Pavi Sharma's Guide to Going Home

by Bridget Farr

  “Were you able to check out the neighborhood?” I ask, leaning back on the light pole, my jacket snagging on a leftover staple from the homecoming dance flyer.

  “Yeah. Broken-down car across from the house. We can hide behind that. Lots of junk in the neighbor’s yard, but I moved most of it so we’ll have a path.” He pauses, dropping his head to his shoes. “I saw the dogs. Fights?”

  I nod.

  “My uncle did that. Poor dogs.” Santos stretches his arms above his head before dropping them by his side.

  From across the field, I hear my name. Hamilton’s and Piper’s dark forms come running toward us. I hear both of them wheezing.

  “What happened?” I yell as their forms start to take shape. A large camera bag is bouncing against Hamilton’s hip, and he keeps reaching up to keep the shoulder strap from sliding down his arm.

  “I’m… so… sorry,” Hamilton pants as they break out of the dark.

  “We’re not that late,” Piper says as they slow down to a walk. Hamilton tilts to his side, pressing one hand against his diaphragm.

  “We shouldn’t have run. This thing gave me bruises.” He drops the bag on the ground.

  “We need to run again if we’re going to make the bus,” I say. “Wait. What’s on your face?”

  Two streaks of brown and green line his cheeks, and there’s two swipes of black under his eyes.

  “Are you wearing makeup?”

  “Well…,” Hamilton starts before Piper jumps in.

  “I told you we were making a tutorial,” Piper says, her black-gloved hands popping to her hips. “So you can’t complain. You owe me, seeing as you are using my equipment. You wouldn’t even have any of this production without me.”

  “It’s not a production.…”

  “I don’t know why you’re complaining about a little tinted foundation. And isn’t that our bus?” Piper tilts her head toward the stop.

  We all turn to see the MetroRapid bus idling at the stoplight, only a block away.

  “Let’s go!” I shout, taking off toward the bus stop, Santos right behind me. I can hear the camera bag slamming against Hamilton as he huffs after us. The bus pulls up just as we are crossing the street, and I dig a Ziploc full of change out of my pocket.

  “Quarters!” I hand out stacks of them, money I took from the jar Marjorie fills with coins left in our pockets before laundry.

  The bright lights of the bus are jarring as we stumble up the aisle toward the empty back seats. Santos kicks his feet up onto the seat in front of him and rests his hoodied head against the glass. Once we’re seated, I pull out a map of the backyard and lay it in the aisle in front of us.

  “You made a map?” Hamilton asks, leaning over in his seat. “Without me? I’m great at maps. This one isn’t even to scale.”

  We look down at the rushed pencil sketch I did on the back of an old worksheet I stole from Mr. Ramirez’s recycling bin. Hamilton’s right, the house is completely too small for the size of the page, and I didn’t use a ruler, letting jagged lines mark out the fences, uneven rectangles for the cages. You can barely read the labels I scribbled across the different elements. I tried to slow down, to let myself remember as accurately as possible, but I couldn’t spend that much time thinking about that place.

  “This map is fine,” I tell him as I squat down beside it. “This is the backyard, and this is the perimeter fence. This one is wood and this one is chain-link.”

  “The fence is all wood now,” Santos adds. “Sorta tipping on the back side.”

  “Which way is north?” Hamilton asks. “This map doesn’t have a compass rose. Or a legend. What are those dots?”

  “Nothing, they’re just marks I didn’t bother to erase. And it doesn’t need a compass rose. All you need to know is street, house, backyard.” I turn the map so it’s facing the rest of the troops. “This is the back door, and we should steer clear of these two bedrooms so no one hears us. If we hear any movement then we need to abort the mission.”

  “Which room is Meridee’s?” Hamilton asks.

  If it was the same as mine, then it’s barely a room, more like a large closet a rich woman would have used as a walk-in. Not quite a Harry-Potter-under-the-stairs situation, but a room small enough that it barely fit a twin mattress with all the boxes lining the one wall.

