by Bridget Farr
“School’s been busy. It’s progress report time, so all the teachers have us finishing projects.”
“Making volcanoes! Cool.”
“No volcanoes. This is a magnet program, not kindergarten. I had to take a math test, write an essay, and get three letters of recommendation to get into my school.”
“I know. I wrote one. So, what is it today, Ms. Sharma?”
I scoot forward in my chair so I can lean my elbows on his desk.
“I need some background information.…”
He frowns. “You know I can’t give you personal information about kids at the shelter.”
“Not a kid. Foster parent.”
“I can’t give you that information, either. You know that.”
I slap a Snickers bar onto his desk.
“Are you trying to bribe me, Ms. Sharma?”
“Alma Graves. Just took in a new foster. Know her?”
“Creepy last name,” he says, his twirling pen clinking into the potted cactus on his desk. “Does sound familiar, though.”
“Can you look her up?”
“Pavi…”
Boom, another Snickers bar lands on his desk.
He laughs. “I can’t tell you much, nothing too private, but let me look.”
I wait as he types on his ancient computer.
“Okay, so…” Lenny taps the screen. “Looks like she recently got placed with one of our current Crossroads kids, though that’s all I’ll say about that.…” He gives me a pointed look, but I focus on my notes, since I already know that information. He continues to type. “She was on the host committee for the Foster Angels Appreciation Luncheon last year. I found her on a group e-mail.”
“Foster Angels? What are we, then? The Foster Fuzzies? Angel Babies?”
“I would never call you a Fuzzy.”
He watches me as I take a few more notes. I wonder if she’s had any previous foster kids. I’ll have to check with Amber at school tomorrow. She’s at Happy Hearts, one of the other shelters in Austin, and she might be able to get me some information from the kids there.
“Anything else you need? Social security number? High school transcript? Blood type?” He leans back in his office chair.
“No, this is good for now.” I shove my notebook in my backpack. “Actually, can I use your computer to print something?” Marjorie’s printer is out of paper, and I need more forms for my introduction meetings. I used my last one with Santos.
“No problem. Just give me a second to close some things.”
I look around the office while he types. “Who’s the girl in the lobby? Is she new?”
Lenny tears open one of the Snickers bars. “Meridee? She’s been here, what? Twelve days or so? Won’t be here long because I think they got her a placement already.”
“Wow, that’s good for her.” There aren’t enough foster families, so it’s hard for anyone to get a placement that fast, but it’s especially hard to find forever families for black and brown kids like Meridee, Santos, and me. “Is this her first time in the shelter?”
“I think so. At least her first time at Crossroads.”
For a moment, I think about all the reasons she could have ended up here, but I know I’ll never ask. In my job, I can’t fix people’s families. I can only focus on the future.
Normally I don’t take clients so young, and I definitely won’t make her pay, but she is even younger than I was when I went into foster care, and something about her ginormous T-shirt and dirty face makes me want to help. I don’t want her to feel alone like I did the first time.
Lenny flips through a stack of folders on his desk before pushing back his rolling chair.
“All yours.”
“Thanks. It should only take five minutes.”
Once he’s out the door, I quickly log in to my online school account. I consider printing multiple copies of my forms to update my folders, but then notice that Lenny’s printer is almost empty, too. As I’m closing out of my e-mail, I bump the tab for a page Lenny accidentally left open. It must be the database they use for the foster kids, because it lists the little girl’s name (Meridee Grant) and her birthdate, intake date, etc. Man, my job would be so much easier if I had access to this.
Then I see it.
Temporary placement.
George and Janet Nickerson.
I almost vomit red Cheetos all over the floor. Again.
