by Bridget Farr
“Piper!” Hamilton gasps, putting a hand on her arm. “That is not okay! Pavi does have a family, and it’s me.”
The room is quiet as I walk toward the door. It’s not the first time someone has said this to me, looking at me with pity or disgust because they think my family left me. That they didn’t want me. They don’t know how strong you have to be to make it on your own.
“I know you need your followers and your teachers and everyone around you to tell you you’re perfect, Piper, but I don’t.” I grab my backpack from the floor. “I’ll go wait downstairs.”
“Wait, Pav…,” Hamilton starts to say, but I close the door before he finishes.
Downstairs, I tell Piper’s dad that I’m going to do homework in the kitchen, where it’s quiet, but really, I just stare at my science worksheet. There’s a pit in my stomach as I think about Piper’s secret video; she was so desperate to look confident and smart, and to be honest, I don’t blame her. I mean, my whole business is based on helping foster kids be perfect so they’ll be safe and happy with their new families. I even have kids practice their Front Door Face in the mirror. We all have parts of our lives we’re embarrassed about, things we want to hide. Most people just aren’t caught on video.
Then it hits me. I know how to save Meridee.
THE NEW PLAN
Sitting in the back of Marjorie’s station wagon, Hamilton and I are grateful that her singing is filling up the car. At first he was still mad about what happened at Piper’s house, but once I said “Meridee,” all irritation disappeared. So now, as Marjorie belts out the chorus of her favorite Aretha Franklin song, Hamilton and I converge over the center seat and I whisper my brilliant new plan.
“Hidden cameras? Like, set up in their house?” Hamilton moves the seat belt so it doesn’t cut into the side of his neck.
“Sort of, but we don’t need to set them up. We’ll just show up, film, and get out.”
“Do we need night vision? I don’t know if that’s a camera or a program. I could look!”
“Shh…,” I whisper as Marjorie’s eyes dart back at us in the rearview mirror. I flash my best we’re-just-reviewing-homework smile, and she winks before her bright-red lips burst open with a booming low note.
“We just need a camera.” I look him straight in the eyes, knowing my request will take some convincing. “Piper’s camera.”
Hamilton’s eyes grow as his head begins to shake. “No way. Cammie is her most prized possession.”
“Cammie?” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“First it was Camilla Cameron, but that’s really hard to say in the middle of a shoot.”
“Whatever. She won’t let me borrow it, but she’ll definitely let you have it.”
He pulls out his notebook, turning to a blank page and writing “New Plan” and the date at the top. He puts “Get camera” next to number one, with a subbullet listing all the potential camera options: Piper (with a frowny face), library, and friend of Mom’s.
“How are you two not grooving back there?” Marjorie asks, a bit breathless.
“We don’t groove, Mom.”
Marjorie smiles, pointing one finger up as she begins a classic disco move. “I thought you kids liked old-school stuff. Vintage.” She switches into a new dance move, this one improvisational, her arms swirling across the front seats in a wave.
“This isn’t vintage,” Hamilton says. “It’s just old.”
“An oldie but a goodie,” Marjorie argues, turning the volume up higher and beginning to sing along. We give her a little shimmy before diving back into the conversation.
“I’ll check at school on Monday,” Hamilton says, “but I need to know exactly what we are filming. Otherwise I won’t know what equipment we need.”
I pause. He’s right. He needs to know, but I’m not sure I’m ready to say it. I must be lost in thought, because suddenly Hamilton’s hangnail-infested fingers are snapping in front of my face. “Pavi!”
“Fine.… We need to get the… dogs in action, and potentially the people, too.”
“Okay…,” Hamilton says, adding “Dogs?” and “People?” to his notebook. “And the dogs we will be filming are going to be… doing what?”
“They’ll probably be in their cages, but if we go almost any night around eight, we might be able to catch them… fighting.”
