Crenshaw

27

The next evening, Crenshaw appeared. All of him. Not just his tail.

We were at a rest stop off Highway 101, sitting at a picnic table.

“Cheetos and water for dinner,” my mom said. She sighed. “I am a bad, bad mother.”

“Not a lot of options at a vending machine on the 101,” my dad said. He had hung a pair of his underwear on a nearby bush to dry. Sometimes we washed our clothes in the sinks at bathrooms. I tried not to look at the underwear.

After we ate, I headed to a patch of grass under a pine tree. I lay down and stared at the darkening sky. I could see my parents, and they could see me, but at least I felt like I was a little bit on my own.

I loved my family. But I was also tired of my family. I was tired of being hungry. I was tired of sleeping in a box.

I missed my bed. I missed my books and Legos. I even missed my bathtub.

Those were the facts.

A gentle breeze set the grass dancing. The stars spun.

I heard the sound of wheels on gravel and sat up on my elbows. I recognized the tail first.

“Meow,” said the cat.

“Meow,” I said back, because it seemed polite.