“Science is about facts. Life is about facts. Crenshaw is not a fact.” I shrugged. “If you understand how something happens, then you can make it happen again. Or not happen.”
“You want Crenshaw to go away?”
“Yes,” I said loudly. Then, more softly: “No. I don’t know.”
She smiled. “I wish I could see him.”
“Black. White. Hairy,” I said. “Extremely tall.”
“What’s he doing right now?”
“One-handed push-ups.”
“You’re kidding me. I’d love to see that.”
I groaned. “Look, it’s okay. Go ahead and call a psychiatrist. Have me committed.”
Marisol punched me in the shoulder. Hard.
“Ow!” I cried. “Hey!”
“You’re annoying me,” she said. “Look, if I were worried about you, I’d tell you so. I’m your friend. But I don’t think you’re going crazy.”
“You think it’s normal to have a giant kitty taking bubble baths in your house?”
Marisol puckered her lips like she’d just chewed a lemon. “Remember in second grade when that magician came to the school fair?”
“He was so lame.”
“Remember how you went behind the stage and figured out how he was making that rabbit appear? And then you told everybody?”
I grinned. “Figured it right out.”
“But you took the magic away, Jackson. I liked thinking that little gray bunny appeared in a man’s hat. I liked believing it was magic.”
“But it wasn’t. He had a hole in the hat, and—”
Marisol covered her ears. “I didn’t care!” she cried, punching me again. “And I still don’t care!”
“Ow,” I said. “Again.”
“Jackson,” Marisol said, “just enjoy the magic while you can, okay?”
I didn’t answer. We walked in silence, following our usual route. Past the little park with the fountain. Past the bike path I’d ridden a zillion times, back when I had a bike. Past the place where I broke my arm popping a wheelie. Past the sign that said WELCOME TO SWANLAKE VILLAGE.
“I read that swans stay together for life,” Marisol said.
“Usually,” I said. “Not always.”
“You and I will be friends for life,” Marisol said. She stated it like any nature fact. Like she’d just said “The grass is green.”
“I don’t even know where my family’s going.”
“Doesn’t matter. You can send me postcards. You can e-mail me from the library. You’ll find a way.”
I kicked at a stone. “I’m glad I told you about Crenshaw,” I said. “Thank you for not laughing.”
“I can practically see him,” said Marisol. “He’s doing backflips on my front lawn.”
“Actually, he’s doing the splits on your driveway.”
“I said practically see him.” She smiled at me. “Fun fact, Jackson. You can’t see sound waves, but you can hear music.”
46
That evening, Crenshaw and I went out to the backyard.
Crenshaw liked night.
He liked the way the stars took their time showing up. He liked the way the grass let go of the sun’s warmth. He liked the way crickets changed the music.
But mostly he liked to eat the crickets.
We lay there, me on my back, Crenshaw on his side, with Aretha nearby gnawing on a tennis ball. Every so often she looked up, ears cocked, sniffing the air.
It felt good, talking as the night took over. It almost made me forget that we were leaving the next day. It almost made me stop feeling the anger and sadness weighing me down like invisible anchors.
Crenshaw trapped a cricket under his big paw.
I told him crickets were considered lucky in China.
“Crickets are considered delicious in Thailand,” he replied. His tail looped and snaked like a lasso at a rodeo. “And in cat-land.”
I chewed on a piece of grass. It’s a good way to distract yourself when you’re hungry. “How do you know that?”
Crenshaw glanced at me. “I know everything you know. That’s how imaginary friends operate.”
“Do you know things I don’t know?”
“Well, I know what it’s like to be an imaginary friend.” Crenshaw slapped at a moth with his other front paw. The moth fluttered over his head like it was laughing at him.
“I hate moths,” he said. “They’re butterfly poseurs.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Butterfly wannabes.”
“If you know everything I know, how come you know words I don’t know?”
“It’s been three years, Jackson. A cat can do a lot of learning in that time. I read the dictionary four times last month.”
