They were thinking of places we could go if we couldn’t pay the rent.
If I don’t become an animal scientist, I would make a great spy.
My mom said how about Gladys and Joe, my dad’s parents. They live in an apartment in New Jersey. My dad said they only had one extra bedroom. Then he declared, “Plus, I couldn’t live under his roof. He’s the most pigheaded man on the planet.”
“Second-most pigheaded,” said my mom. “We could try borrowing money from our families.”
My dad rubbed his eyes. “Do we have a rich relative I’ve never met?”
“I see your point,” said my mom. Then she said how about my dad’s cousin in Idaho who has a ranch, or her mom in Sarasota, who has a condo, or his old buddy Cal, who lives in Maine in a trailer.
My dad asked which of those people would take in two adults, two children, and a dog who eats furniture. Besides, he said, he didn’t want to accept anyone’s handouts.
“You do realize we can’t live in the minivan again,” my mom said.
“No,” said my dad. “We can’t.”
“Aretha’s a lot bigger. She’d take up the whole middle seat.”
“Plus she farts a lot.” My dad sighed. “Who knows? Sunday at the yard sale somebody might give us a million bucks for Robin’s old high chair.”
“Good point,” said my mom. “It comes with extra Cheerios stuck to the seat.”
They fell silent.
“We should sell the TV,” my mom said after a while. “I know it’s ancient, but still.”
My dad shook his head. “We’re not barbarians.” He clicked the remote and an old black-and-white movie came to life.
My mom stood. “I’m so tired.” She looked at my dad with her arms crossed over her chest. “Look,” she said. “There’s nothing—nothing at all—wrong with asking for help, Tom.”
Her voice was low and slow. It was the voice she used when a fight was coming. My chest tightened. The air felt thick.
“There’s everything wrong with asking for help,” my dad snapped. “It means we’ve failed.” His voice had changed, too. It was sharp and hard.
“We have not failed. We are doing the best we can.” My mom gave a frustrated groan. “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans, Tom.”
“Really?” My dad was yelling. “So now we’re resorting to fortune cookie wisdom? Like that’s going to help put food in our kids’ mouths?”
“Well, refusing to ask for help isn’t going to.”
“We have asked for help, Sara. We’ve been to that food pantry more times than I care to admit. But in the end, this is my—our—problem to solve,” my dad shouted.
“You’re not responsible for getting sick, Tom. And you’re not responsible for my getting laid off.” My mom threw her hands in the air. “Oh, what’s the point? I’m going to bed.”
I slipped into the bathroom as my mom stormed down the hall. She slammed her bedroom door so loudly the whole house seemed to tremble.
I waited a few minutes to be sure the coast was clear. When I headed back to my room, my dad was still on the couch, staring at the gray ghosts moving across the screen.
12
I didn’t sleep much after that. I tossed and turned, and finally I got up to get some water. Everyone was asleep. The bathroom door was closed, but light was sneaking out of the cracks.
I heard humming.
I heard splashing.
“Mom?” I said softly. “Dad?”
No answer.
“Robin?”
No answer. More humming.
It sounded like “How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?” but I couldn’t be sure.
I thought about whether it might be an ax murderer. But taking a bath didn’t seem like an ax murderer kind of thing to do.
I didn’t want to open the door.
I opened the door an inch.
More splashing. A sudsy blob floated by.
I opened the door all the way.
Crenshaw was taking a bubble bath.
13
I looked at him. He looked at me.
I flew into the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it.
“Meow,” he said. It sounded like a question.
I did not say “meow” back. I did not say anything.
I closed my eyes and counted to ten.
He was still there when I opened them.
Crenshaw seemed even bigger up close. His white stomach rose from the bubbles like a snowy island. His enormous tail draped over the side of the tub.
“Do you have any purple jelly beans?” he asked. He had thick whiskers that poked out from his face like uncooked spaghetti.
“No.” I said it more to myself than to him.
Aretha scratched at the door.
“Not now, girl,” I said.
She whined.
Crenshaw wrinkled his nose. “I smell dog.”
He was holding one of Robin’s rubber duckies. He looked at the duck carefully, then rubbed his forehead on it. Cats have scent glands by their ears, and when they rub on something, it’s like writing, in big letters, THIS IS MINE.
“You are imaginary,” I said in my firmest voice. “You are not real.” Crenshaw made himself a beard out of bubbles.
“I invented you when I was seven,” I said, “and that means I can un-invent you now.”
Crenshaw didn’t seem to be paying attention. “If you don’t have purple jelly beans,” he said, “red will do in a pinch.”
I looked in the mirror. My face was pale and sweaty. I could still see Crenshaw’s reflection. He was making a tiny bubble beard for the rubber duck.
“You do not exist,” I said to the cat in the mirror.
“I beg to differ,” said Crenshaw.
Aretha scratched again. “Fine,” I muttered. I eased open the door an inch to make sure no one was in the hallway listening.
Listening to me talk to an imaginary cat.
Aretha bulldozed through like I had a giant, juicy steak waiting in the tub. I locked the door again.
Once she was inside, Aretha stood perfectly still on the bath rug, except for her tail. That was fluttering like a windy-day flag.
“I am positively flummoxed as to why your family felt the need for a dog,” said Crenshaw, eyeing her suspiciously. “Why not a cat? An animal with some panache? Some pizzazz? Some dignity?”
“Both my parents are allergic to cats,” I said.
I am talking to my imaginary friend.
I invented him when I was seven.
He is here in our bathtub.
He has a bubble beard.
Aretha tilted her head. Her ears were on alert. When she sniffed the air, her wet nose quivered.
“Begone, foul beast,” said Crenshaw.
Aretha plopped her big paws on the edge of the tub and gave Crenshaw a heartfelt, slobbery kiss.
He hissed, long and slow. It sounded more like a bike tire losing air than an angry cat.
Aretha tried for another kiss. Crenshaw flicked a pawful of bubbles at her. She caught them in her mouth and ate them.
“I never have seen the point of dogs,” said Crenshaw.
“You’re not real,” I said again.