Pavi Sharma's Guide to Going Home
Page 16
No one there talks to me the same way anymore, not since they learned about the break-in at the Nickersons’. I haven’t seen Lenny since he came to school to question me, but I hope he’ll see the situation like I do: We were just trying to save her. I hate that he doesn’t trust me, and my business really needs him, especially since Hamilton and I will be meeting a new client at Crossroads today.
“She’s going home,” Santos says, and I pause.
“Maybe…”
Because what is home for us foster kids? We don’t have one place to grow up, a bedroom that holds a crib, then a twin bed, then bunk beds, finally ending with a full-size mattress, or, if we’re lucky, a queen. We don’t get to choose the paint colors that change around us as we grow. You can’t measure us along the wall, tracking our lives with pencil marks and dates the way Marjorie keeps track of Hamilton on the kitchen doorframe. Will her aunt’s house be home? I don’t know. I hope it’s home enough. That it has enough love to at least be more than a house.
“We’re having a going-away party for her at Crossroads today if you want to come. Hamilton is meeting me here as soon as we’re finished so we can walk over.” Meridee’s been back at Crossroads since right after we broke in because the Nickersons aren’t verified foster parents anymore. The police discovered the dogs, and even though they weren’t fighting anymore, her caseworker decided they were too dangerous, given their history.
“I can’t today; tell her bye.” Santos checks one more box. “Done.”
I reach for a handful of Cheetos before taking it from him and scanning his answers. “I’m glad Ms. Graves is going so well.”
“She asks a lot of questions. She makes pie.”
I wonder if she’ll ever get to hear him say that. Probably not. But maybe she can tell the small things he does that let her know he doesn’t hate her guts. Maybe she notices the earbuds aren’t always in, too. I hand him my New School FAQ packet.
“This has all the information you need to get started next week. I checked in with my contacts at Webb and put down the names of the good counselor, and a teacher, Ms. Black, who’s supposed to be cool with foster kids, and the names of some classes you definitely want to take. If you send me your student cloud log-in, I can run you a few reports on your grades and credits. The school is supposed to send it over, but it’s better to have your own copy. You don’t want to end up in PE again, or back in seventh grade.”
“Cool.”
He takes the packet and rolls it into a tube before stuffing it into his hoodie pocket.
“That’s all I have for now. We’ll check in again in six months. Hopefully it will still be all good.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch?” He slides his earbuds back into his ears.
“Yeah, tomorrow at lunch.”
He nods before hopping off the ledge. “Bye, Pav.”
I smile at the nickname as he takes off across the street. As I stuff the Sharpies and Hot Cheetos in my backpack, I hear Hamilton calling my name.
When we get to Crossroads, Lenny is sitting at the front desk. We have a face-off moment, then he smiles.
“Pavi Sharma. Superstar,” he says as I walk toward the counter. “Honor roll, perfect attendance, rescuer of children…” His voice softens as he reaches out to fist-bump. “Sorry I didn’t believe you, Pav.”
I shrug, not sure what to say. I’m sorry you didn’t, too. There would have been fewer stitches if you had.
“Sorry I almost got her hospitalized with fake appendicitis.”
He laughs. “Wait. That’s why you taught her that game? Geez, Pav, you’re like an evil genius. Well, not evil. Just genius.”
I can feel my cheeks starting to turn red.
“I assume you’re here for the party?”
“Yep.” And to meet a new client, but he doesn’t need to know about that.
“And you’re the partner in crime,” Lenny says, leaning over to give Hamilton a fist bump, too.
And in business, I think as Hamilton and I share a smile. Right now he’s helping me with my clients, but we’re brainstorming something new: Hamilton helping biological kids adjust to their new foster siblings. The two of us taking on foster care from both sides. This way he can earn his own Hot Cheetos. He’s become an addict. His fingertips are going to be permanently stained red.
“You two save me a slice of cake,” Lenny says, giving me one last fist bump.
In the den, we find Piper surrounded by a group of kids at folding tables. A few days after the break-in, she asked me how she could help out other foster kids like Meridee, and while I don’t trust her with my business, I knew her makeup skills could go to good use. Now a couple of times a month, she helps with the Heart Gallery photo shoots for foster kids hoping to be adopted. No goths or merpeople, but she does help kids waiting for forever families look their best. She and I won’t be best friends (it will take a long time to forget all the awful things she’s said), but I appreciate that she’s trying to think about someone other than herself. And she is pretty good at makeovers.
Hamilton and I sit down at the tables. Piper looks up from where she is adding blush to the freckled cheek of a young boy I believe is our new client, James. He’s the only one in the room I haven’t worked with yet.
“Looks good, Pipe,” Hamilton says as he plays with a cotton ball on the table.
“Thanks,” she says, scanning her supplies. “Pavi, can you hand me that lip balm?”
I search the mounds of materials on the table before finding a tub full of different types of lip balms.
“Which one?” I hold up three different shades of pink. Piper turns to the boy. “Which one do you like?”
“Do you have a sparkly one?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“This one has all the sparkles,” Piper says as she plucks one of the tubes from my hand.
“Are you James?” I ask him before realizing he can’t answer with his mouth puckered.
