Crenshaw

33

Saturday morning, I woke up, went into the living room, and found a big empty spot where our TV had been. The room looked naked without it.

My dad was making breakfast. Pancakes and bacon. We hadn’t had pancakes and bacon in a really long time.

Robin was sitting at the kitchen table. Aretha was drooling, and Robin’s chin was gooey with syrup. “Daddy made my pancakes shaped like Rs. For Robin.”

“Do you have a letter preference?” my dad asked me.

He was using his cane, which meant he wasn’t feeling great. “You okay?” I asked.

“The cane?” He shrugged. “Just a little insurance policy.”

I hugged him. “Plain old circle pancakes would be great,” I said. “Where’s Mom?”

“Picked up an extra breakfast shift at Toast.”

“Daddy sold the TV to Marisol,” Robin said. She jutted out her lower lip to make sure we knew she wasn’t happy.

“Marisol?” I repeated.

“I saw her dad while I was taking out the trash,” my dad said as he poured perfect circles of batter into a pan. “We were talking about the game today, and how his TV had conked out, and one thing led to another. He had the cash, I had the TV, and the rest is history.”

“But how are you and I going to watch the game?” I asked.

“We’re going to Best Buy it.”

I grabbed a strip of bacon. “What’s that mean?”

My dad adjusted the heat on the stove. “You’ll see. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Aretha liked watching Curious George,” said Robin. She set down her plate and Aretha licked it clean.

“You may be interested to hear that Curious George began his existence as a character in a book,” said my dad as he flipped a pancake. “In any case, this family needs to spend more quality time together. You know—play cards, maybe. Or Monopoly.”

“I like Chutes and Ladders,” said Robin.

“Me too.” My dad tossed a little chunk of bacon to Aretha. “Too much TV rots your brain.”

“You love TV,” I said while I started loading the dishwasher.

“That’s because TV’s already rotted it. There’s still hope for you two.”

It didn’t take long for my breakfast to be ready. “Nice work on the pancakes,” I said.

“Thanks. I do have a certain flair.” My dad pointed his spatula at me. “I saw Marisol when Carlos and I were carrying in the TV. She said to remind you about the Gouchers’ dachshunds.”

“Yeah, we’re walking them tomorrow.”

“Are dachshunds wiener dogs?” Robin asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” My dad nodded. “You know, Jacks, I haven’t seen much of Dawan or Ryan or anybody else lately. What’s up with that?”

“I dunno. Dawan and Ryan are doing soccer camp. Everybody does different stuff in the summer.”

My dad put some dishes in the sink. His back was turned to me. “I’m really sorry about soccer camp, Jacks. Just couldn’t swing it.”

“No biggie,” I said quickly. “I’m kind of growing out of soccer.”

“Yeah,” my dad said softly. “That happens.”

I stared at the sweet steam spinning from my pancakes. I tried hard not to think about Marisol watching our TV, feeling sorry for us while we played Chutes and Ladders and ate bran cereal out of a T-ball cap.

Then I tried not to be annoyed at myself for worrying about something so unimportant.

I grabbed my fork and knife and sliced up my pancakes.

“Whoa,” said my dad. “Ease up, Zorro.”

I looked up, confused. “Who’s Zorro?”

“Masked guy. Good with swords.” My dad pointed to my plate. “You were getting a little carried away with the slice-and-dice action.”

I looked down at my pancakes. It was true. I’d destroyed them pretty well. But that wasn’t what got my attention.

In the middle of the plate, surrounded by maple-syrup mush, were slices of pancake, neatly forming eight letters: C - R - E - N - S - H - A - W.

Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe not. In any case, I scarfed them down before anyone could notice.