  “She’s probably here,” I say, pointing to the small space beside the kitchen and the back door. “But we really need to focus on—”

  “How we gonna get in?” Santos asks. “Pop the screen on her window? I can do that.”

  “Oh my god, I canNOT break into a house! I canNOT go to jail!” Piper furiously rubs another layer of lip gloss on her lips.

  “We’re breaking in now?” Hamilton asks. “I thought we were just filming. I should have brought better tools.…”

  “There’s no breaking in,” I say. “We aren’t even going near the house.”

  “What? Is she going to meet us outside?” Piper asks. “In that case, can’t we just call her and have her walk out?”

  “We can use this,” Santos says, pulling a screwdriver out of his pocket.

  I look around at their confused faces. I really screwed this up.

  “Who thinks we are here to kidnap Meridee?”

  Santos’s and Piper’s hands go up while Hamilton’s hand hovers by his side, half up, half down in uncertainty.

  “I thought we were just filming,” Hamilton says. “But then Santos pulled out the screwdriver, and I thought maybe I didn’t get the agenda change.”

  I sigh, running a hand through my hair before pulling my beanie back down. I can’t believe I let my standards slip like this. Normally, I would have been more organized. We’d have reviewed a map I created on some free software I found online. We’d have organized supplies and several worst-case-scenario plans. All I have now is a crumpled map, some really expensive camera equipment, and three kids who apparently think we are going to commit a felony.

  The bus driver announces our stop.

  “Okay. Let me try again,” I say as I stand, swaying for a few seconds before I grasp the bar above me. “We’re going to film the dogs fighting—”

  “Fighting!” Piper cries, and I hold up a hand.

  “We film and then we get out. That’s it. Hamilton, you be the lookout. Santos, you’ll have to help me get over the fence.”

  We lurch forward as the bus stops and then pile down the aisle, hopping out the side door. The dark streets around us are empty, the only light the dim overhead streetlamp and the red taillights of a stalled car a few blocks away.

  I adjust my jacket and shove my hands in my pockets. “Okay, let’s move.”

  “Wait!” Hamilton whispers. “Shouldn’t we do some sort of send-off? Like put our hands in the middle and say something in unison? Or maybe you could give us a speech.”

  “We don’t have time.” I step into the center of the group. We hear the first dog howl of the night. “Let’s go.”

  GOING BACK

  My feet glide along the pavement, a half-walk, half-lunge as my body leaps over gaps in the sidewalk, my muscle memory anticipating certain cracks I can’t see in the dark. I’m not afraid like I was last week when I was hoping to be wrong about the dogs. And unlike when I was nine years old and I made this two-block trip from the school bus stop alone, I don’t feel sick to my stomach. The increasing nausea that used to overwhelm me is replaced by a raging adrenaline that’s thumping out a beat in my veins. Behind me I hear the whispered voices of Hamilton and Piper, punctuated by far too many shushes for them to actually be stealthy, but I keep my head forward.

  Somewhere behind us, I imagine Santos strolling down the sidewalk, his face invisible under his hoodie, his hands tucked into his front pocket, pulling his body forward and down the street. He blends in here, a neighborhood the rich kids at school would call sketchy, the curve of his shoulders and the pounding of his feet all a part of this rundown block no one should ever have called Lovely Lane.


  At the street corner, I pause, noticing the red truck parked out front. He’s home. They’re home. I don’t think she ever leaves. She didn’t when I was there.

  Without waiting for the crew, I race across the street, resting my back against the tilted wooden fence. In minutes, we are all lined up behind the fence, the only sound the scratching of the dogs’ dishes against the cement, pierced by the occasional bark. A door creaks across the street and then a cacophony of barks fills the empty block, their chains clanging as they strain toward the door.

  “Why are they freaking out?” Hamilton asks, turning his head to peer through the cracks of the fence.

  “No more talking,” I whisper, attempting to push the bile down my throat. “I’ll climb over, then Piper will hand me the camera.”

  “It’s my camera so I should be…”

  I glare and she stops, the barks finally putting me in charge.

