Crenshaw

13

I looked at him. He looked at me.

I flew into the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it.

“Meow,” he said. It sounded like a question.

I did not say “meow” back. I did not say anything.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

He was still there when I opened them.

Crenshaw seemed even bigger up close. His white stomach rose from the bubbles like a snowy island. His enormous tail draped over the side of the tub.

“Do you have any purple jelly beans?” he asked. He had thick whiskers that poked out from his face like uncooked spaghetti.

“No.” I said it more to myself than to him.

Aretha scratched at the door.

“Not now, girl,” I said.

She whined.

Crenshaw wrinkled his nose. “I smell dog.”

He was holding one of Robin’s rubber duckies. He looked at the duck carefully, then rubbed his forehead on it. Cats have scent glands by their ears, and when they rub on something, it’s like writing, in big letters, THIS IS MINE.

“You are imaginary,” I said in my firmest voice. “You are not real.” Crenshaw made himself a beard out of bubbles.

“I invented you when I was seven,” I said, “and that means I can un-invent you now.”

Crenshaw didn’t seem to be paying attention. “If you don’t have purple jelly beans,” he said, “red will do in a pinch.”

I looked in the mirror. My face was pale and sweaty. I could still see Crenshaw’s reflection. He was making a tiny bubble beard for the rubber duck.

“You do not exist,” I said to the cat in the mirror.

“I beg to differ,” said Crenshaw.

Aretha scratched again. “Fine,” I muttered. I eased open the door an inch to make sure no one was in the hallway listening.

Listening to me talk to an imaginary cat.

Aretha bulldozed through like I had a giant, juicy steak waiting in the tub. I locked the door again.

Once she was inside, Aretha stood perfectly still on the bath rug, except for her tail. That was fluttering like a windy-day flag.

“I am positively flummoxed as to why your family felt the need for a dog,” said Crenshaw, eyeing her suspiciously. “Why not a cat? An animal with some panache? Some pizzazz? Some dignity?”

“Both my parents are allergic to cats,” I said.

I am talking to my imaginary friend.

I invented him when I was seven.

He is here in our bathtub.

He has a bubble beard.

Aretha tilted her head. Her ears were on alert. When she sniffed the air, her wet nose quivered.

“Begone, foul beast,” said Crenshaw.

Aretha plopped her big paws on the edge of the tub and gave Crenshaw a heartfelt, slobbery kiss.

He hissed, long and slow. It sounded more like a bike tire losing air than an angry cat.

Aretha tried for another kiss. Crenshaw flicked a pawful of bubbles at her. She caught them in her mouth and ate them.

“I never have seen the point of dogs,” said Crenshaw.

“You’re not real,” I said again.

“You always were a stubborn child.”

Crenshaw unplugged the tub and stood. Bubbles drifted. Bathwater swirled. Dripping wet, he looked half his size. With his fur slicked down, I could make out the delicate bones of his legs. Water rushed past them like a flood around trees.

He had excellent posture.

I didn’t remember Crenshaw towering above me. I’d gotten a lot taller since I was seven, but had he? Did imaginary friends actually grow?

“Towel, please,” said Crenshaw.