Crenshaw Page 5

  The next time the light was red, a driver in a pickup truck gave my dad coins. When the light turned green, people mostly just passed by, their eyes on the road ahead. But a few smiled or nodded.

  Red. Green. Red. Green. The hour wore on. When he climbed back into our van, my dad smelled like car exhaust. He passed my mom a handful of wadded-up bills and some coins. “Seven lousy bucks and change.”

  “It’s really starting to come down,” my mom said. “People don’t like to open their windows when it rains.” She gazed at the wet dollars. “We could try up by the mall. Maybe it’s just a bad corner.”

  My dad shook his head. “Maybe it’s a bad idea.”

  “We need the rain,” I said. “Because of the drought and all.”

  “Good point,” said my dad. “Let’s look on Jackson’s bright side.”

  After a while, the rain slowed to a drizzle. We drove to a park so my mom and Robin could get some fresh air. She said Robin was going stir-crazy.

  “How about you come, too, Jackson?” my mom asked as she undid Robin’s car seat straps.

  “Nah. Too wet,” I said.

  “You’re both gonna get wet,” my dad warned.

  “Robin’s getting antsy,” my mom said. “We can dry our clothes on top of the car when the sun comes out.”

  “Day just gets better and better.”

  My mom leaned across the seat and kissed my dad’s cheek, which was kind of stubbly. “Good times,” she said.

  I stayed in our minivan with my dad. Aretha, who smelled a little ripe, was sleeping in the back.

  I decided to draw a new sign for my dad. A better one, like the one my mom had made for our bathroom door.

  I tore some cardboard off the end of my sleeping box. Then I made a smiling fish, sitting in a canoe. He was holding a fishing pole and wearing a floppy hat.

  In big letters I wrote: ID RATHIR BE FISHING.

  My dad was dozing in the driver’s seat. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t snoring. So I knew he wasn’t serious.

  I poked him with my sign.

  “Try this next time, Dad.”

  He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and took the sign from me. For a long time, he just stared at it.

  “Great job,” he finally said. “I like the mustache on the trout. Nice touch. Just FYI, RATHER has an E. And ID … oh, never mind. It’s great, kiddo. Thanks.”

  “If it gets wet, we can grab some more cardboard, and I’ll make a new one.”

  My dad set the sign down gently on the passenger seat. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. It was misty. Leaves were shiny and dripping.

  Mom says she’s only seen my dad cry three times. When they got married, and when Robin and I were born.

  I watched my dad lean against the hood of our car and cover his eyes with his hand.

  His face was damp, but I told myself it was probably just the rain.

  26

  During the afternoon rush hour the next day, my dad returned to the same corner with his new sign. It was drizzling again, and gray clouds hung low in the sky. I waited in the car with my mom and Robin and Aretha.

  My mom had just gotten off work at Rite Aid. She said two people were out sick, which meant she was the only cashier. People in line were grumpy, she said. Why didn’t they just read the Enquirer and wait their turns?

  A driver in a red SUV rolled down his window. He smiled and said something to my dad. They both nodded. My dad tucked the sign under his arm and held out his hands till they were about two feet apart.

  “I’ll bet Dad’s telling him about that trout at the lake,” I said to my mom.

  She smiled. “And exaggerating.”

  “Is that the same as lying?” I asked.

  “Not when it’s fish-related,” said my mom.

  When the light changed, the driver handed my dad money and waved as he pulled away. After about an hour, he’d collected a bunch of dollar bills. Also a big cup of coffee and a sack with two slices of lemon pound cake in it.

  My sign was a soggy mess.

  My mom flattened the bills on her lap. “Fifty-six dollars,” she announced.

  “And eighty-three cents,” my dad added.

  My parents shared the coffee. I split the pound cake with Robin. Then I climbed to the back. Aretha was tail-thumping hopefully.

  When no one was looking, I gave her my whole piece.

  It was windy and cold, and the rain had come back hard. We listened to the radio as tiny rivers zigged and zagged down the glass.

