I got my start with jars of baby food. Even though she was five, Robin liked eating it sometimes. The stinky meat kind, not even the fruit goo.
Don’t ask me why. I will never understand that girl.
We’d stopped at a Safeway grocery store because Robin had to go to the bathroom. She wanted to get something to eat, but my mom said wait till later. While they went to find the restroom, I wandered down the aisles to kill time.
And then I saw the Gerber baby food. I slipped two jars of chicken and rice into my pockets. Smooth and easy as could be.
Nobody seemed to notice. Probably because who would think a kid my age would steal something that looks like brown snot?
In the next aisle, I passed a guy from my school with his dad. Paul something. He was pushing their shopping cart. They had a giant snack pack of barbecue potato chips and those lemonade drinks in little boxes and a giant bag of red apples.
I waved very casually. An it’s-not-like-I’m-showing-bad-judgment-or-anything kind of wave. Paul waved back.
I walked right out the door with Robin and my mom, no sweat. No lightning came down to zap me. No police cars zoomed in with sirens howling like coyotes.
Later at home, I pretended to find the jars in the back of a cupboard. My mom was really happy, and so was Robin.
I was amazed how easy the lying came. It was like turning on a faucet. The words just rushed right out.
I felt guilty for not feeling guilty. I mean, I’d shoplifted. I’d taken something that didn’t belong to me. I was a criminal.
But I told myself that in nature it’s survival of the fittest. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed.
They say those things a lot in nature films. Right after the lion eats the zebra.
Of course I wasn’t a lion. I was a person who knew right from wrong. And stealing was wrong.
But here’s the truth. I felt crummy about the stealing. But I felt even worse about the lying.
If you like facts the way I do, try lying sometime. It’ll surprise you how hard it is to do.
Still and all. Even though I felt lousy, I had fixed a problem.
Robin gobbled down the chicken-and-rice goo so fast that she threw up most of it on my book about cheetahs. I figured maybe that was my punishment.
37
When we got home from the pet store, I went to my room, half expecting to see Crenshaw lounging on my bed. Instead, I found Aretha. Her nose was buried in my keepsakes bag, and she had a guilty expression on her face. She for sure had something in her mouth, but I couldn’t see what it was.
“Show me,” I said. I pulled the stolen dog cookie from my pocket. It was a little mushed on one side. I held it out so that Aretha would drop whatever was in her mouth and snatch the cookie. But she wasn’t interested.
Probably she didn’t want to eat stolen goods.
Aretha slunk toward my bedroom door, tail dragging, and I saw what she was holding. It was the clay statue I’d made of Crenshaw, clutched between her teeth.
“You don’t want that old thing,” I said, but she seemed to disagree. As soon as she was out of my bedroom, she galloped down the hall and scratched urgently at the front door.
“Want me to open it, baby?” Robin asked. She turned the knob and Aretha rocketed outside.
“Aretha! Stop!” I yelled. Usually she waited by the door for me, flopping her tail hopefully. Not today.
I grabbed her leash. She was heading straight for Marisol’s house, which was about half a block down the street. Aretha loved Marisol. She also loved Marisol’s seven cats, who enjoyed sunbathing on the screened-in back porch.
I found Aretha in Marisol’s old sandbox. Marisol didn’t use it anymore, but Aretha loved it. She was already digging a hole. Sand fanned skyward like sprinkler spray.
Aretha was an expert digger. She’d buried two water bowls, a TV remote control, a pizza box, a ziplock bag of Legos, three Frisbees, and two of my homework folders there. Not that my teachers had believed me.
Marisol was wearing flip-flops and her pajamas, which had snoring sheep on them. She loved pajamas. In first grade, she wore them to school every day until the principal told her she was setting a bad example.
In her left hand, Marisol had a large saw. Her hair was covered with sawdust. She almost always smelled like fresh-cut wood.
Marisol loved to build things, especially things for animals and birds and reptiles. She made birdhouses and bat shelters. Dog carriers and cat trees. Hamster habitats and ferret houses.
At the end of her fenced yard were planks, a sawhorse, and a big circular saw. A small house-looking thing was on the ground, half built. It was for one of her cats.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she said. “You ready for the yard sale?”
“I guess.”
“Aretha brought me that,” Marisol said. She pointed to my Crenshaw statue, which was sitting on the picnic table. “Dropped it right at my feet.”
“I made it when I was little,” I said with a shrug. “It’s lame.”
“If you made it, it’s not lame,” Marisol said. She put down her saw and examined the statue.
Aretha stopped digging and looked up at us hopefully. Her face was covered in sand. Her tongue lolled sideways.
“It’s a cat,” Marisol said, brushing off a piece of grass stuck to the bottom. “A standing cat with a baseball cap. I like it. I like it very much.”
I shrugged, hands in my pockets.
“Was this for the yard sale?” Marisol asked. “How much is it?”
“It’s not for sale. Aretha got into a bag of my stuff is all.”
“I have three dollars.”
“For that?” I laughed. “It’s just, you know. A hunk of clay. Some school project.”
“I like it. It’s … intriguing.” Marisol reached into her pajama pocket. She handed me a wad of money that looked like it had been through the laundry.
“Keep it,” I said. “Think of it as a going-away present.”
Her eyes went wide. “What are you talking about, Jackson? You’re not—”
I waved a hand. “No. It’s probably nothing. My parents are just being their usual weird selves.”
It wasn’t the truth, not completely. But it wasn’t not the truth.
“You’d better not move. I’d miss you too much. Who would help me with See Spot Walk? And anyway, I love your weird parents.”
I didn’t respond.
“We’ve got the dachshunds tomorrow,” Marisol said.
“Yep.” I pointed to the miniature zigzag staircase she was building. “Where’s that going?”
“Antonio’s old room, when he heads off to college this fall. Or maybe Luis’s. His room is just full of boxes.”
“You’re like an only child,” I said.
“It’s kind of boring,” Marisol said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “There’s no one to fight with. It’s too quiet.”
“Sounds nice.”
“I like your apartment. There’s always something going on. Sometimes it’s just me and Paula for days on end.” She rolled her eyes.
Marisol’s dad was a salesman and her mom was a pilot. They traveled a lot, so Paula, an older woman, often stayed with Marisol. Marisol refused to call her a “nanny” or “babysitter” or “caregiver.” She was just “Paula.”
Marisol grabbed a tape measure to check the height of the staircase she was making. “I’m going to attach this staircase to the wall, see? Like so? And then put shelves way up high for the cats to climb to. It’ll be cat paradise.”
“Speaking of cats…” I bent down to fill in the hole Aretha had made. The sand was soft and dry. “Did I ever tell you…” I hesitated, then pushed on. “Did I ever tell you that I had an imaginary friend when I was little?”
“Really? Me too. Her name was Whoops. She had red hair and was extremely naughty. I blamed her for everything. Who was yours?”
“He was a cat. A big cat. I don’t remember much about him.”
“You should never forget your imaginary friend.”