He tried for the moth again and missed.
“You used to be faster,” I pointed out.
“I used to be smaller.” Crenshaw licked his paw.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you why you’re so much bigger. You weren’t this big when I was seven.”
“You need a bigger friend now,” said Crenshaw.
My mom walked by with a box of clothing to put in the minivan. “Jackson?” she said. “You okay?”
“Yep.”
“I thought I heard you talking to somebody.”
I cast a look at Crenshaw. “Just talking to myself. You know.”
My mom smiled. “An excellent conversational partner.”
“Do you need any help, Mom?”
“Nope. Not much to pack, when you get right down to it. Thanks, sweetie.”
Crenshaw lifted his paw. The cricket scrambled for freedom. Down went the paw. Not enough to kill the poor bug. Just enough to annoy him.
“Do you ever feel guilty about the way cats torture things? Bugs, mice, flies?” I asked. “I know it’s instinct and all. But still.”
“Of course not. It’s what we do. It’s hunting practice. Survival of the fittest.” He lifted his paw, and this time the cricket made a quick getaway. “Life isn’t always fair, Jackson.”
“Yeah,” I said, sighing. “I know.”
“In any case, you’re the one who made me a cat.”
“I don’t remember deciding that. You just sort of … happened.”
Aretha dropped her ball in front of Crenshaw. He sniffed it disdainfully.
“Cats do not play,” Crenshaw told her. “We do not frolic. We do not gambol. We nap, we kill, and we eat.”
Aretha wagged wildly, still hopeful.
“Fine.” Crenshaw blew on the tennis ball. It rolled a few inches. Aretha nabbed it with her teeth and tossed it in the air.
“That was playful of you,” I said. I plucked a new piece of grass to chew on. “For someone who doesn’t play.”
“I fear you may have made me with a hint of dog thrown in.” Crenshaw shuddered. “Sometimes I actually want to … to roll in something stinky. A dead skunk maybe, or some ripe trash.”
“Dogs do that because—”
“I know why. Because they’re idiots. I also know you will never, ever catch this fine feline specimen stooping so low.”
I sat up. The moon was thin and yellow. “Anything else I put in the mix?”
“Well, I sometimes worry I have a bit of fish in me. I rather like water.”
I thought back to my first-grade self. “I liked fish a lot when I was seven. I had a goldfish named George.”
“Of course,” said Crenshaw. “You liked a lot of animals back then. Rats, manatees, cheetahs. You name it.” He groaned. “Bats, too. No wonder I like to eat mosquitoes.”
“Sorry,” I said, but I couldn’t help smiling.
“At least you worked with animals. I have a friend—nice guy—who was made entirely of ice cream. Hated hot weather.”
“Wait.” I let that sink in. “You mean you know other imaginary friends?”
“Of course. Cats are solitary, but we’re not completely antisocial.” He yawned. “I’ve met Marisol’s imaginary friend, Whoop
s. And your dad’s.”
“My dad had an imaginary friend?” I cried.
“It’s more common than you might think, Jackson.” Crenshaw yawned again. “I feel a snooze coming on.”
“Wait,” I said. “Before you go to sleep, just tell me about my dad’s friend.”
Crenshaw closed his eyes. “He plays the guitar, I think.”
“My dad?”
“No. His friend. Plays the trombone, too, if I recall correctly. He’s a dog. Scrawny. Not much to look at.”
“What’s his name?”
“Starts with an F. Unusual name. Franco? Fiji?” Crenshaw snapped his fingers. Which is not something cats generally do. “Finian!” he said. “It’s Finian. Nice guy, for a dog.”
“Finian,” I repeated. “Hmm. Where are you, Crenshaw, when you’re not with me?”
“You’ve seen a teachers’ lounge, right?”
“I’ve peeked. We’re not allowed in. Mostly I saw a lot of coffee cups and Mr. Destephano napping on a couch.”
