Кэтрин Эпплгейт - Crenshaw

“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, Whoops. 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.”