Crenshaw

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.