  I pull my hat farther down on my head before grabbing the fence. We all work in silence now, the closeness removing any excitement and leaving us with fear. Once both my feet are on the fence, Santos steps up to place his hands on my waist, holding me steady. I wish he had been here last time I tried to do this.

  “Okay, lift me on three,” I whisper, prepping my toes for the push up and over the edge. “One, two, three.”

  Santos easily lifts my feet from the ledge, and I scramble to get both arms over the top, the wood pressing into my underarms, leaving bruises, I’m sure.

  “Hold on a second.” Once I confirm the backyard is empty, I give Santos the go-ahead, and he pushes me harder. I use the tiny muscles I’ve developed in PE and push myself over, almost falling as I swing my legs over the top, the splintered wood tearing through my leggings and scratching my ankles. I drop down into the muddy backyard, grateful for the soft landing but not the muck seeping into my shoes. My presence sends the dogs into a frenzy, and I instantly panic, nowhere to hide in the open space. I fix my loose shoe, mud covering my fingers.

  “Shh, shh,” I whisper, even though it won’t make a difference. Nothing stops this racket.

  “Shut up!” a voice yells from the house, but there is no movement at the door. I lean back against the fence, trying to stop my heart from clawing out of my chest.

  “Okay, pass the camera over.” Instead of the black camera bag, I find Hamilton’s leg dangling over the fence.

  “Get back over there!”

  “Just grab my leg and pull! I’m going to fall!”

  Soon his other leg is over, both swinging wildly.

  “You have to stop moving or I can’t grab you!”

  Crunch. Hamilton’s body drops to the muddy grass beside me.

  “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be the lookout,” I whisper, grabbing his hand to pull him up, grateful when he doesn’t wince.

  “Santos can be the lookout. I didn’t want you to be over here by yourself.”

  I frown, though his presence has caused my breathing to slow a little.

  “Fine,” I say before whispering through the fence toward the outline of Santos on the other side. “Pass the camera.”

  “Do NOT break it!” Piper loud-whispers through the fence. “Seriously, I know you guys don’t get an allowance large enough to cover the cost.”

  “Enough!” I say, the nearness of the dogs ridding me of any patience. “Enough with your precious camera and your precious life. This is not about you! This is about a girl who needs our help, because unlike you, not everything in her life has turned out so perfect. She’s just a little kid, so shut up and help us or go home.”

  Piper’s lip trembles. “Sorry,” she whispers.

  That’s the first time I’ve heard her say that.

  “Can you send the camera over now?”

  The fence creaks as Santos hops onto the lower ledge, reaching over the fence to hand me the small silver camera. I have to jump to grab it, careful not to slip in the mud and end up back on the ground. When the camera is secure in my hands, I turn.

  It all looks the same, the metal cages filling every spare space along the back fence, the cement floors stained red and brown. A variety of padlocks hold back the frothing animals, some locks large and silver and others so small they look like they came off a kid’s storybook. On the far side of the lawn is a lone dog attached by a rope to a stake in the center of a muddy field. There’s also a blue barrel with an old towel inside that he must use for a kennel, and two black food dishes.

  “Wow, this is a lot of dogs,” Hamilton says as he takes a step toward the first cage and a large black-and-brown Rottweiler. “Hey there, buddy.”

  “Hamilton! Don’t!”

  “He’s fine. He’s not even really barking anymore.” He leans toward the dog, his nose lining up with the foaming snout. “Hello there. What’s your name?”

  “That one doesn’t have a name.”

  I gave names to the quiet ones, the ones who wouldn’t snap as I poured their food through the holes in the cage. The rest got names when they fought, Killer or Giant, the same names recycled over and over again, regardless of the dog.

  “These dogs look old, but otherwise they look… fine. I don’t think they could fight if they wanted to,” Hamilton says as he moves to the next cage. “Look at this guy, though! He’s got a couple scars on his ears.”

  “Hamilton, get back!” I shout as he squats down beside the cage, a mere millimeter away from the gnashing teeth. “You don’t know what they can do!”

  “Actually, I do. I’ve been reading up on it. Did you know the average bite pressure of a Rottweiler tops out at about three hundred twenty-eight pounds? Isn’t that crazy?”