Hamilton’s nose crinkles. “Dogfighting? Like…” He waves his hands around, looking for the words to describe something I bet he can’t even imagine.
“Yes… like that.”
“Is that why…,” he begins to ask, and I nod, knowing exactly what he’s going to say.
Is that why I freaked out at his birthday party last year? Why I panicked when his neighbor’s boxer with slobbery jowls leaped toward the birthday cake I was sitting beside, his eyes bulging as he flew through the air? I was certain his open jaws were for me.
I screamed.
So loud that Marjorie did, too, her voice an echo of my pain, and soon people were running and the dog was darting under the table and suddenly I was in the center of a circle of strangers, their eyes wide as they watched me cry.
That ended the party, the rest of the parents gathering up their kids, whispering theories about my childhood. “Foster kid,” they mouthed to each other, their lips pursing as they shook their heads in pity. They didn’t know. No one does.
I didn’t tell Marjorie why I panicked. She didn’t force me; she and Hamilton just crouched beside me, her hand on my shoulder, his hand on my knee.
Back in the car, Hamilton pats my hand as we pull up to our house. “It’s okay, Pav. We’ll figure it out.”
He writes “dogs” next to number two on his list. This time it’s in all caps.
Lying in bed, I press my nose and my toes to the wall, leaving an ocean of space in the sheets behind me. I still sleep like this, crammed close to the wall, even though Ma doesn’t need the space to lie down, her hair smelling like the grease from the fryers, but also like home. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, unable to fall asleep. I tried to go over the plan for Monday, making a checklist of all the things we need to do, but my thoughts keep being interrupted by a memory. It’s fuzzy, like most of my memories are, but I can see myself sitting on the closed toilet seat in the dark bathroom while Ma created shadow puppets behind the shower curtain. There’s no sound in my memory, her voice on mute, but I can see her delicate hands moving, gliding back and forth behind the curtain like leaves creating shadows in the sunlight.
My door creaks and the memory pauses. Marjorie already checked on me when I first went to bed, but I can tell it’s her by the jingle of her bracelets. I don’t move, wanting her to think I’m asleep. She sits at the edge of my bed and presses a hand against my foot. I suddenly feel the need to cry, but I swallow it down. She doesn’t move, and after a few minutes I let the memories come back in. With the dancing shadows and the touch of Marjorie’s hand, I hope I’ll be able to sleep.
GET THE CAMERA
On Monday, I watch Hamilton from my post on the broken bleachers that line the track. It’s the school’s No Tardy Party, a celebration for all of us who made it to class on time the last six weeks. Hamilton is playing volleyball with Piper, waiting for the perfect opportunity to ask for her camera.
His goal is to get her in a good mood, play whatever game she wants, and once she’s happy and hopefully a bit winded, he’ll ask to use her camera for a birthday present for Marjorie. He’ll say he wants to record several short speeches about her mom greatness combined with secret footage of her doing the best mom things. Piper loves cheesy, sentimental stuff like that. She’ll want to help him plan, and he’ll give her a lunch date for them to hash out the fake details, and then, tomorrow after school—it has to be then because Marjorie’s birthday is Saturday and he needs time to edit—she’ll hand over the camera.
Hamilton’s clearly in the get-her-happy-and-winded portion because he’s eagerly jumping into th
e center to pass the ball, the volleyball veering wildly off his arms before he takes off running to retrieve it. I hear a loud creak behind me as someone jumps onto the back row. Santos perches like a gargoyle: hood up, earbuds in.
“Jealous?” he asks.
“What?”
“You’re staring down the little dude.”
“Gross. Hamilton is my brother.”
He shrugs. “Not your real brother.”
“He’s my brother,” I say, though I’m surprised by how confident I sound. I wouldn’t have said he was my brother a month ago.
“How did you make it to the No Tardy Party?” I ask, certain that a guy who skips class would never have zero tardies.
