Crenshaw

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.

I didn’t know how to tell Marisol why we were leaving. I’d never told her about our money problems, although she may have guessed by the way I didn’t offer her anything to eat when she came over, or by the way my clothes were always a little too small.

I wasn’t lying, exactly. It was more that I left out certain facts and focused on others.

I didn’t want to do it, of course. I liked facts. And so did Marisol. But sometimes facts were just too hard to share.

I decided to tell Marisol something about a sick relative, about how we had to go take care of him, and how it was an all-of-a-sudden kind of thing. But just as I started to speak, Crenshaw leaned close and whispered in my ear: “The truth, Jackson.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten. Slowly.

Ten seconds seemed like the right amount of time for me to stop being crazy.

I opened my eyes. Marisol was smiling at me.

And then I told her everything. I told her about how worried I’d been and how we were hungry sometimes and how afraid I was about what might come next.

We walked toward the school playground. Crenshaw strode ahead and rocketed down the tube slide. When he got to the bottom, he looked at me and nodded approvingly.

And then, I don’t know why, I told Marisol one more fact.

I told her about Crenshaw.