I opened my eyes. A frog was on my forehead.
He looked familiar. Like the windowsill visitor Crenshaw had wanted to eat.
I turned my head and the frog leaped off. Next to me lay a human-sized cat. On top of Crenshaw lay a medium-sized dog. And on top of Aretha sat the frog.
Two of the three were snoring.
I sat up on my elbows. I blinked. Blinked again.
I’d left the window ajar. That explained the frog. It did not explain the cat.
“You’re back,” I said.
“Morning,” Crenshaw murmured, his eyes still closed. He wrapped his paws around Aretha, snuggling close.
“Just tell me this,” I said. I crawled off my mattress and stretched. “How do I get rid of you for good?”
“I’m here to help you,” Crenshaw said. He yawned. His teeth were like little knives. He pulled one of Aretha’s velvety ears over his eyes to block out the sun.
“What did you mean about telling the truth?” I asked.
“Truth is important to you,” said Crenshaw. “So it’s important to me. Now, please allow me to continue my slumber.”
“Are you my conscience?” I asked.
“That depends. Would you like me to be?”
I checked my closet, just in case there was a giant invisible possum or gopher or something lurking there. “No,” I said. “I’m managing just fine on my own.”
“Oh, really?” said Crenshaw. “What’s that abominable dog treat lying on the floor?”
The cookie. Aretha still hadn’t eaten it.
I tossed it out my window. Maybe squirrels wouldn’t mind eating something stolen.
“Remember when you stole the yo-yo back when you were five?” Crenshaw asked.
“When my parents caught me, I tried to blame you.”
“Everyone always blames the imaginary friend.”
“Then my parents made me take it back and apologize to the store.”
“I think you see where this is going.” Another yawn. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking a little catnap.”
I stared at him. He’d made me feel mystified and annoyed and more than a little crazy. And now he was making me feel guilty. One way or another, I had to get him out of my life.
“By the way,” I said before leaving the room, “you’re hugging a dog.”
I didn’t see what happened next, but I heard a hiss and a yowl. Aretha dashed past me at high speed.
She hid under the kitchen table for an hour.
42
Selling your stuff at a yard sale is a weird experience. It’s like walking around with your clothes on inside out. Underwear on top of jeans, socks on top of sneakers.
The insides of your apartment are spread out for everybody to see and touch. Strangers finger the lamp that used to be on your bedside table. Sweaty guys sit in your dad’s favorite chair. Little stickers are on everything. Five dollars for your old tricycle that still has sparklers on the wheels. Fifty cents for the Candy Land game.
It was a sunny Sunday morning. Lots of neighbors were selling stuff, too. It almost felt like a party. My mom sat at a card table with a little box to hold money. My dad walked around while people bargained with him and said how about two dollars instead of three.
When he got too tired to walk, he sat in a folding chair and played songs on his guitar and sang. Sometimes my mom would sing harmony.
My main job was to carry stuff to people’s cars and to keep an eye on Robin. She was pulling someone’s old wagon that had a $4 sign taped to it. In the wagon was her trash can with the blue bunnies, which my parents had promised she could keep.
It wasn’t so bad, watching our things get sold. I told myself that every dollar we made was a good thing and that it was all just meaningless stuff. And it was nice to be with our neighbors and friends, drinking lemonade and talking and singing along with my parents.
Around noon, we’d sold almost everything. I watched my mom count up the money we’d made. She looked over at my dad and shook her head. “Not even close to what we need,” she said quietly.
Before he could respond, a skinny man with a ponytail approached my dad. He pulled out a fancy leather wallet and asked my dad if his guitar was for sale. My dad and mom exchanged a glance. “Could be, I suppose,” said my dad.
“I have one that’s for sale, too,” my mom added quickly. “It’s back in the apartment.”
My dad held up his guitar. Sunlight darted off its smooth black body. “It’s a beauty,” said my dad. “Lotta history.”
“Dad,” I exclaimed, “you can’t sell your guitar.”
“There’s always another guitar around the bend, Jacks,” said my dad, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Robin ran over. She was still towing the wagon, which nobody had bought. “You can’t sell that!” she cried. “It’s named after Jackson!”
“Actually,” I said, “I was named after the guitar.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Robin’s eyes welled with tears. “That’s a keepsake for keeping. Here. You can have my trash can for free, mister. Instead.”
She thrust her trash can into the skinny man’s hands. “I, uh—” the man began. “I … it’s a dynamite trash can, sweetie. I really like the … the bunnies. But I’m more in the market for a guitar.”
“No guitars, no way,” Robin said.
My dad gave the man a helpless shrug. “Sorry, man,” he said. “You heard the lady. Tell you what, though. Why don’t you give me your phone number? In case we have a change of heart. I’ll walk you out to your car.”
Together, my dad and the man headed toward a sleek black car. My dad’s left foot dragged a little. Sometimes that happens with MS.
They exchanged scraps of paper, talked, and nodded. The skinny man drove off, and I had a feeling that my dad’s change of heart had already happened.
43
About an hour later, our landlord came by our apartment. He had an envelope in his hand. He hugged my mom and shook my dad’s hand and said he wished things could be different. I knew what the paper was because I could see the words at the top.
It said FINAL EVICTION NOTICE. Which meant we had to leave the apartment.
My dad leaned against the wall. There wasn’t anywhere to sit anymore.
“Kids,” he said, “looks like we’re going to be taking a little drive.”
“To Grandma’s?” asked Robin.
“Not exactly,” said my mom. She slammed a cupboard door shut.
My dad knelt down next to Robin. He had to use his cane to keep steady. “We have to move, baby. But it will be fun. You’ll see.”
Robin’s eyes bored into me. “You told me it would be okay, Jacks,” she said. “You lied.”
“I didn’t lie,” I lied.
“This isn’t Jackson’s fault, Robin,” my mom said. “Don’t blame him. Blame us.”
I didn’t wait to hear any more. I ran to my room. Crenshaw was lying on my bed.
I sat next to him, and when I buried my head in his fur, he didn’t object. He purred loudly.
I cried a little, but not much. There wasn’t any point.
Once I read a book called Why Cats Purr and Other Feline Mysteries.
Turns out nobody knows for sure why cats purr.
It’s surprising how much stuff adults don’t know.
44
At four that afternoon, Marisol came to the door. She was wearing flip-flops and flowered pajamas. She had the Gouchers’ dachshunds, Frank and Beans, with her. “Did you forget?” she asked. “You were supposed to meet me.”
I apologized and took Frank’s leash. As we started down the sidewalk, I was surprised to see Crenshaw walking ahead of us. Not as surprised as I might have been a day or two ago. But still. There he was, gliding along on his hind legs, doing the occasional cartwheel or handstand.