Confessions of an Imaginary Friend Read online

  My heart started to drum. The beats said the same word:

  Fran-çois, Fran-çois, Fran-çois.

  I am, I realized, what I hate most.

  I am wiener dog.

  Chapter Forty-one

  IMAGINARY EMERGENCY

  I waited until Merla was snoring, loosened her vise-like grip from around my neck, and sneaked down the street to a pay phone. On the way I passed a sign on the ground, fallen from a telephone pole. LOST: ONE IMAGINARY FRIEND. CALL PIERRE.

  I shuddered, kept my head down, and continued walking.

  When I reached the phone booth, I climbed onto my hind legs on the small seat inside, put my quarter into the slot, and dialed the number for the Imaginary Office of Reassignment. An automated voice answered, and began listing options.

  You have reached the after-hours emergency line for the Office of Reassignment. Please listen carefully, as our menu has changed.

  Press 1 if you have been imagined as a houseplant.

  Press 2 if you have been imagined as a trademarked character and are worried about legal issues.

  Press 3 if you have been imagined as a cloud on a windy day.

  Press 4 if you have been imagined as a ghost.

  Press 5 if . . .

  I leaned my head against the cool side of the phone booth and closed my eyes, listening to what seemed to be an endless list of possible imaginary emergencies.

  Press 26 if you have been imagined as food and are about to be eaten.

  Press 55 if you have been imagined as a figure made of sand and the water is lapping at your feet.

  Press 99 if you have been imagined as the thing you hate most—

  “It’s about time!” I yelled, pressing the nine key twice. After a few rings, a sleepy voice came on the line.

  “Hello, what is your imaginary emergency?”

  “I’ve been imagined as a wiener dog!” I shouted into the phone.

  “Okay, calm down,” said the receptionist. “Let me get the emergency dog intake sheet. Question one: Is your new child abusive?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “Is your new child forcing you to eat dog food?”

  “No.”

  “Fetch against your will?”

  “No.”

  “Is your new child trying to ride you like a horse?”

  “No! None of that,” I said. “Merla is actually quite sweet. I just personally hate wiener dogs.”

  “Well, you must have put something on your form to get this assignment,” said the voice, sounding more bored by the minute.

  “I wrote down that I used to live with an evil wiener dog named François,” I explained. “But that was clearly not a preference.”

  “Ah,” said the specialist. “That must be it. The system just does a keyword search. Probably picked up on it.”

  “Oh good,” I said sarcastically. “What a wonderful system. How could a machine constructed from imagination and toilet paper rolls work so well. Regardless,” I continued, “I will still be needing a new assignment.”

  “Actually, sir, since this isn’t a real emergency, you’ll have to wait until Monday. And even then, there’s roughly a zero percent chance this case will qualify for a transfer. Have a very nonexistent weekend. Buh-bye now.”

  Can you believe it? She hung up on me. In my time of need! My hour of crisis!

  I felt, dare I say it, lower than a wiener dog.

  Chapter Forty-two

  BELLY RUBS AND LIGHTNING BUGS

  I made my way back to Merla’s house, trying my best not to howl at the moon with frustration. I passed by a swing set on the way, and a memory of the day I met Cowgirl in the park floated through my mind. How I’d whined! And about what, really? About having a loving sister, and sweet parents, and the best life ever? What a fool I’d been.

  I decided to take a little ride, but it took all my effort just to get my front paws on the swaying swing and haul myself onto the seat. Even then I just hung across it on my stomach like a limp hoagie left out in the rain.

  So much for the swings, I thought. So much for a lot of things from my old life.

  Over the next days the only benefit I could find to being a dog—and trust me it did not make it worth it—was that I could do all the messy things Fleur and I were always told not to back home. I rolled in the sweet-smelling grass, tumbled in a mud puddle, and caught lightning bugs in my mouth to see what light tastes like. (It tastes like chicken.) Plus I was closer to the ground, so I could smell the dew, join a march of ants, and feel the sunshine stored in the dirt.

  I continued making the best of being Merla’s dog until the day I overheard her parents conversing in the kitchen while they put away the groceries.

  “Did you buy the flea bath?” asked Merla’s mother.

  “Yes,” said her father, sighing. “But doesn’t it seem a tad wasteful to bathe imaginary fleas off an imaginary dog?”

  “Actually,” replied Merla’s mother, “I think she’s showing great responsibility. If she keeps this up, I think it might be time for a real dog.”

  Now, a real dog may have been the words they said, sure. But what I heard was: That’s my ticket out of here.

  Chapter Forty-three

  THE DOG ATE DID MY HOMEWORK

  And so Responsibility became my middle name. Jacques R. Papier, wiener dog extraordinaire, at your service. All I had to do was get Merla to go along with it, which wasn’t hard once I told her there might be a real dog in it for her.

  “You can do this,” I told her. “You’ve got the energy. The spunk. You’re like a human wind-up toy! I’ll even help.”

  And so every day I’d wait at the window for Merla to come home from school, and then we’d get to work.

