Chapter 23
Jack

Ever since George and I have run away, I can’t stop imagining. I don’t get it. It’s great to have him back, but what I’m imagining now are the real people I know. The ones I left behind. As George goes on listing local barbecue restaurants, I can hardly focus because I keep imagining their faces when they discover I’m gone.

Aunt Rachel’s face stretches out really long, her mouth open huge and her eyebrows reaching up to touch the top of her head. Uncle Dave is the opposite. His face squashes together like a squeezed orange with a beard, as he tries to think where I might be.

“Gone?!?!” I imagine Jason saying with a tone of forced surprise as he realizes the jig is up, and we’re both busted.

“Dang,” Imaginary Morgan says with more curiosity than concern.

I look past George at the brightening sky, the real one outside the real tree house window. It’s got to be eight by now. My stomach grumbles. I sure could go for some Crispy Chocolate Bran Flakes with Calcium and Strawberries about now.

“. . . Beef Burger Barbecue, not too far from here. And then of course there’s that Brazilian BBQ down on Cambridge Street,” George rambles on as part of the longest restaurant summary I’ve ever half-listened to. Apparently he’s memorized all the local barbecue restaurants. He must’ve spent a lot of time on Mom’s laptop this week.

This talk of food is not helping anything. With my imaginary cousins haunting my mind and my imaginary friend provoking an empty stomach, I can hardly concentrate, but for whatever reason, this list matters to George, so it matters to me to pretend that it matters to me.

I mindlessly reach for the blank sheet that George insisted was his poster and flip it over. Miraculously, his drawing is now there. Have you seen this person? it reads, along with a picture of George. I rub my eyes, not understanding the disappearing and reappearing art. The crudely drawn portrait certainly has a George-ish quality to it, but at the same time, with the gap-teeth and the lost expression, it’s remarkably Jack-ish, too. I push down my cowlick as if this drawing is a mirror.

Meanwhile, Imaginary Uncle Dave picks up the phone as Imaginary Aunt Rachel paces the room behind him. “Hello, I’d like to report a missing child,” Imaginary Uncle Dave says. I gasp.

“You okay?” George asks, stopping again mid-list.

I assure him I’m fine with a quick smile before Imaginary Morgan runs into my mind and shouts, “And a theft! He stole my bike, Dad! That thief stole my bike, and Jason’s too.” I like Imaginary Morgan about as much as I like Real Morgan.

“And those are all the barbecue places I know about,” George says, finishing with a grand ta-da gesture. I clap politely, as if this recitation was a piece of theater.

“Wow,” I say, unsure what more he wants from me.

“Any of those sound good?” he prompts when I say nothing else.

My stomach grumbles loudly in response. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell George. “I don’t have any money for food anyway.” I study the wooden grain of the floor, running my finger along a jagged crack.

George kneels in front of me. “Okay, Jack, I gotta be real.” I frown at the word choice, since he clearly doesn’t understand how impossible that is or how it’s my fault he’s disappearing. He goes on, “Your dad called and told your mom to meet him at their usual barbecue place, but I don’t know which that is.”

I begin to cackle. Of course there’s another obstacle keeping me from my dad. George joins me, throwing his head back and bellowing. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks. I just hope George still thinks I’m laughing. My legs tremble as I rise to my feet. With a lion-esque growl, I rip the flier in two and toss it behind me. “Let’s do this,” I tell George with a sniffle and a faked confidence. I climb out of the tree house and start down the ladder with absolutely no idea where I’m supposed to go next.

The park is beginning to fill in, and I can hear kids laughing as they run around. When I reach the bottom of the tree, George calls from above: “I’ll be down in a minute!” I can practically hear him gulp when he adds, “Or five.”

He never was as brave as me. It’s how I imagined him, so I’d never be the most scared person in the room. I’m glad that hasn’t changed.

Instead of waiting for George, I trudge across the grass to the bikes. The thing is, in some ways, he has changed. I reach out and touch Morgan’s bike, running my fingers along the cold metal. Yep. It’s really here. I don’t understand. Before he left, the stuff George touched only moved in my mind. Nobody saw it. Nobody knew. But there are definitely two bikes here right now.

Is he disappearing or is he turning real?

I reach into my pocket and pull out my “for emergencies only” phone. It’s off. As it powers up, Imaginary Aunt Rachel and Imaginary Uncle Dave have just called my Imaginary Parents to tell them they lost their kid. Do my Imaginary Parents even care? Will my real ones?

The phone buzzes in my hands to let me know it’s on. I unlock the screen and send Jason a quick text. I’m alive, it says.

K, Jason responds almost immediately, as if he’s glued to the screen waiting for me. Oddly, it feels kinda nice. I’m glad Dad packed this phone even though he didn’t answer when I called. I guess he cares, but he has a funny way of showing it. Imaginary Dad’s not much better. He’s a spy. Every time I try to get closer, he slips into the shadows on another secret mission.

And now I have a secret mission, too. I need to find Real Dad, because maybe he doesn’t know that Real Mom is sick. Maybe he’ll come back to us if he does. Then maybe we’ll be happier.

“Where could he be?” Imaginary Aunt Rachel suddenly cries out in my mind, talking about me, not Dad. Uncle Dave puts his arms around her as the imaginary police ring their doorbell.

I think of our door at home. I bet that soon the real police will be breaking it down, looking for us. I know Mom won’t like coming home to that kind of mess, but there’s nothing I can do now. Real Jack has made a real mess. Tears trickle down Imaginary Aunt Rachel’s face, and my own cheeks feel wet, too.

Imaginary Aunt Rachel’s sniffling is interrupted by a piggish snort from above. I glance over my shoulder at the tree house. George is almost halfway down, hating every moment. I’m not quite loving this myself, either. Aunt Rachel and Uncle Dave are the only grown-ups who haven’t left me, and now I’ve gone and done something that will freak them out.

My thoughts are interrupted by my phone, which suddenly begins buzzing out of control. I pull it out again. Missed Call—Mom, Wednesday 9:04 p.m. Missed Call—Mom, Wednesday 12:15 a.m. Missed Call—Mom, Thursday 6:24 a.m. On and on.

The phone’s been off this whole time. Mom has been trying to reach me.