Кэтрин Эпплгейт - Crenshaw

“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.