Crenshaw (9 page)

Marisol grabbed a tape measure to check the height of the staircase she was making. “I'm going to attach this staircase to the wall, see? Like so? And then put shelves way up high for the cats to climb to. It'll be cat paradise.”

“Speaking of cats…” I bent down to fill in the hole Aretha had made. The sand was soft and dry. “Did I ever tell you…” I hesitated, then pushed on. “Did I ever tell you that I had an imaginary friend when I was little?”

“Really? Me too. Her name was Whoops. She had red hair and was extremely naughty. I blamed her for everything. Who was yours?”

“He was a cat. A big cat. I don't remember much about him.”

“You should never forget your imaginary friend.”

“How come?”

“What if you need him someday?” Marisol reached for a piece of wood. “I remember everything about Whoops. She liked to eat brussels sprouts.”

“Why?” I pretended to gag.

“Probably because I like brussels sprouts.”

“You never told me that. I may have to reconsider our friendship.”

“Because of Whoops? Or the brussels sprouts?” She yanked a nail out of a plank with her hammer. “Hey, new bat fact. In Austin, Texas, they have the world's largest urban bat colony. Like a million and a half of them. When they fly out at night, you can see them on the airport radar screens.”

“Very cool,” I said. “Ms. Malone would love seeing that.”

Marisol and I both had Ms. Malone for fourth grade. She taught all subjects, but she loved science best of all. Biology especially.

We chatted about bats while we watched Aretha dig another hole. Finally I said, “Well. Gotta go.”

I hooked Aretha to her leash. She licked my cheek with a sand-covered tongue. It felt like a cat's.

“Did Whoops ever … you know?” I made myself ask the question. “Did she ever come back after you outgrew her?”

Marisol didn't answer right away. Sometimes she just let a question sit for a while, like she needed some time to get acquainted with it.

“I wish she
would
come back,” Marisol said, gazing at me. “I think you'd like her.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I guess I could overlook the brussels sprouts thing.”

“Jackson?”

“Yep?”

“You're not really moving, are you?”

I studied her question the way she'd studied mine. “Probably not,” I said, because it was easy, and easy was all I could manage.

Aretha and I were almost to the front yard when Marisol called, “It needs a name.”

“You mean the statue?”

“Yeah. Something unique.”

“What do you want its name to be?” I asked.

She didn't answer right away. She took her time.

Finally she said, “Crenshaw would be a good name for a cat, I think.”

 

38

I crossed the
street. Twice I looked back. Marisol waved.

Crenshaw.

It must have been written on the bottom of the statue. By my teacher or my mom or me.

There's always a logical explanation, I told myself.

Always.

 

39

That night I
sat on my mattress, staring at what was left of my bedroom. My old bed, shaped like a red race car, the one I'd outgrown ages ago, was in pieces. A sticker on the headboard said
$25
OR BEST OFFER
. Dents in the carpeting hinted at what used to be there. A cube where my nightstand should have been. A rectangle where my dresser once stood.

My mom and dad came in after Robin was asleep. “How you doing, bud?” my dad asked. “Definitely roomier, huh?”

“It's like camping out,” I said.

“Without the mosquitoes,” said my mom. She handed me a plastic mug of water. I kept it by my bed in case I got thirsty in the middle of the night. She'd been doing that for as long as I could remember. The mug, which had a faded picture of Thomas the Tank Engine on it, was probably nearly as old as I was.

My dad touched the mattress with his cane. “Next bed, let's make it more serious.”

“Not a race car.” My mom nodded.

“Maybe a Volvo,” said my dad.

“How about just a bed bed?” I asked.

“Absolutely.” My mom leaned over and combed her fingers through my hair. “A bed bed.”

“We'll probably make some bucks at the sale,” my dad said. “So there's that.”

“They're just things,” my mom said quietly. “We can always get new things.”

“It's okay. I like all the space,” I said. “I think Aretha does, too. And Robin can practice batting without knocking anything over.”

Both my parents smiled. For a few moments, neither spoke.

