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But I had already figured out he was a surprising guy.

      I thought for a while. It was a big decision. People care a lot about names.

      Finally I said, “Crenshaw would be a good name for a cat, I think.”

      He didn’t smile because cats don’t smile.

      But I could tell he was pleased.

      “Crenshaw it is,” he said.

      

      I don’t know where I got the name Crenshaw.

      No one in my family has ever known a Crenshaw.

      We don’t have any Crenshaw relatives or Crenshaw friends or Crenshaw teachers.

      I’d never been to Crenshaw, Mississippi, or Crenshaw, Pennsylvania, or Crenshaw Boulevard in Los Angeles.

      I’d never read a book about a Crenshaw or seen a TV show with a Crenshaw in it.

      Somehow Crenshaw just seemed right.

      Everybody in my family was named after somebody or something else. My dad was named after his grandpa. My mum was named after her aunt. My sister and I weren’t even named after people. We were named after guitars.

      I was named after my dad’s guitar. It was designed by a manufacturer called Jackson. My sister was named after the company that made my mum’s guitar.

      My parents used to be musicians. Starving musicians is what my mum calls it. After I was born, they stopped being musicians and became normal people. Since they’d run out of instruments, my parents named our dog after a famous singer called Aretha Franklin. That was after Robin wanted to name her Fairy Princess Cutie Pie and I wanted to call her Dog.

      At least our middle names came from people and not instruments. Orson and Marybelle were my dad’s uncle and my mum’s great-grandma. Those folks are dead, so I don’t know if they’re good names or not.

      Dad says his uncle was a charming curmudgeon, which I think means grumpy with some niceness thrown in.

      Honestly, another middle name might have been better. A brand-new one. One that wasn’t already used up.

      Maybe that’s why I liked the name Crenshaw. It felt like a blank piece of paper before you draw on it.

      It was an anything-is-possible kind of name.

      

      I don’t exactly remember how I felt about Crenshaw that day we met.

      It was a long time ago.

      I don’t remember lots of stuff about what happened when I was young.

      I don’t remember being born. Or learning to walk. Or wearing diapers. Which is probably not something you want to remember anyway.

      Memory is weird. I remember getting lost at the grocery store when I was four. But I don’t remember getting found by my mum and dad, who were yelling and crying at the same time. I only know that part because they told me about it.

      I remember when my little sister first came home. But I don’t remember trying to put her in a box so we could mail her back to the hospital.

      My parents enjoy telling people that story.

      I’m not even sure why Crenshaw was a cat, and not a dog or an alligator or a Tyrannosaurus rex with three heads.

      When I try to remember my whole entire life, it feels like a Lego project where you’re missing some of the important pieces, like a robot mini-figure or a monster-truck wheel. You do the best you can to put things together, but you know it’s not quite like the picture on the box.

      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.

      But all I remember thinking is how great it was to have a friend who liked purple jelly beans as much as I did.

      

      A couple of hours after the mysterious jelly bean appearance during cerealball, my mum gave Robin and me each a grocery bag. She said they were for our keepsakes. A bunch of our things were going to be sold at a yard sale on Sunday, except for important stuff like shoes and mattresses and a few dishes. My parents were hoping to make enough money to pay some back rent and maybe the water bill too.

      Robin asked what is a keepsake. My mum said it’s an object you treasure. Then she said things don’t really matter, as long as we have each other.

      I asked what were her keepsakes and my dad’s. She said probably their guitars would be at the top of the list, and maybe books, because those were always important.

      Robin said she would bring her Lyle book for sure.

      My sister’s favourite book in the world is The House on East 88^th Street. It’s about a crocodile named Lyle who lives with a family. Lyle likes to hang out in the bathtub and walk the dog.

      Robin knows every word of that book by heart.

      Later, at bedtime, my dad read the Lyle book to Robin. I stood at her bedroom door and listened to him reading. He and my mum and Robin and Aretha were all squished on her mattress. It was on the floor. The wooden parts were going to be sold.

      “Come join us, Jackson,” my mum said. “There’s lots of room.”

      My dad is tall and so is my mum and Robin’s mattress is tiny. There wasn’t any room.

      “I’m good,” I said.

      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. Partly that was because they look so much alike, blond and grey-eyed and cheerful. My hair and eyes are darker, and sometimes so is my mood.

      Emptied out, it didn’t look like Robin’s room any more. Except for her pink lamp. And the marks on the wall that showed how much she had grown. And the red spot on the carpet where she’d spilled cranberry-apple juice. Robin was practising her T-ball batting and she got a little carried away.

      “SWISH, SWASH, SPLASH, SPLOOSH …” read my dad.

      “Not sploosh, Daddy,” Robin said.

      “Smoosh? Splish? Swash?”

      “Stop being silly,” she said. She poked him in the chest. “It’s ‘swoosh’! ‘Swoosh,’ I tell you!”

      I said that I did not think a crocodile would enjoy taking a bath. I’d just read a whole library book about reptiles.

      My dad told me to go with the flow.

      “Did you know that you can hold a crocodile’s jaws closed with a rubber band?” I asked.

      My dad smiled. “I wouldn’t want to have been the first person who tested that theory.”

      Robin asked my mum if I had a favourite book when I was little. She didn’t ask me, because she was pouting about my bathtub comment.

      My mum said, “Jackson really liked A Hole Is To Dig. Remember that book, Jackson? We must’ve read that to you a million times.”

      “That’s more like a dictionary than a

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