  A new man went to stand on the corner. His sign said VET—GOD BLESS. A small, poodley-looking dog was nestled in his half-zipped jacket.

  “I still think you should take Aretha with you next time, Dad,” I said. “I’ll bet we’ll make even more money.”

  He didn’t answer. I figured he was listening to the radio announcer. She was warning that the chance of rain was 80 percent, so it was a good night to stay inside.

  A summer-day-camp bus stopped at the light. Its windows were fogged up. I saw some kids and hunched down in case I knew them.

  Someone had drawn a smiley face with a word by it. Hello! I decided, but it was hard to tell. I was on the outside, so everything was backward.

  Aretha licked my sticky hand.

  “Next time,” my mom said, leaning her head on my dad’s shoulder, “I’ll do it.”

  “No,” he answered, so softly I almost couldn’t hear him. “No, you won’t.”

  27

  The next evening, Crenshaw appeared. All of him. Not just his tail.

  We were at a rest stop off Highway 101, sitting at a picnic table.

  “Cheetos and water for dinner,” my mom said. She sighed. “I am a bad, bad mother.”

  “Not a lot of options at a vending machine on the 101,” my dad said. He had hung a pair of his underwear on a nearby bush to dry. Sometimes we washed our clothes in the sinks at bathrooms. I tried not to look at the underwear.

  After we ate, I headed to a patch of grass under a pine tree. I lay down and stared at the darkening sky. I could see my parents, and they could see me, but at least I felt like I was a little bit on my own.

  I loved my family. But I was also tired of my family. I was tired of being hungry. I was tired of sleeping in a box.

  I missed my bed. I missed my books and Legos. I even missed my bathtub.

  Those were the facts.

  A gentle breeze set the grass dancing. The stars spun.

  I heard the sound of wheels on gravel and sat up on my elbows. I recognized the tail first.

  “Meow,” said the cat.

  “Meow,” I said back, because it seemed polite.

  28

  We lived in our minivan for fourteen weeks.

  Some days we drove from place to place. Some days we just parked and sat. We weren’t going anywhere. We just knew we weren’t going home.

  I guess getting out of homelessness doesn’t happen all at once, either.

  We were lucky. Some people live in their cars for years.

  I’m not looking on the bright side. It was pretty scary. And stinky.

  But my parents took care of us the best they could.

  After a month, my dad got a part-time job at a hardware store. My mom picked up some extra waitressing shifts, and my dad kept singing for tips. Every time his fishing sign got wet, I made him a new one. Slowly they started saving money, bit by bit, to pay for a rental deposit on an apartment.

  It was sort of like getting over a cold. Sometimes you feel like you’ll never stop coughing. Other times you’re sure tomorrow is the day you’ll definitely be well.

  When they finally put together enough money, my parents moved us to Swanlake Village. It was about forty miles from our old house, which meant I had to start at a new school. I didn’t care at all. At least I was going back to school. A place where facts mattered and things made sense.

  Instead of a house, we moved into a small, tired-looking apartment. It seemed like a palace to us. A place where
you could be warm and dry and safe.

  I started school late, but eventually I made new friends. I never told them about the time we were homeless. Not even Marisol. I just couldn’t.

  If I never talked about it, I felt like it couldn’t ever happen again.

  29

  Crenshaw and I didn’t chat much during those weeks on the road. There was always someone around to interrupt us. But that was okay. I knew he was there and that was enough.

  Sometimes that’s all you really need from a friend.

  When I think about that time, what I remember most of all is Crenshaw, riding on top of our minivan. I’d stare out the window at the world blurring past, and every so often I’d catch a glimpse of his tail, riding the wind like the end of a kite.

  I’d feel hopeful then, for a while at least, that things would get better, that maybe, just maybe, anything was possible.

  30

  I guess for most kids, imaginary friends just sort of fade away, the way dreams do. I’ve asked people when their imaginary friends stopped hanging around, and they never seem to remember.