“All right, we're outta here,” my mom finally said.

As he turned to leave, my dad said, “You know, you're such a big help, Jackson. You never complain, and you're always ready to pitch in. We really appreciate that.”

My mom blew me a kiss. “He's pretty amazing,” she agreed. She winked at my dad. “Let's keep him around.”

They closed the door. I had one lamp left. Its light carved a yellow frown on my carpet.

I closed my eyes. I imagined our things spread out on the lawn tomorrow. My mom was right, of course. They were just things. Bits of plastic and wood and cardboard and steel. Bunches of atoms.

I knew all too well that there were people in the world who didn't have Monopoly games or race car beds. I had a roof over my head. I had food most of the time. I had clothes and blankets and a dog and a family.

Still, I felt twisted inside. Like I'd swallowed a knotted-up rope.

It wasn't about losing my stuff.

Well, okay. Maybe that was a little part of it.

It wasn't about feeling different from other kids.

Well, okay. Maybe that was part of it too.

What bothered me most, though, was that I couldn't fix anything. I couldn't control anything. It was like driving a bumper car without a steering wheel. I kept getting slammed, and I just had to sit there and hold on tight.

Bam
. Were we going to have enough to eat tomorrow?
Bam.
Were we going to be able to pay the rent?
Bam.
Would I go to the same school in the fall?

Bam.
Would it happen again?

I took deep breaths. In, out. In, out. My fists clenched and unclenched. I tried not to think about Crenshaw on the TV or the dog cookie I'd stolen.

Then, just the way I'd taken that cookie, without understanding why, without thinking about the consequences, without any
reason
, I grabbed my mug and hurled it against the wall.

Bam.
It splintered into shards of cracked plastic. I liked the noise it made.

I waited for my parents to return, to ask what's wrong, to yell at me for breaking something, but no one came.

Water trickled down the wall, slowly fading like an old map of a faraway river.

 

40

I woke in
the night, sweaty and startled. I'd been having a dream. Something about a giant talking cat with a bubble beard.

Oh.

Aretha, who likes to share my pillow when she can get away with it, was drooling onto the pillowcase. Her feet were dream-twitching. I wondered if she was dreaming about Crenshaw. She'd certainly seemed to like him.

Wait.
I felt my brain screech to a halt, like a cartoon character about to careen off a cliff.

Aretha had
seen
Crenshaw.

At the very least, she'd reacted to him. She'd tried to lick him. She'd tried to play with him. She'd seemed to know he was there.

Dogs have amazing senses. They can tell when a person is about to have a seizure. They can hear sounds when we hear only silence. They can unearth a piece of hot dog buried at the bottom of a neighbor's trash can.

But however amazing dogs can be, they cannot see somebody's imaginary friend. They cannot jump into their owner's brain.

So did that mean Crenshaw was real? Or was Aretha just responding to my body language? Could she tell I was freaking out? Or did she figure I'd come up with a brand-new game called Let's Play with the Giant Invisible Cat?

I tried to recall how she'd acted back when we were living in our minivan. Had she sensed Crenshaw's presence then?

I couldn't remember. I didn't want to remember.

I covered my face with my drooly pillow and tried to go back to sleep.

 

41

“Ribbit,” said something.

I opened my eyes. A frog was on my forehead.

He looked familiar. Like the windowsill visitor Crenshaw had wanted to eat.

I turned my head and the frog leaped off. Next to me lay a human-sized cat. On top of Crenshaw lay a medium-sized dog. And on top of Aretha sat the frog.

Two of the three were snoring.

I sat up on my elbows. I blinked. Blinked again.

I'd left the window ajar. That explained the frog. It did not explain the cat.

“You're back,” I said.

“Morning,” Crenshaw murmured, his eyes still closed. He wrapped his paws around Aretha, snuggling close.

“Just tell me this,” I said. I crawled off my mattress and stretched. “How do I get rid of you for good?”

“I'm here to help you,” Crenshaw said. He yawned. His teeth were like little knives. He pulled one of Aretha's velvety ears over his eyes to block out the sun.