  “Deadly, not crazy.”

  “There appears to be no evidence of the actual fighting itself, no chairs or a ticket counter, though there are a few beer cans scattered in the mud,” Hamilton says. He turns to look at me and cocks his head. “You’re not even filming yet? What are you waiting for?”

  I don’t know, but I can’t move. I can’t get near them.

  “Pav?” he says, moving toward where I stand with my back pressed against the fence.

  “Do you guys need the bounce? For lighting?” Piper whispers.

  “No, we got it,” Hamilton says as he gets closer, his steps hesitant like I’m the skittish dog. “Give it to me.” He stretches his hand out toward the camera. “I’ll do it.”

  He gently removes the camera from my sweaty palms, flipping open the side screen and hitting RECORD.

  “It is October twenty-second at 8:42 PM. We are here in the backyard of Mr. and Mrs. Nickerson of 702 Lovely Lane to document the violation of Section 42.10 of the Texas penal code (a.k.a. dogfighting). It appears in the backyard we have at least eight dogs, most housed in metal cages with one tied to a stake in the center of the lawn. They all appear to have food and water, though there are a few piles of dog… feces… that someone needs to scoop.”

  He moves toward the cages, his hand steady as he scans each one.

  “Some have scars from previous injuries, most likely from the fights.”

  He pauses the camera and turns to me.

  “This is really too many dogs for one person. And there’s no way these guys can even fight. Look at them. They’re super old. That one even has white whiskers.”

  At the sound of an ambulance a few blocks away, one of the dogs begins to howl, setting them all off again. I keep a few feet of distance as I follow Hamilton. They’re all one mass of muscle and horror, until I recognize a smattering of freckles on the forehead of one white—beige from the dirt—pit bull.

  “Stardust…”

  “I hope they can hear me; that one is going crazy!” He points to the dog tied up to the stake, and that’s when I see it. The tilt of the metal pole, the slow yielding as he lunges, the Texas ground too soft from the recent rainstorm.

  “Hamilton, we need to go.”

  “Hold on, I need to get this last one. It has some gross cut on its leg. Pus and everything. This is perfect f
or the video. He probably has some sort of disease that would also make this an unhealthy environment.”

  He’s kneels down, next to the final cage.

  “Now, Hamilton!”

  “Hold on,” he says, the camera pressed tight to the chains.

  I race across the cement toward him, sliding in some muck. I grab him by the hood of his sweatshirt.

  “Look!”

  The dog’s body lunges an extra foot. It turns to inspect the stake, having felt the difference, the nearness to freedom.

  “That’s bad,” Hamilton whispers before we start to run.

  Our frantic energy sets the dogs howling.

  “Ow!” I hear behind me, and turn to see Hamilton on the ground, the camera safely clutched above his head, blood streaming from his chin where it slammed against the cement.

  “Oh my god!”

  “I’m fine, just help me up!”

  I grab him by his shoulders, as he still hasn’t let go of the camera. We’re a few feet from the fence, and I don’t bother to look behind us, marking the distance of the dog only by his sound.

  “Santos! Take the camera!” I grab it from Hamilton, jumping up to the top of the fence to meet Santos’s waiting fingertips.

  “You first,” I tell Hamilton, and he doesn’t argue, the loss of blood making his face white like death. “Do not pass out! You’re going to be fine!”

  I bend a knee and he steps up, the mud sinking through my pants, my knee aching under his weight. A drop of blood lands on my wrist as I hand his palm over to Santos. Hamilton moans as I lift his legs and then push from the bottom of his feet. There’s a yelp as he lands on the other side. Santos’s hands appear over the top of the fence, and I realize there is no way I can reach them without standing on something.

  “Hold on!” I shout as I turn to scan the yard, not allowing myself to really look at the dog barely attached to the stake. I notice an old bucket near one of the cages and race to it, the water inside pouring down my legs as I run.

  “Pavi!” Santos shouts over the barking, and I flip the bucket over and scramble atop, the plastic sagging under my weight.