Crenshaw

by Katherine Applegate

My parents were more complicated. It’s hard to explain, especially since I know this sounds like a good thing, but they were always looking on the bright side. Even when things were bad—and they’d been bad a lot—they joked. They acted silly. They pretended everything was fine.

“I don’t think you understand what’s going on here, Jackson,” he said. “Imaginary friends don’t come of their own volition. We are invited. We stay as long as we’re needed. And then, and only then, do we leave.”

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.

“Hmm. Where are you, Crenshaw, when you’re not with me?” “You’ve seen a teachers’ lounge, right?” “I’ve peeked. We’re not allowed in. Mostly I saw a lot of coffee cups and Mr. Destephano napping on a couch.” “Picture a giant teachers’ lounge. Lots of people waiting and snoozing and telling stories about exasperating, amazing children. That’s where I stay. That’s where I wait, just in case you need me.”

Ms. Malone said maybe bats are altruists, which means they’re sharing to help the other bats, even if it’s a risk. She said some scientists say yes, some say no.

She said she sometimes wondered if maybe bats are better human beings than human beings are.

Still. It had a roof and a door and a family who needed it.