“I didn’t,” he says, turning so his feet rest on the seat beside me. “But I have perfect attendance, so my advisory teacher let me go.”
“Don’t you have to attend class to get perfect attendance?”
I glance over at Hamilton, who seems to be chatting with Piper, but she is only half paying attention to him as a tiny girl I recognize from PE giggles in her other ear. Hamilton needs to bump PE girl out of the way or we’re going to lose our opportunity.
Santos drops his backpack down on the seat beside him.
“Did you need something?”
He stares at me. “You said we gotta talk about my foster mom.”
“We’re supposed to meet after school.”
“I’m here now.”
“I see that,” I say, looking over at Hamilton. “But I don’t have my materials for your case with me.” And I’m a little busy making sure Hamilton doesn’t screw this up.
“Whatever,” Santos says, sliding his backpack onto his back and preparing to jump down from the bleachers.
“Wait.” It’s not like I haven’t done this appointment plenty of times before; I know all the questions by heart. I could do it with my eyes closed, or with my eyes on my weirdo foster brother. “I’ll do it. Just sit down.”
He remains on the bleacher above me, but does take a seat. I don’t bother to ask him to take his earbuds out. Not worth it.
“Normally this session takes thirty minutes, but since things are going well at your home, it should go pretty quickly.” I grab the only notebook I have with me and turn to a blank page in the back. I write his name and the date at the top of the page. “On a scale of one to ten, ten being the best possible situation and one being your life is in danger, how has your experience been in the home?”
“I don’t know,” Santos says, scuffing his shoe on the seat edge.
“This is just an overall preassessment. I’ll get into more details later. So, overall? One to ten?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Seven.”
I try to contain my surprise. I almost never get above a five, even if the family is great. Most families score low the first week. It’s nothing personal; they’re just new, and the kid’s usually still burned out by the whole process. I don’t expect an accurate score until a month in. I only ask in case it’s below a three.
“Okay,” I say, marking “7” on my paper. “Can you describe your sleeping situation?”
“In a bed.”
“Can you add detail? Is it a permanent bed or a bed that folds out like a couch or a futon? Does the bed have a frame, or is the mattress sitting on the floor?”
“Permanent. It has wood around the edge.”
“And do you have your own room?”
“Yeah.”
I’m beginning to see why he scored a seven. I glance quickly over at Hamilton, who is still bumping around the volleyball.
“The next questions are all about your current diet. On a scale of one to ten, how hungry would you describe yourself at the end of an average day?”
He stares me down.
“Ten means you are stuffed, like I-should-not-have-eaten-all-of-that-I’m-gonna-lie-on-the-couch-and-turn-into-a-walrus, and one is I haven’t eaten in days.”
“Eight.”
I write that down. “Can you describe what you’ve eaten so far today?”
“Are you going to ask me when I went to the bathroom, too?”
I actually do ask that question of little kids, since bed-wetting can be a sign of distress and diarrhea is an indicator of a new diet. I learned that in one of Lenny’s child psychology books. I always have granola bars for those who aren’t eating and a tip sheet for how to get free snacks at school. Santos doesn’t need that, apparently.
“No, I don’t need to know what you do in the bathroom.”
“You don’t need to know any of my business.”
“I don’t. But you asked for my help, and I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”
“I don’t need help,” he says, pulling down on his hood.
“Then why are you here?” I’ve been wasting time with him and now lost sight of Hamilton and Piper.
“I had oatmeal with this stuff on it. Berries or something. And sugar. And thick milk.”
I turn to Santos. “Cream?”
He shrugs. I nod as I write down his breakfast items. “And did you eat school lunch? A or B choice?”
Suddenly a smile spreads across Santos’s face.
“Your brother’s coming with that YouTube girl. And she looks maaaaaad!” He bursts into laughter, rocking back in his seat as he claps his hands together.
I turn to see Piper marching toward me, her ponytail swinging, a metronome marking each stride. Hamilton is waving behind her, mouthing something I can’t understand. I relax my face so I’ll seem calm when she arrives.
