Crenshaw

14

With trembling fingers, I passed Robin’s faded pink Hello Kitty towel to Crenshaw.

Thoughts zapped through my brain like summer lightning.

I can see my imaginary friend.

I can hear him.

I can talk to him.

He is using a towel.

As Crenshaw climbed out of the tub, he reached for my hand. His paw was warm and soft and wet, big as a lion’s, with fingers the size of baby carrots.

I can feel him.

He feels real.

He smells like wet cat.

He has fingers.

Cats do not have fingers.

Crenshaw attempted to dry himself. Each time he noticed a tuft of hair out of place, he paused to lick it. His tongue was covered with little prickers, like pink Velcro.

“Those things on your tongue are called papillae,” I said, and then I realized that maybe this wasn’t the best time to be sharing nature facts.

Crenshaw glanced in the mirror. “My, don’t I look a fright.”

Aretha licked his tail helpfully.

“Off me, hound,” Crenshaw said. He tossed the towel aside, and it landed on Aretha. “I need more than a towel. I need a good old-fashioned shake.”

Crenshaw took a deep breath. His body rippled. Water droplets flew like crystal fireworks. When he’d finished, his fur was spiky.

Aretha tossed off the towel, wagging crazily.

“Look at that ridiculous tail,” Crenshaw said. “Humans laugh with their mouths, dogs with their tails. Either way, it makes for pointless mirth.”

I pulled the towel away from Aretha. She snared it between her teeth to play tug-of-war. “What about cats?” I asked. “Don’t you laugh?”

I am talking to a cat.

A cat is talking to me.

“We smirk,” Crenshaw said. “We sneer. Rarely, we are quietly amused.” He licked his paw and smoothed a spike of fur near his ear. “But we do not laugh.”

“I need to sit down,” I said.

“Where are your parents? And Robin? I haven’t seen them in ages.”

“Sleeping.”

“I shall go wake them.”

“No!” I practically screamed it. “I mean … let’s go to my room. We need to talk.”

“I’ll leap onto their beds and walk on their heads. It will be amusing.”

“No,” I said. “You will not walk on anyone’s head.”

Crenshaw reached for the doorknob. His paw slipped off when he tried to turn it. “Would you mind?” he said.

I grabbed the knob. “Listen,” I said. “I need to know something. Can everybody see you? Or just me?”

Crenshaw chewed on one of his nails. It was pale and pink, sharp as a new moon sliver. “I can’t say for sure, Jackson. I’m a bit out of practice.”

“Out of practice doing what?”

“Being your friend.” He moved to another nail. “Theoretically, only you can see me. But when an imaginary friend is left to his own devices, alone and forgotten … who knows?” His voice trailed off. He made a pouty face, far better than anything Robin could pull off. “It’s been a long time since you left me behind. Perhaps things have changed. Perhaps the fabric of the universe has unraveled just a tad.”

“Well, what if you are visible? I can’t let you just walk down the hall to my room. What if my dad wakes up to get a snack? What if Robin has to go to the bathroom?”

“She doesn’t have a litter box in her room?”

“No. She does not have a litter box in her room.” I pointed to the toilet.

“Ah, yes. It’s all coming back to me now.”

“Look, we’re going to my room. Be quiet. And if anybody comes out, just, I don’t know, freeze. Pretend you’re a stuffed animal.”

“Stuffed?” He sounded offended. “I beg your pardon?”

“Just do what I say.”

The hallway was dark, except for the bathroom light spilling onto the carpet like melted butter. Crenshaw moved silently, for such a big guy. That’s why cats are amazing hunters.

I heard a soft creak behind me.

Robin stepped out of her bedroom.

I jerked my head to check on Crenshaw.

He froze in place. His mouth was open and his teeth were bared, like one of those dusty, dead animals on display at a natural-history museum.

“Jacks?” said Robin in a slurry voice. “Who were you talking to?”