smart, Pavi. I don’t understand why you would need to copy someone else’s work.”

  I wish I had my full brainpower to think. What explanation will get me in the least amount of trouble? I could say something about the pressure of the magnet program. I know the counselor has a lunch bunch for all the stressed-out kids.

  “Is it that boy?” Marjorie asks, her hand now on my shoulder.

  Thank you, Marjorie, for the perfect excuse!

  “Yes…”

  “I appreciate you being honest with us,” Marjorie says before Ms. Taylor jumps in.

  “Yes, thank you, Pavi. So, is he telling you to do these bad things? You know, he’s…”

  “I’m not concerned about the boy,” Marjorie says. “I’m concerned about you, Pavi.”

  “I’m a little unclear how Santos resulted in you copying your Texas history essay,” Mr. Ramirez says, his head tilted as he looks at me. “The eighth graders have US history, so there’s no connection between the classes.”

  Thankfully, I do have a true answer for this one, if I mix the parts of my life in the right combination.

  “He moved to a new foster home.” True. “And I wanted to spend time with him before he left, since I won’t get to see him much anymore.” True-ish. “We got to talking about his new foster family and then I forgot about the essay, and I didn’t have time to write it the next day.” Half true. “I know I made bad choices, and I should have asked for an extension, but I’m so worried about not doing well in the magnet program. I don’t really fit in here, and Santos gets me. He knows what it’s like, and I don’t feel so different around him.”

  I realize as I’m talking that it’s actually true. As much as I like hanging around Hamilton, there is something different when I’m with Santos. It’s like we’re novels in the same series; I don’t have to give him a synopsis of my pages because his are the same. Different characters, different setting, but the same themes. I don’t have to hide the scary parts of my life because chances are he’s lived them, too.

  “Oh, Pavi,” Marjorie says, her red-tipped fingers curling around mine. “I know it’s hard, and I haven’t done a very good job of asking how you’re really doing. You always seem so in control!”

  I turn to Mr. Ramirez. “Can I write the essay again? You don’t have to give me full credit or anything.” I really do want to do better. Not that I can write it tonight, but I want to be his top student again.

  “That sounds like a good plan.”

  All I have right now are plans. Plans to save Meridee. Faulty plans like faking appendicitis, and hopeful plans to film the Nickersons.

  Right now, I need my plans to start becoming my reality.

  SOLIDARITY

  “Ugh, my knees,” Hamilton moans from across the backyard path. Beneath his legs are his sweatshirt and a folded lawn bag, but apparently this combination isn’t doing enough to protect his joints while we weed. “I’m going to need a knee replacement when I’m old. I can feel it already.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say as I work my screwdriver under the root of a large dandelion. “Get ready to go to Piper’s. You’re not the one who’s grounded.”

  “I stand… kneel… in solidarity with you for this unjust punishment.”

  “Your mom’s not out here; you don’t need to give a speech.”

  Hamilton scoots forward on his paper bag to toss a weed into the orange bucket on the path between us.

  “I thought parents weren’t supposed to do this kind of punishment anymore.”

  “It’s not punishment,” I say as I dig my screwdriver deeper into the ground, enjoying the pressure and flying dirt. “It’s ‘an opportunity to reflect on my choices.’ Don’t you pay attention to your mom at all when she talks about school?”

  “We are not her students.”

  I creep an inch forward on my own folded lawn bag toward a small collection of weeds lining Marjorie’s flower bed. “It’s not that bad out here.”

  I actually appreciate being trapped, to not be able to do anything but dig and toss, dig and toss. It’s like my brain has been forced to relax, something I need before we head to the Nickersons’ tonight. I try to block out the memories, but with each second that moves us closer toward that door, I can hear the barking, the sounds filling my head and unbalancing the rhythm of my heart.

  I’m going back.

  “Have you ever done this before?” Hamilton asks, stretching his arms behind him. “Rescue a kid like this?”

  “No, I’ve never needed to.”

  “So, most times things aren’t this bad?”

  For a moment, when I look at his freckled face and the way his glasses are crooked on his nose, I think about lying to him. I don’t.

  “Sometimes they’re worse. But I couldn’t fix those. This one I can help.”

  Hamilton nods before turning back to the weeds. We’re quiet as we crawl across the ground, the only sounds the thud of a weed landing in the bucket and the faint notes of Marjorie’s jazz music coming from the open kitchen window.

  “Who got you out?” Hamilton asks.

  “What?”

  “You used to live at the Nickersons’. We’re rescuing Meridee, but who rescued you?”

  I didn’t get rescued.

  “I was only a short-term placement. Eight months. My mom was in court, so when it ended I went back to her for a little while.”

  She tried really hard that first time. Went to all the classes, showed up on time to all the visitations. When she’d reach her arms out to me and I’d fold into them, she didn’t smell like cigarettes or spoiled milk, but like our laundry detergent, the powder kind in the orange-and-yellow box. When she clasped her hands around my face, I knew she was really seeing me. I never told her what was going on at the Nickersons’. She was trying so hard to feel better, and I didn’t want to ruin anything. If she could fight for me,
then I could hold on as long as she needed. I was so relieved the day I finally left that house. I didn’t know that I would be a stranger in another person’s home again. I didn’t know that my mom would eventually stop showing up.

  Hamilton stops and sits on his paper square. “What’s your mom’s name?”

  “Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Meera.” Her name falls from my mouth. I haven’t said it in years, haven’t said it that many times in my life, actually. When I lived with her I called her Ma, but I’ve been gone so long that I haven’t had the chance to say her real name. Meera.

  There’s a pause as Hamilton half-heartedly scratches in the ground. I wait for the question he wants to ask.

  “When is the last time you saw her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  He wants to argue with my memory, but I stare at him and he bites his lower lip before reaching to push up his glasses.

  “Okay…,” he whispers, his eyes dropping to the dandelion below him, his breath heavy as he tugs.

  THE CREW TAKES ON THE NICKERSONS

  Standing under the lamppost at the far end of the football field, I scan the dark edges beyond the glowing ring surrounding me. Hamilton and Piper should have been here five minutes ago. I pretended to be sick and then snuck out after Marjorie tucked me in bed, waiting until she started to run bathwater so the sound would cover my steps. She won’t check on me again until eleven, when she goes to bed. Three hours. We’ll have to be fast.

  The school looks so strange in the dark, the buildings looming over the sidewalks and courtyards I pass through every day. It feels massive, ominous, overpowering me in a way it doesn’t when it’s full of school-day life. Finally, I spot a body moving toward me, and even though I recognize the slow walk, my heart still speeds up. Santos doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, his head down, swaying side to side as he makes his way toward me.

  “You made it,” I say when he finally crosses into the circle of light.

  “What?” he asks, pulling an earbud out from under his hood, the muffled beats sounding over the passing of nearby cars.