  Everybody said the same thing: I guess I just outgrew him.

  But I lost Crenshaw all of a sudden, after things got back to normal. It was like when you have a favorite T-shirt that you’ve worn forever. One day you put it on, and surprise: Your belly button is showing. You don’t remember growing too big for your shirt, but sure enough, there’s your belly button, sticking out for the whole wide world to see.

  The day he left, Crenshaw walked to school with me. He did that most mornings unless he wanted to stay home and watch Blue’s Clues reruns. We stopped at the playground. I was telling him about how I wanted to get a real cat someday.

  That was before I found out my parents are extremely allergic to cats.

  Crenshaw stood on his head. Then he did a cartwheel. He was an excellent cartwheeler.

  When he came to a stop, he gave me a grumpy look. “I’m a cat,” he said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “I’m a real cat.” His tail whipped up and down.

  “I mean,” I said, “you know—a cat other people can see.”

  He batted a paw at a yellow butterfly. I could tell he was ignoring me.

  A bunch of big guys, fourth and fifth graders, walked by. They pointed at me and laughed, making cuckoo circles with their fingers.

  “Who you talking to, doofus?” one asked, and then he snort-laughed.

  That is my least favorite kind of laughing.

  I pretended not to hear him. I knelt down and tied my shoe like it was a very important thing I had to do.

  My face was hot. My eyes were wet. I’d never been embarrassed about having an imaginary friend until that moment.

  I waited. The boys moved on. Then I heard someone else approaching. She wasn’t walking. More like skip-dancing.

  “Hey, I’m Marisol,” said the girl. I’d seen her at recess before. She had long, dark, crazy hair and an unusually large smile. “I have a Tyrannosaurus backpack just like yours. I’m going to be a paleontologist when I grow up, which means—”

  “I know what it means,” I said. “I want to be one too. Or maybe a bat scientist.”

  Her smile got even bigger.

  “I’m Jackson,” I said, and I stood.

  When I looked around me, I realized that Crenshaw had vanished.

  31

  I’ve sometimes wondered if I was kind of old to have an imaginary friend. Crenshaw didn’t even show up in my life until the end of first grade.

  So one day at the library, I looked it up. Turns out somebody did a study on children and their imaginary friends. Fact is, 31 percent of them had an imaginary friend at age six or seven, even more than three- and four-year-olds.

  Maybe I wasn’t so old after all.

  In any case, Crenshaw had excellent timing. He came into my life just when I needed him to.

  It was a good time to have a friend, even if he was imaginary.

  PART THREE

  The world is so you have something to stand on

  —A HOLE IS TO DIG: A FIRST BOOK OF FIRST DEFINITIONS,

  written by Ruth Krauss and illustrated by Maurice Sendak

  32

  It occurred to me that Crenshaw’s return—the night of the kitty bubble bath, as I came to think of it—might be a sign that I was right about my parents. It was coming again—the moving, the craziness. Maybe even the homelessness.

  I told myself I’d just have to face facts and make the best of it. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d hit a rough spot.

  Still and all. I’d been hoping to get Ms. Leach for fifth grade. Everybody said she liked to explode stuff for science experiments. And Marisol and I had our dog-walking business going pretty well. And I’d been looking forward to trying out the new skate park when they got it built in January. And maybe even doing rec soccer, if we could come up with the money for a uniform.

  It would be easier for Robin. You could move her anywhere and she’d be fine. She made friends in an instant. She didn’t have to worry about real stuff.

  She was still a kid.

  I lay on my mattress as the list of things I was going to miss kept getting longer. I told my brain to take a time-out. Sometimes that actually works.

  Not so much, this round.

  Last year, my principal told me I was an “old soul.” I asked what that meant, and he said I seemed wise beyond my years. He said it was a compliment. That he liked the way I always knew when someone needed help with fractions. Or the way I emptied the pencil sharpener without being asked.

