Crenshaw

by Katherine Applegate

I told the cat my name was Jackson. He said yes, of course it is. I asked him what his name was. He asked what did I want his name to be. It was a surprising question.

It seems like I should have thought to myself, Wow, a cat is talking to me, and that is not something that usually happens at a highway rest stop.

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.

We lived in our minivan for fourteen weeks. Some days we drove from place to place. Some days we just parked and sat. We weren’t going anywhere. We just knew we weren’t going home.

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.”