Everybody said the same thing: I guess I just outgrew him.

But I lost Crenshaw all of a sudden, after things got back to normal. It was like when you have a favorite T-shirt that you’ve worn forever. One day you put it on, and surprise: Your belly button is showing. You don’t remember growing too big for your shirt, but sure enough, there’s your belly button, sticking out for the whole wide world to see.

The day he left, Crenshaw walked to school with me. He did that most mornings unless he wanted to stay home and watch Blue’s Clues reruns. We stopped at the playground. I was telling him about how I wanted to get a real cat someday.

That was before I found out my parents are extremely allergic to cats.

Crenshaw stood on his head. Then he did a cartwheel. He was an excellent cartwheeler.

When he came to a stop, he gave me a grumpy look. “I’m a cat,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“I’m a real cat.” His tail whipped up and down.

“I mean,” I said, “you know—a cat other people can see.”

He batted a paw at a yellow butterfly. I could tell he was ignoring me.

A bunch of big guys, fourth and fifth graders, walked by. They pointed at me and laughed, making cuckoo circles with their fingers.

“Who you talking to, doofus?” one asked, and then he snort-laughed.

That is my least favorite kind of laughing.

I pretended not to hear him. I knelt down and tied my shoe like it was a very important thing I had to do.

My face was hot. My eyes were wet. I’d never been embarrassed about having an imaginary friend until that moment.

I waited. The boys moved on. Then I heard someone else approaching. She wasn’t walking. More like skip-dancing.

“Hey, I’m Marisol,” said the girl. I’d seen her at recess before. She had long, dark, crazy hair and an unusually large smile. “I have a Tyrannosaurus backpack just like yours. I’m going to be a paleontologist when I grow up, which means—”

“I know what it means,” I said. “I want to be one too. Or maybe a bat scientist.”

Her smile got even bigger.

“I’m Jackson,” I said, and I stood.

When I looked around me, I realized that Crenshaw had vanished.

31

I’ve sometimes wondered if I was kind of old to have an imaginary friend. Crenshaw didn’t even show up in my life until the end of first grade.

So one day at the library, I looked it up. Turns out somebody did a study on children and their imaginary friends. Fact is, 31 percent of them had an imaginary friend at age six or seven, even more than three- and four-year-olds.

Maybe I wasn’t so old after all.

In any case, Crenshaw had excellent timing. He came into my life just when I needed him to.

It was a good time to have a friend, even if he was imaginary.

PART THREE

The world is so you have something to stand on

—A HOLE IS TO DIG: A FIRST BOOK OF FIRST DEFINITIONS,

written by Ruth Krauss and illustrated by Maurice Sendak

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.

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.