  “I washed Jacques Papier the wiener dog today,” said Merla to her parents at dinner. “I also dried him, combed his hair, cut his toenails, brushed his teeth, and tweezed his eyebrows.”

  “Wow,” said her father, taking a bite of his pork chop. “I didn’t even know dogs had eyebrows.”

  The next day Merla found her mother in the living room.

  “I did all the laundry,” said Merla, hauling a bin half her size across the floor. “I cleaned it, hung it, and folded it. I even hand-washed the delicates.”

  “Well . . . thank you, sweetie,” said Merla’s mother, a look on her face as if her daughter had just grown a second head.

  “And Dad,” Merla added, turning to her father, who was reading a book, “I shined your shoes, took out the trash, and cleaned the gutters.”

  “That’s amazing,” said her father, dumbfounded.

  “Oh, also,” said Merla as she left the room, “I changed the oil in your car.”

  When she turned the corner, I slapped Merla a high (lowish) five.

  “Now,” I said, “on to schoolwork. Do you have any extra we could do? Do you have your books for next year yet?”

  And wouldn’t you know it, when Merla handed in her homework that week, she reported back to me that she’d gotten all A-plus-plus-pluses.

  I have to admit, it felt pretty good. Even her teacher had been in awe.

  “Quite the improvement,” said Merla’s teacher. “I’m wondering, what changed?”

  “Oh that’s easy,” said Merla. “My dog did my homework.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  THE BEST DOG EVER

  And then, one day—one glorious day—Merla’s father walked in the door with a box. And not just any box, but one with a red bow on top and air holes cut in the sides. I knew it could only mean one thing.

  When Merla opened it, I expected her to scream, or shout, or for her head to pop off like the top of a dandelion. But to my great surprise, she gently lifted the scrappy mutt from the box and kissed him on the forehead. She was calm and quiet in her joy. She let him sniff he
r hand, and was totally patient while he got comfy and fell asleep. She was, all in all, an A-plus-plus-plus caretaker for a real pet.

  “Cute dog,” I said. “Good choice. Not too oblong at all.”

  But Merla wasn’t listening. She was far, far away in the warm land of real puppy heaven.

  I made my way to the bedroom. There I packed my few canine belongings, including the crayon drawing of me that Merla had made, and walked out into the hall.

  “Well,” I said loudly, my voice echoing off the wood floors and walls. “I guess I’ll be going. No more need for me here.”

  I assumed now that Merla had a real dog, I was free to leave. Just like I’d wanted.

  “Good-bye,” I said.

  It’s strange, but without someone to hear it, that word sounded more empty and small than just about any other. But before I could fully squeeze my body out the doggy door, I heard quick footsteps and felt a hand on my back.

  “It’s okay if you want to leave,” said Merla, “now that the puppy is here. You never really loved being my dog, did you?”

  “Aw, shucks.” I smiled. “It wasn’t all bad.”

  “Before you go,” said Merla, “wanna hear why I love dogs so much?”

  “Honestly, I would,” I said. “I’ve only known one, and he was the worst.”

  “What I like about a dog,” said Merla, “is that a dog doesn’t care if you’re hyperactive, or weird-looking, or the dumbest person at multiplication in your whole class. They don’t care if you get your dress muddy, or can never tell jokes quite right, or if you’re the least popular kid in third grade. A dog will still wait for you to come home every day. And always be excited to see you. A great dog thinks you’re the best person in the entire world.

  “But you know what are the best dogs?” asked Merla. “They’re the ones that make you feel like you can do anything. I mean, how many people in the world ever believe in you that way? See something in you, and make you feel special?”

  “Hardly any,” I agreed. “Maybe one or two along the way, if you’re lucky.”

  “Well, you know what, Jacques Papier, temporary dog?” asked Merla.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You,” she said, smiling her great, wild smile, “were the best dog ever.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  THE THINGS I'M GOING TO MISS

  I found myself, once again, waiting in the Office of Reassignment. While I waited I replayed Merla’s words over and over in my head.

  The best dog ever.

  I can’t tell you what those words meant to me. That’s because I can’t even tell myself what they meant to me, or why they were so important.

  The best dog ever.

  The last time I felt so special was when I was with Fleur. It was a feeling, I realized, that I wanted to give back. I had actually liked helping Merla; to my surprise, I had actually liked it better than helping myself. Had Merla’s words held some magic?

  All I knew was how good they felt, and that everyone—even if you don’t happen to be a dog—should try saying those words, maybe just to yourself, or maybe out loud, eyes closed, until you really believe it.

  “I am the best dog ever.”

  Go ahead. Try it.

  “I am the best dog ever.”

  “I don’t know about the best, but you’re certainly a very oblong dog, that’s for certain.”

  I opened my eyes, the trance broken.

  “Is it really you?” I asked. I jumped up and tackled the Roller-Skating Cowgirl, licking her face until she pet my ears.

  “Well, a howdy-do to you too, Jacques Papier,” said Cowgirl.

  Then it dawned on me where we both were, and what that meant. “So if you’re at the Office of Reassignment, then . . .”