THE NICKERSONS
It was his brown shoes I threw up on that first night with the redheaded social worker and me with the flu and no home anymore. True, I had a house still, but it hadn’t been a home in a long time. So here I was at this gloomy house with this tall man and his mop of gray hair that drooped into his eyes so I couldn’t really see him. The caseworker shrieked when she saw the vomit, but Mr. Nickerson didn’t flinch. Since I couldn’t see his eyes, I couldn’t tell if he was looking down at the mess or at my face. I was too tired to be horrified at what I had done. I felt relieved, actually, feeling a little bit better. I guess I needed that.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Nickerson!” the redhead exclaimed. “Let me see if I have something for you.”
She began digging in her huge black bag, pushing around papers and pens while she searched for a tissue or a used napkin that had been wrapped around her breakfast. Mr. Nickerson shook his foot so the red slime slid onto the porch.
“I got something inside.”
She looked from him to me. “This wasn’t how I was hoping to make this introduction, but Mr. Nickerson, this is Pavi Sharma.”
“She sick or something?” He rubbed the stubble on his pale chin.
“I don’t know.” She looked at me. “Are you sick, sweetie?”
I couldn’t speak. The days of lying on the couch watching talk shows with an empty garbage can and bottles of Sprite by my side seemed like years ago. Was I sick? I didn’t know. If she asked my name, I wouldn’t have been able to answer.
The redhead put her hand on my back. “She’s probably just a bit nervous. Is Mrs. Nickerson here?”
“She’s sleeping. It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
Bugs swarmed near the porch light, none flying toward the open door and Mr. Nickerson’s face. Even they didn’t want to go inside.
“We sure are grateful you’ll be taking Pavi. She’s a sweet girl. She’ll be here for a few days as part of her emergency stay, but I know you two have been considering long-term placement.”
I don’t remember the rest of what she said, but I know there was talk of phone calls and dates, and then she was hugging me—I wished it was Ma hugging me—and then she pushed me toward Mr. Nickerson and the gloom behind the metal screen door.
“Pavi? Pavi? Are you okay?” Lenny’s voice guides me like a lighthouse from my memories. He’s standing across from me, one hand on the desk like a sprinter at the starting line, the other reached out toward me. I wonder if he thought I might fall out of the chair. I stay frozen in place, needing a moment before I stand up. I want to get away from this place and those names. I want to be home where I can let the sound of Hamilton’s baritone shoo away thoughts of the two worst people I’ve ever met.
“I’m fine.… I just got…” I stop, because I don’t know what to say. I got shocked with memories? Punched by the past?
“You look like you saw a ghost. Here.” He hands me one of the unopened Snickers bars. “Maybe your blood sugar is low?”
I shove the candy in my back pocket, feeling like a zombie just woken from the dead. Then it hits me.
“Lenny, you can’t send her there.”
“Send who where?”
“That little girl. Meridee. You can’t send her to her new placement.”
He frowns, looking confused. “Why?”
“I accidentally saw the name of the family she’s going to on your computer.…”
Lenny sighs. “I thought I closed that all out.”
“I wasn’t snooping, but I know them, Lenny! Her new family, and she can’t g
o there.” I stumble over my words as I race to get them out. “It’s not good, Lenny. She won’t—”
“Slow down. I can barely understand you. What happened?”
I’m afraid to say it. From the back of my memory comes the barking, the sounds of chains clanging.
“They have all these dogs, and sometimes… they fight.”
Lenny rubs a hand across his chin, his eyebrows raised. “They had dogfights?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you when you stayed with them?”
“Nine.” I can see the doubt on his face. “But I remember!”
Lenny perches on the edge of his desk, his palms pressed together in his lap. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but you were pretty young, so those dogs probably seemed scary. Like they were fighting. The family has been evaluated. They’ve been verified.”
I shake my head. “I’m not exaggerating. I know what happened. Can’t you just keep her at Crossroads until her caseworker can check them out again?”
Lenny shakes his head. “We’re already over capacity, and she has a placement. She’s going to be okay, Pav. You need to just let the adults take care of it.”