  That’s the way I am at home, too. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes I feel like the most grown-up one in the house. Which is why it seemed like my parents should have known they could talk to me about grown-up stuff.

  And why it seemed like they should tell me the truth about moving.

  Last fall a big raccoon got into our apartment through an open window. It was two in the morning. Aretha barked like a maniac and we all ran to see what was wrong.

  The raccoon was in the kitchen, examining a piece of Aretha’s dog chow. He held it in his little hands proudly, like he’d discovered a big brown diamond. He was not even a tiny bit afraid of us.

  He nibbled his diamond carefully. He seemed glad we’d joined him for dinner.

  Aretha leaped onto the couch. She was barking so loud I thought my ears would fall off.

  Robin ran to get her baby buggy in case the raccoon wanted to go for a ride. My mom called 911 to report a home invasion.

  My dad, who only had on his sock monkey pajama bottoms, turned on his electric guitar and made this earsplitting screechy sound to scare off the raccoon.

  “Don’t you dare go near that animal,” my mom warned Robin. She pointed to her cell phone and shushed us. “Yes, Officer, yes. 68 Quiet Moon. Apartment 132. No, he’s not attacking anyone. He’s eating dog food. Dog chow, actually. Not the wet kind. Kids, stay away. He could be rabid.”

  “He’s not a rabbit, Mommy,” Robin said as she wheeled her baby buggy in circles around the living room. “I’m pretty sure he’s a beaver.”

  For a while I just watched them all go crazy. It was kind of entertaining.

  Finally I whistled.

  I have a really good whistle for a kid. I use my pinkie fingers.

  Everyone stopped and stared. Even the raccoon.

  “Guys, just sit on the couch,” I said. “I’ve got this.”

  I walked to the front door and opened it.

  That’s all I did. Just opened it.

  Fog drifted. Frogs chatted. The waiting world was calm.

  Everyone sat on the couch. I kept Aretha quiet with her squirrel chew toy. It was covered with dog slobber.

  We watched the raccoon finish his food. When he was done, he waddled past us like he owned the place and headed for the open door. He glanced over his shoulder before he left. I could almost hear him muttering Next time I go to a different place. This family is nuts.

/>   Lately, I felt like I always had to be on alert for the next raccoon invasion.

  33

  Saturday morning, I woke up, went into the living room, and found a big empty spot where our TV had been. The room looked naked without it.

  My dad was making breakfast. Pancakes and bacon. We hadn’t had pancakes and bacon in a really long time.

  Robin was sitting at the kitchen table. Aretha was drooling, and Robin’s chin was gooey with syrup. “Daddy made my pancakes shaped like Rs. For Robin.”

  “Do you have a letter preference?” my dad asked me.

  He was using his cane, which meant he wasn’t feeling great. “You okay?” I asked.

  “The cane?” He shrugged. “Just a little insurance policy.”

  I hugged him. “Plain old circle pancakes would be great,” I said. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Picked up an extra breakfast shift at Toast.”

  “Daddy sold the TV to Marisol,” Robin said. She jutted out her lower lip to make sure we knew she wasn’t happy.

  “Marisol?” I repeated.

  “I saw her dad while I was taking out the trash,” my dad said as he poured perfect circles of batter into a pan. “We were talking about the game today, and how his TV had conked out, and one thing led to another. He had the cash, I had the TV, and the rest is history.”

  “But how are you and I going to watch the game?” I asked.

  “We’re going to Best Buy it.”

  I grabbed a strip of bacon. “What’s that mean?”

  My dad adjusted the heat on the stove. “You’ll see. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “Aretha liked watching Curious George,” said Robin. She set down her plate and Aretha licked it clean.

  “You may be interested to hear that Curious George began his existence as a character in a book,” said my dad as he flipped a pancake. “In any case, this family needs to spend more quality time together. You know—play cards, maybe. Or Monopoly.”

  “I like Chutes and Ladders,” said Robin.