Grim anthology. Christine Johnson

other. “Like an imaginary friend.”

      Precisely.

      “I thought only little kids had imaginary friends.”

      They’re not the only ones who need them.

      “I’ve got plenty of friends.”

      Friends or fleas? His father’s penthouse had been overrun with bloodsucking sycophants, people who only loved him for his money and fame.

      Eli pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin on them. “What I mean is, I’m not lonely or anything.”

      I decide not to challenge this assertion. May I ask, what became of your father’s career once he left Boyz on the Korner?

      Eli scoffs. “Nothing. He never had another hit like BotK had with ‘Ready, Set, Dance.’ Because he basically sucked. People realized that after he hit twenty-one and wasn’t adorable anymore.” He looks at me quickly. “Wait. Was that when he put you away?”

      That’s when I entered the envelope, yes.

      “Wow.” He shakes his head hard. “This can’t be real.”

      You need to redefine “real.”

      “Obviously. So why are you here?”

      To help you succeed in life by bringing you good luck. You need the right people in the right place in the right mood. I can make that happen. Your talent will do the rest.

      Eli gives me a sideways, suspicious look. “What’s in it for you?”

      If I help you, you’ll believe in me, and I get to keep existing. I remember my image in the mirror. Also, I’d very much like some clothes.

      * * *

      Eli, it turns out, used to play with dolls when he was a boy. I don’t judge.

      “If anyone sees me doing this, I’ll have my man card permanently revoked,” he says as he buttons my sparkly blue shirt.

      So I won’t be meeting your friends?

      “No, you’re staying here.”

      But unless I’m in your presence, I can’t influence the thoughts of others around you in your favor.

      He looks up from the box of doll clothes, horrified. “Other people can hear you?”

      Not in words, the way you can. They can sense my desires and be swayed by them, but only if they’ve seen me and acknowledged my existence.

      I catch sight of the doll sneakers he’s picked out of the box.

      Please, no pink.

      “So you are a boy. I wondered, since you don’t have any—you know.” He flips up my shirttail. “Anything to cover.”

      Technically, I’m neither a boy nor a girl. I can be whichever you prefer.

      He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘prefer’?”

      In a friend.

      “Oh. Well, a human for starters.”

      You have no pets?

      “Just fish. I’m allergic.”

      And I’m relieved. Some dogs chew stuffed animals, and some cats hump them. Humiliating in either case.

      Eli rummages through the box, which appears to have all sorts of doll clothes jumbled together in one mass. “If you’re an imaginary friend, why don’t you look human? Why are you trapped in this stuffed cat?”

      Figments need a physical vessel so their friends can take them places. Or leave us behind, if you like.

      “Us?” He casts a wary gaze around his room. “There’s more than one of you here?”

      No, you only get one. But there are others of my kind in the world. There always have been.

      “Huh. Hey, here’s a cool hat.” Eli holds it up with a flourish. It has three points and a giant purple feather, like one of the Three Musketeers.

      Yes! Put that on my head. Now.

      He laughs. “You like the bling, huh?”

      I love the bling.

      “Pimp my cat.” He tugs the hat down over my ears, then tilts it sideways. “Figment’s got swag, yo.”

      Is that what you wish to call me?

      “Or Fig for short. Is that okay?”

      You may call me whatever you like. I hide my next thought from him: just don’t ever put me away.

      “Well, Fig, guess what? You’re getting yourself some fine-ass boots.”

      * * *

      Over the past week, Eli has learned to entertain me. When he’s downstairs with his mother, he sets me on the windowsill or in front of his aquarium so I have something to watch. He leaves on the radio, which teaches me about current events and the latest musical trends.

      When he leaves the house he brings me with him, buried deep in his messenger bag to school, or tucked into his guitar case to band practice, which double as makeout sessions with his girlfriend, Vanessa. He hasn’t gotten up the nerve to introduce me to anyone yet, so I have influence on nobody but him.

      Just before history class on my third day of school, a girl behind Eli whispers his name. His chair creaks as he turns to her.

      “Sorry about your dad,” she says. “I heard on the news.”

      I expect him to growl “It doesn’t matter” or “whatever,” as he has to every other sympathizer. Instead he just says, “Thanks, Lyra.”

      “I know what it’s like. I mean, I don’t have a famous father, but—”

      “Semifamous.”

      “Well. Anyway, I never knew my mom. She left right after I was born.”

      He shifts in his chair again, perhaps turning all the way round. “That probably sucks more than not knowing your dad.”

      “If they left, they probably weren’t worth knowing, right? At least, that’s what I tell myself every birthday.”

      “Seriously. I never got a birthday or Christmas card. Just some child-support money in a bank account, but not as much as you’d think. Not with two other sons to take care of.” Eli lowers his voice until I can barely hear it. “When he died, he left the oldest one a house and the middle one a car.”

      “What did you get?”

      He pauses for a long moment. If I had breath, I would hold it. But he finally says, “Nothing.”

      The bell rings and the teacher clops across the floor in what sound like platform heels. I can feel the vibrations from here.

      She begins the lecture, on the French Revolution, a topic I know well, since I’ve heard it in classrooms ever since a few years after the event itself. The facts remain the same, but the perspective changes as the centuries pass.

      I wish you’d bring me out in class just once, I tell Eli. You’d get much better grades, or at least I could keep the teacher from calling on you.

      He gives the bag a slight kick to shut me up. Since I feel no pain, it doesn’t work.

      For the record, girls think I’m cute.

      No response.

      Perhaps you could bring me out at band practice today, when you see what’s-her-name. The one who treats you like an imbecile. She’d find it charming, you carrying a tiny stuffed cat with a feather hat and silver boots in your guitar case.

      No response.

      Tap the bag once for no, twice for yes.

      Eli gives a heavy sigh, shifts his feet beneath the desk next to