“Picture a giant teachers’ lounge. Lots of people waiting and snoozing and telling stories about exasperating, amazing children. That’s where I stay. That’s where I wait, just in case you need me.”
“That’s all you do?”
“That’s plenty. Imaginary friends are like books. We’re created, we’re enjoyed, we’re dog-eared and creased, and then we’re tucked away until we’re needed again.”
Crenshaw rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. A good cat fact to know is that they only expose their tummies when they feel safe.
His purr filled the air like a lawn mower.
47
I couldn’t fall asleep that night. Sounds echoed off the walls of our empty apartment. Shadows loomed and shrank. A question kept nagging at me: Why did things have to be this way?
Life isn’t always fair, Crenshaw had said. His words reminded me of an interesting nature fact Ms. Malone had taught us last year in fourth grade.
Bats, she said, actually share food with each other.
She was talking about vampire bats, the ones that slice open sleeping mammals in the dark of night. They don’t actually suck blood. It’s more like they lap it up, which is awesome enough. But the really amazing part, the no way part, is that when they get back to their caves, they share with the unlucky bats who haven’t found anything to eat. They actually puke up warm blood into the hungry bats’ mouths.
If that’s not the coolest nature fact ever, I don’t know what is.
Ms. Malone said maybe bats are altruists, which means they’re sharing to help the other bats, even if it’s a risk. She said some scientists say yes, some say no.
Scientists love to disagree about things.
Ms. Malone looked at me then, because even though it was only like the third week of school, she already had me pegged pretty well. “Jackson,” she said, “maybe you’ll be the one to settle the great Are Bats Nice Guys? debate.”
I said probably not, because I wanted to be a cheetah or manatee or dog scientist, but I would keep bats in mind as a backup plan.
Ms. Malone said something else about bats that day.
She said she sometimes wondered if maybe bats are better human beings than human beings are.
48
I must have finally fallen asleep, because I woke from a horrible nightmare. I was panting. Tears streamed down my cheeks. The moon was wrapped in fog.
Crenshaw placed a paw on my shoulder. Gently he butted his head against mine.
“Bad dream?” he asked.
“I don’t remember it, really. I was in a cave, I think, and I was yelling for someone to help me, and nobody would listen.”
“I’ll help,” said Crenshaw. “I’ll listen.”
I turned to him. Looking in his eyes, I could see myself reflected.
“I can’t go with my family,” I said. My own words surprised me. “I can’t live in the minivan again. I don’t want to have to worry anymore. I’m tired, Crenshaw.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
I blinked. The answer was obvious.
I had to run away.
It wasn’t going to be much of a trip. I’d just have to ask Marisol if I could stay with her. She had plenty of room. I could help around the house.
I leaped up. Crenshaw watched me, but he didn’t say a word.
It wasn’t like I had a lot to pack. I grabbed my pillow, my keepsakes bag, some clothes, and my toothbrush.
The way I figured it, I’d go over to Marisol’s house before my family woke up. Marisol was an early riser. She wouldn’t mind.
It was hard to find a piece of paper and a pencil, but I managed. Aretha and Crenshaw watched me chew on the pencil as I tried to decide what to write.
“What should I say?” I asked, as much to myself as to Crenshaw.
“Tell the truth to the person who matters most,” said Crenshaw. “You.”
And so I did.
Dear Mom and Dad,
Here are the facts.
I am tired of not knowing what is going to happen.
I am old enough to understand things.
I hate living this way.
I’m going to live with Marisol for a while.
When you figure things out, maybe I can join you.
Love,
Jackson
PS: Aretha likes to sleep on a pillow, so don’t forget.
PPS: Robin needs to know what’s happening, too.
In an envelope, I put ten dollars I’d made from walking the Gouchers’ dachshunds. On the outside I wrote: To cover two unfortunate incidents where I used very bad judgment, please give $7 to Safeway (for 2 jars of Gerber chicken and rice) and $3 to Pet Food Express (for a cookie shaped like a cat).