  “Then my little girl let me go,” finished Cowgirl. “It’s true.”

  “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know,” said Cowgirl. “It’s hard. I can’t help thinking about all the things I’m going to miss, all the things I’ll never get to see. She has her first school dance next week. I know she wouldn’t have let me join her or anything, but I still would have liked to see her in a dress just the same. You know, I’ve never seen her in anything but overalls and cowboy boots.”

  I thought about this for a moment. I thought about Fleur, and how she had asked me to never forget her, to come back if I could.

  “I think you will be there,” I said, putting my paw on Cowgirl’s hand. “She imagined you. Which makes you part of her. I think that lasts for always.”

  Cowgirl dried her eyes and tried to smile.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said, patting my head. “Thanks, pardner. I guess maybe you really are the best lil’ doggy ever there was.”

  After Cowgirl set out to her new assignment, I ran into a most unwelcome former acquaintance.

  “Cheerio, young chap. If you’re here at the reassignment office, you must have taken my advice.”

  “You!” I shouted, pointing my paw at the Oogly Boogly. “You tricked me!”

  “Oh?” said the Oogly Boogly. He sipped a cup of tea with his pinky extended from the cup and dripping smoke onto the floor.

  “I just wanted answers,” I replied. “To know what I am. And you tricked me into all this. I have every right to be angry with you.”

  “Angry, eh?” he asked. “To me you seem scared.”

  The Oogly Boogly leaned in. I could smell all the fear he had caused the children who had imagined him.

  “And I,” he continued, “know scared.”

  “S-scared?” I stuttered. “Scared of what?”

  “Maybe,” said the Oogly Boogly, “you are solving the question of what you really are. And maybe, just maybe, you don’t like the answer.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  THE PETRIFIED PRAIRIE DOG

  After my much more carefully completed paperwork was processed, I gladly bid farewell to the Oogly Boogly and walked through the door and into my new assignment, ready to prove I wasn’t scared of anything. It was a regular old living room in a regular old house. The first thing I saw was a head disappearing behind a sofa. The head had a mop of sandy hair and thick glasses, and it reminded me of a petrified prairie dog ducking into a burrow.

  “Uh, hello?” I said.

  At this, the figure behind the sofa raced down the hall, opened a door, and went inside with a slam. I followed, and knocked, and when nobody answered, tried again. Finally after my third try, the door slowly creaked open a few inches.

  “Greetings,” I said, finally face-to-face with the little owl eyes behind the glasses. “I’m Jacques Papier. Pleasure to meet you.”

  I put out my hand to shake, but the boy covered his head like I was going to clobber him.

  “Do you have a name?” I asked. The boy did not reply, but I saw a name written in marker on a backpack hanging on the closet door.

  “Here’s the thing, Bernard,” I said. “I get the sense you’d like me to go away, but that’s going to be hard since you’re the one imagining me.”

  At this news, Bernard’s eyes got even wider, if possible. I was about to ask Bernard what he had imagined me to look like, when we heard a man’s voice call from the kitchen.

  “Dinnertime, Bernie! And please wash your hands if you’re hiding in the closet again.”

  In reply, Bernard ran past me toward the kitchen as if his hair was on fire.

  Not the best manners on that petrified prairie dog, if you ask me. This, I thought, was not going to be any fun.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  YIMELLO

  I joined Bernard and his father at the table. Bernard’s dad wore glasses just like his son, and had several leaky pens in the front pocket of his shirt.

  “So champ, how are you?” asked the father.

  �
�How am I?” I said. “The better question would be what am I . . . oh.” I stopped. “You meant him.”

  Bernard was staring at me across the table with his unblinking eyes.

  “So in my class,” his father began, “my students are learning that the human eye has millions of light-sensitive cells called cones. They are what enable us to see colors.”

  That explained the glasses and pens. Bernard’s dad was a professional nerd.

  “Dogs only have two cone types,” his father prattled on, heaping peas onto his son’s plate. “So they can see shades of green and blue.” I watched the pea-steam fog up Bernard’s glasses.

  Without taking his eyes off me, Bernard picked up his fork full of peas and slowly brought it toward his face. By the time the fork got there, no peas were left, and I’m fairly certain he would have poked his eye out had it not been for his glasses.

  “Humans,” continued Bernard’s dad like a science book, “have three kinds of cones. So we see green, blue, and red. Butterflies have five kinds.

  “But the best eyes,” continued Bernard’s dad, “belong to one special kind of shrimp. Those shrimp have sixteen cones. Can you believe that?

  “So the rainbow we see is just made from the color combinations of green, blue, and red. Now, imagine what the rainbow would look like to that little shrimp! It would be huge, and vast, and have infrared, and ultraviolet, and things we can’t even imagine. And the thing is, they’re technically looking at the same thing we are. The stuff they can see is just—”

  “Invisible to us,” said Bernard, finishing the sentence.

  Bernard’s father smiled in shock. He stopped speaking, looking as if he’d just gotten a wild animal to eat from his hand but wasn’t going to push his luck.

  After dinner, I sat alone with Bernie, who continued his unblinking stare.