Adults have caused all the problems I’ve ever had. “Please, just a day…”
His cell phone rings, and he pulls it out of his back pocket. He sighs when he sees it. “Not again.”
I stand up, knowing I’m about to miss my chance. “Please, Lenny.”
“It’s gonna be okay, Pav. I’m glad you care so much. I’ll call and check in with her caseworker if it will make you feel better. You can chill here for a bit if you want, but I gotta run.”
He’s out the door, answering his phone before he can even finish his sentence. I swipe my backpack from the floor, the sounds of a kid shouting starting to fill the hall.
When I enter the lobby, Meridee is still alone in the waiting room, but now there’s a stack of books on the chair beside her. She has one in her lap, her fingers slowly turning the pages as she mouths a story I can’t understand. I crouch down beside her.
“Hi, Meridee. I’m Pavi.”
“Puffy?”
“No. Pavi. Puh. Vee.”
She shrugs her shoulders before flipping another page in her book. I want to make her disappear, to stash her in Neverland or up in Rapunzel’s castle. I don’t know how much time I have to make a miracle, but I have to try.
“Do you like Hot Cheetos? You can have the rest.” I hand her the half-eaten bag, feeling a bit guilty I don’t have anything to offer besides junk food. I’ll do better when I come next time. She doesn’t eat any, but tucks the bag between her back and the chair.
“I gotta go now.…”
I take a step back from her, knowing I’m the only one who can keep her safe.
When I finally make it home, I see Hamilton through the front window. He’s sitting at the counter, his head bent over what I assume is our math homework. It’s getting dark, so I know Marjorie will be worried, reconsidering her decision not to buy Hamilton and me cell phones until we’re eighth graders. If I had one, I know it would be vibrating like crazy, filling up with her five W questions: Where are you? What are you doing? Who are you with? When will you be home? Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier? Marjorie crosses back and forth behind the window, moving between the dishwasher and the cupboards. She wipes back a blonde curl before rubbing her hands on her favorite floral apron.
Life is so easy for them. It’s like all those kids who have birthday parties every year; they don’t know what it’s like not to have anyone around to sing over the candles. And it’s not that I want Hamilton to know. I don’t want him to worry about where he’s going to sleep at night or what he’s going to eat for dinner. But tonight, I wish they knew a little. I trudge up the steps and the door opens before I even grab the handle.
“Pavi! Where have you been? It’s dark!” Marjorie’s eyes are wide as she pulls me into her arms, and I take a deep inhale of her rose-scented perfume mixed with a hint of garlic. I’m folded into her cozy sides, her damp apron pressed against my cheek.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“You are just in time! Hamilton is going to set the table.” She takes off my backpack and steers me like a sailboat to the kitchen that smells even stronger of garlic and… cinnamon? The smell of the curry is familiar, touching a memory I can’t quite place. For a moment, Ma’s face flashes in my mind, and I push it aside.
“Too bad you didn’t have a cell phone. You could have called,” Hamilton says, shooting a look at Marjorie, who is biting her lip and appears to be considering the truth of that statement.
“I’m not feeling so good,” I say as I back toward the entryway and the stairs that will lead to my room. I realize I don’t have the energy to be a part of this happy family right now. “I think I’ll go straight to bed.”
“Oh, sorry, sweetie,” Marjorie says as she plops the back of her palm on my forehead. “You do feel kind of hot. You go get ready for bed, and I’ll bring you some tea.”
“Sorry I couldn’t do math with you, Hamilton. We can work on it tomorrow after school?”
“Anytime, pal,” Hamilton says. “We’ll get it done.”
Marjorie gives me one more hug before I head up to my room. Normally I would need tonight to research on her computer, but Santos’s case is pushed aside for a minute. And I don’t need Google for my first step in Meridee’s case, anyway. I’ll never forget 702 Lovely Lane.
PIPER AND DAVY CROCKETT
“Davy Crockett… pocket… locket… rocket!”