“What did you mean about telling the truth?” I asked.

“Truth is important to you,” said Crenshaw. “So it's important to me. Now, please allow me to continue my slumber.”

“Are you my conscience?” I asked.

“That depends. Would you like me to be?”

I checked my closet, just in case there was a giant invisible possum or gopher or something lurking there. “No,” I said. “I'm managing just fine on my own.”

“Oh, really?” said Crenshaw. “What's that abominable dog treat lying on the floor?”

The cookie. Aretha still hadn't eaten it.

I tossed it out my window. Maybe squirrels wouldn't mind eating something stolen.

“Remember when you stole the yo-yo back when you were five?” Crenshaw asked.

“When my parents caught me, I tried to blame you.”

“Everyone always blames the imaginary friend.”

“Then my parents made me take it back and apologize to the store.”

“I think you see where this is going.” Another yawn. “Now, if you don't mind, I'll be taking a little catnap.”

I stared at him. He'd made me feel mystified and annoyed and more than a little crazy. And now he was making me feel guilty. One way or another, I had to get him out of my life.

“By the way,” I said before leaving the room, “you're hugging a dog.”

I didn't see what happened next, but I heard a hiss and a yowl. Aretha dashed past me at high speed.

She hid under the kitchen table for an hour.

 

42

Selling your stuff
at a yard sale is a weird experience. It's like walking around with your clothes on inside out. Underwear on top of jeans, socks on top of sneakers.

The insides of your apartment are spread out for everybody to see and touch. Strangers finger the lamp that used to be on your bedside table. Sweaty guys sit in your dad's favorite chair. Little stickers are on everything. Five dollars for your old tricycle that still has sparklers on the wheels. Fifty cents for the Candy Land game.

It was a sunny Sunday morning. Lots of neighbors were selling stuff, too. It almost felt like a party. My mom sat at a card table with a little box to hold money. My dad walked around while people bargained with him and said how about two dollars instead of three.

When he got too tired to walk, he sat in a folding chair and played songs on his guitar and sang. Sometimes my mom would sing harmony.

My main job was to carry stuff to people's cars and to keep an eye on Robin. She was pulling someone's old wagon that had a
$4
sign taped to it. In the wagon was her trash can with the blue bunnies, which my parents had promised she could keep.

It wasn't so bad, watching our things get sold. I told myself that every dollar we made was a good thing and that it was all just meaningless stuff. And it was nice to be with our neighbors and friends, drinking lemonade and talking and singing along with my parents.

Around noon, we'd sold almost everything. I watched my mom count up the money we'd made. She looked over at my dad and shook her head. “Not even close to what we need,” she said quietly.

Before he could respond, a skinny man with a ponytail approached my dad. He pulled out a fancy leather wallet and asked my dad if his guitar was for sale. My dad and mom exchanged a glance. “Could be, I suppose,” said my dad.

“I have one that's for sale, too,” my mom added quickly. “It's back in the apartment.”

My dad held up his guitar. Sunlight darted off its smooth black body. “It's a beauty,” said my dad. “Lotta history.”

“Dad,” I exclaimed, “you can't sell your guitar.”

“There's always another guitar around the bend, Jacks,” said my dad, but he wouldn't meet my eyes.

Robin ran over. She was still towing the wagon, which nobody had bought. “You can't sell that!” she cried. “It's named after Jackson!”

“Actually,” I said, “
I
was named after the guitar.”

“It doesn't matter!” Robin's eyes welled with tears. “That's a keepsake for keeping. Here. You can have my trash can for free, mister. Instead.”

She thrust her trash can into the skinny man's hands. “I, uh—” the man began. “I … it's a dynamite trash can, sweetie. I really like the … the bunnies. But I'm more in the market for a guitar.”

“No guitars, no way,” Robin said.

My dad gave the man a helpless shrug. “Sorry, man,” he said. “You heard the lady. Tell you what, though. Why don't you give me your phone number? In case we have a change of heart. I'll walk you out to your car.”