Crenshaw

by Katherine Applegate

I like facts. Always have. True stuff. Two-plus-two-equals-four facts. Brussels-sprouts-taste-like-dirty-gym-socks facts. Okay, maybe that second one’s just an opinion. And anyway, I’ve never eaten a dirty gym sock so I could be wrong.

That was the first time I realized people don’t always like to hear the truth.

Looking at my family, all there together, I felt like a relative from out of town. Like I belonged to them, but not as much as they belonged to each other.

I didn’t ask any more hard questions after that. Somehow I just knew my parents didn’t want to give me hard answers.

He took a deep breath and blew it out hard, like he was facing a birthday cake with too many candles.

I felt guilty for not feeling guilty.

“I hate moths,” he said. “They’re butterfly poseurs.” “I don’t know what that means.” “Butterfly wannabes.”

Imaginary friends are like books. We’re created, we’re enjoyed, we’re dog-eared and creased, and then we’re tucked away until we’re needed again.