“How about you come, too, Jackson?” my mom asked as she undid Robin’s car seat straps.

“Nah. Too wet,” I said.

“You’re both gonna get wet,” my dad warned.

“Robin’s getting antsy,” my mom said. “We can dry our clothes on top of the car when the sun comes out.”

“Day just gets better and better.”

My mom leaned across the seat and kissed my dad’s cheek, which was kind of stubbly. “Good times,” she said.

I stayed in our minivan with my dad. Aretha, who smelled a little ripe, was sleeping in the back.

I decided to draw a new sign for my dad. A better one, like the one my mom had made for our bathroom door.

I tore some cardboard off the end of my sleeping box. Then I made a smiling fish, sitting in a canoe. He was holding a fishing pole and wearing a floppy hat.

In big letters I wrote: ID RATHIR BE FISHING.

My dad was dozing in the driver’s seat. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t snoring. So I knew he wasn’t serious.

I poked him with my sign.

“Try this next time, Dad.”

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and took the sign from me. For a long time, he just stared at it.

“Great job,” he finally said. “I like the mustache on the trout. Nice touch. Just FYI, RATHER has an E. And ID … oh, never mind. It’s great, kiddo. Thanks.”

“If it gets wet, we can grab some more cardboard, and I’ll make a new one.”

My dad set the sign down gently on the passenger seat. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. It was misty. Leaves were shiny and dripping.

Mom says she’s only seen my dad cry three times. When they got married, and when Robin and I were born.

I watched my dad lean against the hood of our car and cover his eyes with his hand.

His face was damp, but I told myself it was probably just the rain.

26

During the afternoon rush hour the next day, my dad returned to the same corner with his new sign. It was drizzling again, and gray clouds hung low in the sky. I waited in the car with my mom and Robin and Aretha.

My mom had just gotten off work at Rite Aid. She said two people were out sick, which meant she was the only cashier. People in line were grumpy, she said. Why didn’t they just read the Enquirer and wait their turns?

A driver in a red SUV rolled down his window. He smiled and said something to my dad. They both nodded. My dad tucked the sign under his arm and held out his hands till they were about two feet apart.

“I’ll bet Dad’s telling him about that trout at the lake,” I said to my mom.

She smiled. “And exaggerating.”

“Is that the same as lying?” I asked.

“Not when it’s fish-related,” said my mom.

When the light changed, the driver handed my dad money and waved as he pulled away. After about an hour, he’d collected a bunch of dollar bills. Also a big cup of coffee and a sack with two slices of lemon pound cake in it.

My sign was a soggy mess.

My mom flattened the bills on her lap. “Fifty-six dollars,” she announced.

“And eighty-three cents,” my dad added.

My parents shared the coffee. I split the pound cake with Robin. Then I climbed to the back. Aretha was tail-thumping hopefully.

When no one was looking, I gave her my whole piece.

It was windy and cold, and the rain had come back hard. We listened to the radio as tiny rivers zigged and zagged down the glass.

A new man went to stand on the corner. His sign said VET—GOD BLESS. A small, poodley-looking dog was nestled in his half-zipped jacket.

“I still think you should take Aretha with you next time, Dad,” I said. “I’ll bet we’ll make even more money.”

He didn’t answer. I figured he was listening to the radio announcer. She was warning that the chance of rain was 80 percent, so it was a good night to stay inside.

A summer-day-camp bus stopped at the light. Its windows were fogged up. I saw some kids and hunched down in case I knew them.

Someone had drawn a smiley face with a word by it. Hello! I decided, but it was hard to tell. I was on the outside, so everything was backward.

Aretha licked my sticky hand.

“Next time,” my mom said, leaning her head on my dad’s shoulder, “I’ll do it.”

“No,” he answered, so softly I almost couldn’t hear him. “No, you won’t.”

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.

28

We lived in our minivan for fourteen weeks.

Some days we drove from place to place. Some days we just parked and sat. We weren’t going anywhere. We just knew we weren’t going home.

I guess getting out of homelessness doesn’t happen all at once, either.

We were lucky. Some people live in their cars for years.

I’m not looking on the bright side. It was pretty scary. And stinky.

But my parents took care of us the best they could.

After a month, my dad got a part-time job at a hardware store. My mom picked up some extra waitressing shifts, and my dad kept singing for tips. Every time his fishing sign got wet, I made him a new one. Slowly they started saving money, bit by bit, to pay for a rental deposit on an apartment.

It was sort of like getting over a cold. Sometimes you feel like you’ll never stop coughing. Other times you’re sure tomorrow is the day you’ll definitely be well.

When they finally put together enough money, my parents moved us to Swanlake Village. It was about forty miles from our old house, which meant I had to start at a new school. I didn’t care at all. At least I was going back to school. A place where facts mattered and things made sense.

Instead of a house, we moved into a small, tired-looking apartment. It seemed like a palace to us. A place where you could be warm and dry and safe.

I started school late, but eventually I made new friends. I never told them about the time we were homeless. Not even Marisol. I just couldn’t.

If I never talked about it, I felt like it couldn’t ever happen again.

29

Crenshaw and I didn’t chat much during those weeks on the road. There was always someone around to interrupt us. But that was okay. I knew he was there and that was enough.

Sometimes that’s all you really need from a friend.

When I think about that time, what I remember most of all is Crenshaw, riding on top of our minivan. I’d stare out the window at the world blurring past, and every so often I’d catch a glimpse of his tail, riding the wind like the end of a kite.

I’d feel hopeful then, for a while at least, that things would get better, that maybe, just maybe, anything was possible.

30

I guess for most kids, imaginary friends just sort of fade away, the way dreams do. I’ve asked people when their imaginary friends stopped hanging around, and they never seem to remember.