“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.