I knew all too well that there were people in the world who didn’t have Monopoly games or race car beds. I had a roof over my head. I had food most of the time. I had clothes and blankets and a dog and a family.

Still, I felt twisted inside. Like I’d swallowed a knotted-up rope.

It wasn’t about losing my stuff.

Well, okay. Maybe that was a little part of it.

It wasn’t about feeling different from other kids.

Well, okay. Maybe that was part of it too.

What bothered me most, though, was that I couldn’t fix anything. I couldn’t control anything. It was like driving a bumper car without a steering wheel. I kept getting slammed, and I just had to sit there and hold on tight.

Bam. Were we going to have enough to eat tomorrow? Bam. Were we going to be able to pay the rent? Bam. Would I go to the same school in the fall?

Bam. Would it happen again?

I took deep breaths. In, out. In, out. My fists clenched and unclenched. I tried not to think about Crenshaw on the TV or the dog cookie I’d stolen.

Then, just the way I’d taken that cookie, without understanding why, without thinking about the consequences, without any reason, I grabbed my mug and hurled it against the wall.

Bam. It splintered into shards of cracked plastic. I liked the noise it made.

I waited for my parents to return, to ask what’s wrong, to yell at me for breaking something, but no one came.

Water trickled down the wall, slowly fading like an old map of a faraway river.

40

I woke in the night, sweaty and startled. I’d been having a dream. Something about a giant talking cat with a bubble beard.

Oh.

Aretha, who likes to share my pillow when she can get away with it, was drooling onto the pillowcase. Her feet were dream-twitching. I wondered if she was dreaming about Crenshaw. She’d certainly seemed to like him.

Wait. I felt my brain screech to a halt, like a cartoon character about to careen off a cliff.

Aretha had seen Crenshaw.

At the very least, she’d reacted to him. She’d tried to lick him. She’d tried to play with him. She’d seemed to know he was there.

Dogs have amazing senses. They can tell when a person is about to have a seizure. They can hear sounds when we hear only silence. They can unearth a piece of hot dog buried at the bottom of a neighbor’s trash can.

But however amazing dogs can be, they cannot see somebody’s imaginary friend. They cannot jump into their owner’s brain.

So did that mean Crenshaw was real? Or was Aretha just responding to my body language? Could she tell I was freaking out? Or did she figure I’d come up with a brand-new game called Let’s Play with the Giant Invisible Cat?

I tried to recall how she’d acted back when we were living in our minivan. Had she sensed Crenshaw’s presence then?

I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember.

I covered my face with my drooly pillow and tried to go back to sleep.

41

“Ribbit,” said something.

I opened my eyes. A frog was on my forehead.

He looked familiar. Like the windowsill visitor Crenshaw had wanted to eat.

I turned my head and the frog leaped off. Next to me lay a human-sized cat. On top of Crenshaw lay a medium-sized dog. And on top of Aretha sat the frog.

Two of the three were snoring.

I sat up on my elbows. I blinked. Blinked again.

I’d left the window ajar. That explained the frog. It did not explain the cat.

“You’re back,” I said.

“Morning,” Crenshaw murmured, his eyes still closed. He wrapped his paws around Aretha, snuggling close.

“Just tell me this,” I said. I crawled off my mattress and stretched. “How do I get rid of you for good?”

“I’m here to help you,” Crenshaw said. He yawned. His teeth were like little knives. He pulled one of Aretha’s velvety ears over his eyes to block out the sun.

“What did you mean about telling the truth?” I asked.

“Truth is important to you,” said Crenshaw. “So it’s important to me. Now, please allow me to continue my slumber.”

“Are you my conscience?” I asked.

“That depends. Would you like me to be?”

I checked my closet, just in case there was a giant invisible possum or gopher or something lurking there. “No,” I said. “I’m managing just fine on my own.”

“Oh, really?” said Crenshaw. “What’s that abominable dog treat lying on the floor?”

The cookie. Aretha still hadn’t eaten it.

I tossed it out my window. Maybe squirrels wouldn’t mind eating something stolen.

“Remember when you stole the yo-yo back when you were five?” Crenshaw asked.

“When my parents caught me, I tried to blame you.”

“Everyone always blames the imaginary friend.”

“Then my parents made me take it back and apologize to the store.”

“I think you see where this is going.” Another yawn. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking a little catnap.”

I stared at him. He’d made me feel mystified and annoyed and more than a little crazy. And now he was making me feel guilty. One way or another, I had to get him out of my life.

“By the way,” I said before leaving the room, “you’re hugging a dog.”

I didn’t see what happened next, but I heard a hiss and a yowl. Aretha dashed past me at high speed.

She hid under the kitchen table for an hour.

42

Selling your stuff at a yard sale is a weird experience. It’s like walking around with your clothes on inside out. Underwear on top of jeans, socks on top of sneakers.

The insides of your apartment are spread out for everybody to see and touch. Strangers finger the lamp that used to be on your bedside table. Sweaty guys sit in your dad’s favorite chair. Little stickers are on everything. Five dollars for your old tricycle that still has sparklers on the wheels. Fifty cents for the Candy Land game.

It was a sunny Sunday morning. Lots of neighbors were selling stuff, too. It almost felt like a party. My mom sat at a card table with a little box to hold money. My dad walked around while people bargained with him and said how about two dollars instead of three.

When he got too tired to walk, he sat in a folding chair and played songs on his guitar and sang. Sometimes my mom would sing harmony.

My main job was to carry stuff to people’s cars and to keep an eye on Robin. She was pulling someone’s old wagon that had a $4 sign taped to it. In the wagon was her trash can with the blue bunnies, which my parents had promised she could keep.

It wasn’t so bad, watching our things get sold. I told myself that every dollar we made was a good thing and that it was all just meaningless stuff. And it was nice to be with our neighbors and friends, drinking lemonade and talking and singing along with my parents.

Around noon, we’d sold almost everything. I watched my mom count up the money we’d made. She looked over at my dad and shook her head. “Not even close to what we need,” she said quietly.

Before he could respond, a skinny man with a ponytail approached my dad. He pulled out a fancy leather wallet and asked my dad if his guitar was for sale. My dad and mom exchanged a glance. “Could be, I suppose,” said my dad.

“I have one that’s for sale, too,” my mom added quickly. “It’s back in the apartment.”

My dad held up his guitar. Sunlight darted off its smooth black body. “It’s a beauty,” said my dad. “Lotta history.”

“Dad,” I exclaimed, “you can’t sell your guitar.”

“There’s always another guitar around the bend, Jacks,” said my dad, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Robin ran over. She was still towing the wagon, which nobody had bought. “You can’t sell that!” she cried. “It’s named after Jackson!”

“Actually,” I said, “I was named after the guitar.”