He nods.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Pavi, and this is Hamilton. We’re here to talk to you about your new family. Alexa told you about us?” He rubs his eyes. I hope Hamilton and I aren’t intimidating, so I try to talk softer. “We can talk when you’re finished getting ready. You probably have a while before they take your pictures.”
I grab the intake forms out of my bag. “Hamilton, you can start with James while I talk to Meridee. I want a few minutes alone before the party starts.”
“Sure thing,” he says, taking the papers from my hand.
I find Meridee in the backyard, holding the teddy bear I saw that night at the Nickersons’, but it has the sock I gave her pulled over its head like an elf hat. She’s humming the high-pitched melody of a classroom song, one her teachers probably taught her.
“What are you singing?” I ask as I sit across from her in the grass.
“It’s the seat song,” she says, clapping the bear’s paws together as she sings. “Everybody have a seat, have a seat. Everybody have a seat, a seat on the floor. Not on the ceiling, not on the door, a seat on the floor.”
I give her and the teddy a round of applause.
“So you’re going to see your auntie in Georgia?” I ask, pulling the sock-hat lower on the teddy bear’s head.
“Auntie Trish.”
“That sounds fun!”
“I’m going to see Mama at Auntie Trish’s.”
I pause. I don’t think that’s true. “Did someone tell you that you were going to see Mama?”
“Sometimes she talks to Auntie Trish on the phone, and Mama asks her to send us some money.”
I reach for her, pulling her into my lap. “Sometimes mamas can’t come to live with us, even if we are the best kids of all. Sometimes mamas are sick, or they have to work too much, or sometimes they forget how to be mamas, and so their little girls have to go live with someone new.”
“Did your mama forget how to be a mama?” Meridee looks back at me, pressing a palm to my cheek.
; “She did, and so now I live with a new family, with Hambone.…”
“Hambone!”
“Yes, with Hambone and Marjorie, and she’s like a mama.” I take Meridee’s hands between mine, rocking us side to side in the grass. “So, Auntie Trish is going to be like a mama for you. And maybe your mama will remember how to take good care of you, and maybe she will just stay sick, but you will always have someone who loves you.”
“Hambone loves me!”
“He does.”
“And you love me!”
“I do.”
I spin her around so she is facing me on the grass. “I have one more game to teach you before you go, okay?”
She nods, then scoops up her teddy and gives it a smooch on the nose. Knowing there will be no Hot Cheetos or school supplies or any payment on the way, I start lesson one.
“This game is called Front Door Face. Want to try?”
As I begin lesson one, I know I’ll teach her what I can. Even if she doesn’t learn it all, I know she will survive.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my editor, Nikki Garcia, for loving Pavi, Hamilton, Santos—and even Piper—from the very beginning. You made the story tighter and suggested fixes to problems I knew existed but hadn’t yet solved, all while keeping the characters the same at heart. Marisa Finkelstein, Marcie Lawrence, Katharine McAnarney, Stefanie Hoffman, Bill Grace, Jennifer Poe, and everyone at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers whose talent and creativity gave Pavi a life beyond what I had imagined, thank you for helping to tell this story.
To my agent, Melissa Edwards. From our very first phone call in my classroom, you’ve made a process that seemed so difficult and impenetrable suddenly easy and accessible. Your technical expertise gave me space to just write. Thank you.
To my book coach, Resa Alboher. You helped shape Pavi, Hamilton, and the crew. Thank you for brainstorming their world and their lives. And to Justine Duhr, owner of WritebyNight, for providing the book coaching services without which I couldn’t have published this novel. Thank you for allowing me flexibility in services and for sharing your publishing savvy.
To Addie Alexander, for your social work expertise and the idea of appendicitis. Thank you also to my sensitivity readers, including Sally Fussell of SAFE Foster and Adopt, Idris Grey, and Rudy Ramirez, for allowing me to see the story in new ways and helping me assure a respectful representation for all kids who read it. I’m grateful for your support in shaping Pavi’s perspective as one outside my own experience.
Thank you to Aaron Lindstrom, for sharing your experience with adoption and the challenges of having parents who don’t look like you. To Britta Lundin, for answering my many panicked texts throughout the writing and publishing process. I often feel like your geeky little sister and am so grateful to be able to follow in your footsteps. To Patrick Cook, who I first shared this idea with over six years ago, thank you for not liking everything I do just because we’re friends. And to Travis Bedard, my mentor for all things literary and theatrical.
Thank you to the many readers and brainstorming partners who’ve read drafts, given feedback on titles, or compiled middle school slang. Such wonderful people include Ria, the film meet-up crew (Alison, Jo, and Tony), Lara, Nina, Elizabeth, Emily, and my new book coach Jessamine Chan. A special thank-you to my first student reader, Connor, for his detailed feedback and continuous excitement.
To my sisters, Sara and Ashley, who built my imagination through hay-loft homes at Grandma Dee’s and stake-outs of stuffed-animal-poaching bad guys whispering through the air vents. I’m forever grateful to my parents for reading my notebooks full of novels about World War II and the Titanic. Thank you, Mom, for binding my first story about mermaids with that peach, seashell wallpaper. You both believed I was a writer before it was official.
And finally, to Shiva. You may not have started your own consulting agency for other foster kids, but we all know you could have. This story—this wonderful life—would not exist without you. I love you forever.
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