49
Ta-tap-ta-ta-tap.
It was Robin, knocking at my door. “Jacks?”
I dropped my pencil. “Go to sleep, Robin. It’s late.”
“It’s scary in my room.”
“It’ll be morning soon,” I said.
“I’ll just wait here by your door,” Robin said. “I have Spot to keep me company.”
I looked at Crenshaw. He held up his paws. “Don’t ask me. Human children are infinitely more complicated than kittens.”
“Please go back to bed, Robin,” I pleaded.
“I don’t mind waiting,” she said.
I stood.
I went to the door.
I hesitated.
I opened it.
Robin came in. She had Spot, her pillow, and her Lyle book.
I looked at her.
I looked at my note.
I crumpled it up and tossed it aside.
We read Lyle together until we both fell asleep.
50
When I awoke, Robin, Aretha, and Crenshaw were spread out on my mattress. Robin and Aretha were both drooling a little.
Sitting on the floor across from us were my mom and dad. They had on their bathrobes. My dad had my crumpled note, flattened out, in his lap.
“Good morning,” my mom whispered.
I didn’t answer her. I didn’t even look at her.
“Fact,” my dad said softly. “Parents make mistakes.”
“A lot,” my mom added.
“Fact,” said my dad. “Parents try not to burden their kids with grown-up problems. But sometimes that’s hard to do.”
Robin stirred, but she didn’t wake.
“Well, it’s hard being a kid, too,” I said. I was glad I sounded so angry. “It’s hard not to know what’s happening.”
“I know,” said my dad.
“I don’t want to go back to that time,” I said, my voice getting louder with each word. “I hated you for putting us through it. It wasn’t fair. Other kids don’t have to sleep in their car. Other kids aren’t hungry.”
I knew that wasn’t true. I knew that lots of other kids had it worse than I did. But I didn’t care.
“Why can’t you just be like other parents?” I demanded. I w
as crying hard. I gasped for breath. “Why does it have to be this way?”
My mom came over and tried to hug me. I wouldn’t let her.
“We’re so sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered.
My dad sniffed. He cleared his throat.
I looked over at Crenshaw. He was awake, watching me carefully.
I took a deep, shuddery breath. “I know you’re sorry. But that doesn’t change the way things are.”
“You’re right,” said my dad.
No one talked for a few minutes. The only sound was Crenshaw, purring gently. And only I could hear him.
Slowly, very slowly, I began to feel my anger changing into something softer.
“It’s okay,” I finally said. “It’s really okay. I just want you to tell me the truth from now on. That’s all.”
“That’s fair,” my dad said.
“More than fair,” my mom agreed.
“I’m getting older,” I said. “I can handle it.”
“Well, then here’s another fact,” said my dad. “Last night I called the guy who wanted to buy our guitars. He told me his brother owns that music store down by the mall. He needs an assistant manager. His brother also has a garage apartment behind the store that won’t be occupied for a month. It’d give us a roof over our heads for a little while, anyway. Maybe some more work.”
“That’s good, right?” I asked.
“It’s good,” my dad said. “But it’s not a certainty. Here’s the thing, Jackson. Life is messy. It’s complicated. It would be nice if life were always like this.” He drew an imaginary line that kept going up and up. “But life is actually a lot more like this.” He made a jiggly line that went up and down like a mountain range. “You just have to keep trying.”
“What’s that expression?” asked my mom. “Fall down seven times, get up eight?”
“More fortune cookie wisdom,” said my dad. “But it’s true.”
My mom patted my back. “Starting today, we’ll be as honest with you as we can. Is that what you want?”
I looked over at Crenshaw. He nodded.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what I want.”
“All right, then,” said my dad. “It’s a deal.”
“Fact,” said my mom. “I’d really like some breakfast. Let’s go see what we can do about that.”
Crenshaw Page 8
