Crenshaw

32

It occurred to me that Crenshaw’s return—the night of the kitty bubble bath, as I came to think of it—might be a sign that I was right about my parents. It was coming again—the moving, the craziness. Maybe even the homelessness.

I told myself I’d just have to face facts and make the best of it. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d hit a rough spot.

Still and all. I’d been hoping to get Ms. Leach for fifth grade. Everybody said she liked to explode stuff for science experiments. And Marisol and I had our dog-walking business going pretty well. And I’d been looking forward to trying out the new skate park when they got it built in January. And maybe even doing rec soccer, if we could come up with the money for a uniform.

It would be easier for Robin. You could move her anywhere and she’d be fine. She made friends in an instant. She didn’t have to worry about real stuff.

She was still a kid.

I lay on my mattress as the list of things I was going to miss kept getting longer. I told my brain to take a time-out. Sometimes that actually works.

Not so much, this round.

Last year, my principal told me I was an “old soul.” I asked what that meant, and he said I seemed wise beyond my years. He said it was a compliment. That he liked the way I always knew when someone needed help with fractions. Or the way I emptied the pencil sharpener without being asked.

That’s the way I am at home, too. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes I feel like the most grown-up one in the house. Which is why it seemed like my parents should have known they could talk to me about grown-up stuff.

And why it seemed like they should tell me the truth about moving.

Last fall a big raccoon got into our apartment through an open window. It was two in the morning. Aretha barked like a maniac and we all ran to see what was wrong.

The raccoon was in the kitchen, examining a piece of Aretha’s dog chow. He held it in his little hands proudly, like he’d discovered a big brown diamond. He was not even a tiny bit afraid of us.

He nibbled his diamond carefully. He seemed glad we’d joined him for dinner.

Aretha leaped onto the couch. She was barking so loud I thought my ears would fall off.

Robin ran to get her baby buggy in case the raccoon wanted to go for a ride. My mom called 911 to report a home invasion.

My dad, who only had on his sock monkey pajama bottoms, turned on his electric guitar and made this earsplitting screechy sound to scare off the raccoon.

“Don’t you dare go near that animal,” my mom warned Robin. She pointed to her cell phone and shushed us. “Yes, Officer, yes. 68 Quiet Moon. Apartment 132. No, he’s not attacking anyone. He’s eating dog food. Dog chow, actually. Not the wet kind. Kids, stay away. He could be rabid.”

“He’s not a rabbit, Mommy,” Robin said as she wheeled her baby buggy in circles around the living room. “I’m pretty sure he’s a beaver.”

For a while I just watched them all go crazy. It was kind of entertaining.

Finally I whistled.

I have a really good whistle for a kid. I use my pinkie fingers.

Everyone stopped and stared. Even the raccoon.

“Guys, just sit on the couch,” I said. “I’ve got this.”

I walked to the front door and opened it.

That’s all I did. Just opened it.

Fog drifted. Frogs chatted. The waiting world was calm.

Everyone sat on the couch. I kept Aretha quiet with her squirrel chew toy. It was covered with dog slobber.

We watched the raccoon finish his food. When he was done, he waddled past us like he owned the place and headed for the open door. He glanced over his shoulder before he left. I could almost hear him muttering Next time I go to a different place. This family is nuts.

Lately, I felt like I always had to be on alert for the next raccoon invasion.