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.

“You always were a stubborn child.”

Crenshaw unplugged the tub and stood. Bubbles drifted. Bathwater swirled. Dripping wet, he looked half his size. With his fur slicked down, I could make out the delicate bones of his legs. Water rushed past them like a flood around trees.

He had excellent posture.

I didn’t remember Crenshaw towering above me. I’d gotten a lot taller since I was seven, but had he? Did imaginary friends actually grow?

“Towel, please,” said Crenshaw.

14

With trembling fingers, I passed Robin’s faded pink Hello Kitty towel to Crenshaw.

Thoughts zapped through my brain like summer lightning.

I can see my imaginary friend.

I can hear him.

I can talk to him.

He is using a towel.

As Crenshaw climbed out of the tub, he reached for my hand. His paw was warm and soft and wet, big as a lion’s, with fingers the size of baby carrots.

I can feel him.

He feels real.

He smells like wet cat.

He has fingers.

Cats do not have fingers.

Crenshaw attempted to dry himself. Each time he noticed a tuft of hair out of place, he paused to lick it. His tongue was covered with little prickers, like pink Velcro.

“Those things on your tongue are called papillae,” I said, and then I realized that maybe this wasn’t the best time to be sharing nature facts.

Crenshaw glanced in the mirror. “My, don’t I look a fright.”

Aretha licked his tail helpfully.

“Off me, hound,” Crenshaw said. He tossed the towel aside, and it landed on Aretha. “I need more than a towel. I need a good old-fashioned shake.”

Crenshaw took a deep breath. His body rippled. Water droplets flew like crystal fireworks. When he’d finished, his fur was spiky.

Aretha tossed off the towel, wagging crazily.

“Look at that ridiculous tail,” Crenshaw said. “Humans laugh with their mouths, dogs with their tails. Either way, it makes for pointless mirth.”

I pulled the towel away from Aretha. She snared it between her teeth to play tug-of-war. “What about cats?” I asked. “Don’t you laugh?”

I am talking to a cat.

A cat is talking to me.

“We smirk,” Crenshaw said. “We sneer. Rarely, we are quietly amused.” He licked his paw and smoothed a spike of fur near his ear. “But we do not laugh.”

“I need to sit down,” I said.

“Where are your parents? And Robin? I haven’t seen them in ages.”

“Sleeping.”

“I shall go wake them.”