“Rocket?” I ask the freckled girl sitting between me and Hamilton. We’re only fifteen minutes into seventh period, Texas history, and I’m ready to be out of this class. “A rocket doesn’t have anything to do with Davy Crockett. They didn’t even have electricity.”
“Do you have a better idea?” says Piper, her hands flying to her hips, her balm-stained lips forming a perfect pout.
“I do, actually.” I sing as flatly as possible, “Davy, Davy, Davy Crockett was so very patriotic.”
“‘Patriotic’ doesn’t rhyme with Crockett.” She turns to Hamilton. “Right? It doesn’t even rhyme.”
I sigh as I write down my perfect line. “It’s close enough. Right?”
I lean forward to make eye contact with Hamilton, who is staring at our practically empty lyric paper. We’ve been working on these Texas Heroes lyrics for two days and have barely finished a single stanza because of all the arguing. Hamilton hates getting in between Piper and me. He and Piper have been friends since before they were born. Piper’s dad teaches the same grade as Marjorie, so they shared a baby shower. They take every first-day-of-school picture together, and then I got added beside Hamilton, and now Piper’s smile looks a little fake.
I like Piper. Okay. That’s not true. I don’t like her, but I don’t dislike her. She just doesn’t get me. I freak her out. She sees me as a red Kool-Aid stain on her favorite dress. She had this perfect two-dom friendship with Hamilton and now there’s me. He and I do homework together at home, so he doesn’t go to her house as often to finish it with her. Whenever they go bowling or to ride their bikes, Marjorie always invites me along. I don’t go most of the time (who wants to be the third wheel who got invited by the mom?), but sometimes I can’t pass up a trip to the water park or for frozen yogurt.
Mostly, I think Piper is afraid of me. Afraid that being a foster kid is contagious and if she gets too close, her dad will suddenly stop showing up in the after-school pickup line. Every day, I remind her of the possibility that her perfect life could suddenly disappear.
And Piper doesn’t like that I’m competition. We’re all part of the International Studies magnet program at our public school, which means everyone had to apply to attend. She and Hamilton used to be the top kids in every class. Now I’m in the running, too, answering questions and getting As on tests.
“Seriously, Hamilton, you need to break the tie or we’re never going to get this done.” I
lean forward so I can wave my hand in front of his face. “Hamilton!”
Just as his head starts to lift, Mr. Ramirez’s timer begins to chime. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, time to pack up. Final lyrics must be submitted tomorrow so you’re ready to practice with the music. Please put any finished papers in the bin, and if you borrowed a pencil, turn it in. I need ten pencils back in this jar before you leave. Go!”
Hamilton pushes his chair back, and Piper scoops up all the papers and places them into a yellow folder with her name emblazoned in sparkly stickers. “I’ll be in charge of these.”
Go for it, I think as I collect Mr. Ramirez’s pencils. They all have flowers taped to the top so we don’t try to steal them. “Here, I’ll take yours.” I scoop up Hamilton’s pencil with a giant daisy stuck to the top.
“Thanks.” The first words he has muttered in ten minutes. I don’t know why we all keep trying to work together. It’s never fun. I could find a new partner, go work with Jamiya, who always does A-plus work, or Marisol, who is a little hyper but gets a lot done. Teachers often pair me with Jaya, the only other Indian American girl at school, but I always end up embarrassed when everyone expects us to be experts on India. Jaya’s visited India with her grandparents; she knows the exact towns they’re from and even brought pictures to show the class after her last trip. She always wears a delicate gold bracelet she got from her grandma last year, and then there’s me, not knowing any of the answers to their questions. So I stick with Hamilton, the convenient partner, since we never have to finish in class; we can take whatever we need home. Really, it’s Piper who should find another group.
Mr. Ramirez pats my shoulder as he counts the returned pencils. He has a small bouquet collected below his matching purple bow tie. “Eight! I need two more, people! No one’s leaving until there are ten back in this jar.”