“Hello, Pavi,” she says, her hands on her hips. She looks up at Santos. “Can you give us some privacy?”
“He can be here. Just say what you need to say.” Santos won’t say anything, and he sort of looks like my bodyguard perched behind me with all his silent stares and smirks.
“Fine. What do you use a prime lens for?” Piper asks. Behind her, Hamilton mouths, “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“Why would you use a prime lens? For what type of shot?”
“When you need more light in your video. I took video production, too.”
“Exactly!” Piper says, a maniacal grin on her face. “And when do people usually need to capture a lot of light in their film?”
I know where she’s going with this, but decide to answer her questions and play innocent.
“Generally, when they’re shooting in a dark location.…”
“Or…,” she asks, leaning toward me.
“Or?” I say, glancing at Hamilton’s defeated face.
“Or at night! So why would Hamilton be using a prime lens, normally used to shoot in dark locations or at night, for a birthday video of his mom? Better yet? Why would Hamilton be asking for that lens when he doesn’t even know what it does?”
“Sorry,” Hamilton mouths again, and I shake my head at him. I’ll get us out of this mess.
“He probably googled it and read the wrong information.”
Piper pauses, clearly taken aback.
“Hamilton never googles wrong,” she says, her confidence regained.
“Yes, I do. All the time! Last week, I…”
“Shh…,” Piper and I say, and he sits on the bottom row of the bleachers.
He waves to Santos. “Hey, man.”
Santos ignores him.
“Let me tell you what I think,” Piper says, taking a step so close to me that I can see the glimmer in her lip gloss. “I think you want to shoot some film at night, maybe with your boyfriend or whatever, and you wanted Hamilton to ask me for my camera because you know he and I are best friends.”
“He’s not her boyfriend,” Hamilton says, and Piper scoffs.
“Whatever.” She turns to me. “Did you really use your own foster brother, who has taken you in when you had nowhere else to go, to get my camera for some secret troublemaking video? How could you do that to him?”
“She didn’t do anything to me!” Hamilton says, popping off
the bleachers. “I told her I would ask you. And it’s not a troublemaking video, it is a problem-solving video, and we really need it. Really badly. So, please, Piper, can we just borrow Cammie?”
Piper’s mouth opens in shock.
“Well… I…”
The school bell rings, and a crash of students begins swarming toward us, running and slinking to the tiny entrance back into the courtyard.
“Don’t say no, Pipe!” Hamilton says, grabbing her shoulders. “Meet us after school and we’ll talk about it. We’ll tell you the truth, okay? Right, Pavi?”
I’m not thrilled, but at this point I don’t have another plan. “Yeah, after school is fine. We’ll talk.”
“Let’s go, let’s go,” a teacher shouts, shooing us from the bleachers.
“Hold on, everyone,” I say, trying to regain control of my circus before we split for class. “Santos, meet me here after school. We’ll finish your session, and you know how you said you could help? I have a job for you. Piper and Hamilton, come here after you pick up your instruments, and we’ll talk. But now, get to class. Hamilton, we canNOT get in trouble again.”
The four of us step off the bleachers and into the throng of sweaty students headed toward seventh period.
FALLING OFF THE BRINK
The class is in full cutting-and-pasting mode when Mr. Ramirez calls me to his desk. He’s sitting in his rolling chair, a half-empty sticker sheet on top of the pile of essays. Everything is organized, the pencil and stapler in parallel lines, the blue to black pen ratio exact.
“Pavi,” he says with an exhale. “You have always been an excellent student. Someone who always does quality work and who has creative ideas to share.…”
There’s a but coming. Wait for it.
“But…” He pulls an essay from the bottom of the pile, holding it out toward me.
He knows. He knows I know he knows.
“Yes…,” I say, because even though he isn’t really asking a question, yes seems like the only answer.