Кэтрин Эпплгейт - Crenshaw

“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 was 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.”