My Best Friend Is a Cat Spirit
The day my life changed began like
most mornings—with a judgmental cat spirit.
That T-shirt
makes you look like an eggplant, Miv
said. Despite being a tiny black kitten, he had a lot of opinions. He sat on my
dresser, his round eyes watching me get ready for summer school.
Most people would agree that having a
talking cat spirit for a best friend is pretty strange. But for as long as I
can remember, I’ve seen spirits. Not in a creepy way (although sometimes in a
creepy way—more on that later), but in a normal Hey, spirits exist, and
also, can I borrow some peanut butter? kind of way. Well, except for the
part where no one else can see them but me.
I told my mom about Miv when I was
five. She couldn’t see him, so she assumed I’d made him up. She’d humored me,
patting me on the head and then saying to the seemingly empty space beside me,
“Aren’t you a pretty kitty?”
Miv had glared at her from his spot on
the kitchen counter. If she even thinks about getting you a real cat,
I’ll make sure all her rice goes bad.
Today, I ignored Miv’s criticism, as
usual. I smoothed down the hem of my shirt. Yeah, it was the color of eggplant,
but I liked it. Then I fished out my favorite purple hair clip from the Star
Wars tin beside my bed and secured it at my right temple, just above my ear.
“Remember what I told you yesterday morning?”
Ramen gives you
indigestion? Miv said as he
jumped onto my rumpled bed, leaving a ghostly trail of smoke in his wake.
“No.” For the record, I did not say that.
Pokémon scares
you?
Or that. I threw a sock at him.
Stop watching you
sleep?
I paused in the middle of wadding up
another sock. “Do you watch me sleep?”
His yellow eyes glowed faintly. Let
that question haunt you for the rest of the day.
“No need. You already haunt
me.” Actually, Miv wasn’t like human spirits, who are tethered to a specific
place or thing. He came and went whenever he wanted.
I tossed the wadded sock into the
disaster zone that was my closet. “I told you that I don’t take fashion advice
from cat spirits.”
The look he gave me held a level of
disdain only possible in cats. Clearly.
I rolled my eyes and then spotted the
time on my alarm clock. If I didn’t hurry, I would be late for school. My mom
made my brother and me take classes every summer because she liked keeping us
busy instead of having us “sitting around all day” or whatever. Also, it was
free.
With a jolt of panic, I rushed from my
bedroom and then nearly ran into my mom coming out of the kitchen. She held two
shallow saucers of uncooked rice in each hand.
“Whoa! Careful, Pahua,” she warned me.
She lifted the saucers over her head as I ducked beneath her arms. She was
dressed in jeans and the blue smock she wore at her factory job. Her long black
hair was tied back into a tight ponytail.
“Sorry, Mom.” I grabbed a granola bar
from the kitchen cabinet. A third saucer of rice sat on the counter. I moved it
to the back of the stove.
Good morning, squeaked a voice. A spirit shaped like a plump
little man climbed out of the nearest electric burner. Dab Qhov Txos, or the
spirit of the stove, had red hair that moved like a candle flame and a full
beard that flickered and sparked when he talked. He sprawled onto the offering
of rice, the hard grains browning from the heat of his beard.
In the dining room, which was just a
corner where my mom kept a square table, sat my brother, Matt. He was slurping
down a bowl of cornflakes, his mussed black hair in need of a comb. He was
small for a seven-year-old, with too-big dark-brown eyes.
“Eat fast,” I called over the narrow
counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room. Then to Mom: “Still on
for tonight?”
“Sorry, honey. Something came up.” She
went over to the rubber floor mat where we set our shoes and placed an offering
of rice for Dab Txhiaj Meej, the spirit of the front door. The last offering
went on the family altar for Dab Xwm Kab.
These three guardian house spirits
watched over our apartment. I guess that technically made them apartment
spirits, not house spirits, but that didn’t sound as cool.
“Like a shaman thing?” I asked.
Shamans, like my aunt, are spiritual leaders in the Hmong community. Growing up
with a shaman for a sister helped my mom pick up enough knowledge to be able to
perform minor rituals, like house blessings or simple divinations, for people
in need.
But we lived far away from other Hmong
families, which meant a long commute—and ditched plans for us—when she did.
Tonight was supposed to be our first Friday movie night of the summer, even
though it was nearly July already. I plastered on a smile before my mom could
see my disappointment, though. It wasn’t her fault she had to cancel.
Miv padded into the kitchen and jumped
onto the stove beside me. He circled the saucer of rice grains and the rotund
little stove spirit. What do you think of her shirt? the cat asked with
a glance in my direction. Reminds you of an eggplant, right?
Wear black and
red, the stove spirit suggested in his
crackly voice. Like embers and ashes, in real, wood-burning stoves, back
when meals were a sacred time. I miss the smell of scorched bones.
This was why I didn’t seek out the
spirits’ opinions on my wardrobe choices. I’d rather look like a vegetable than
a burned skeleton.
“I have to help a family consult their
ancestors about buying a farm,” my mom said.
“Do dead relatives give good business
advice?” I asked.
She smiled, but her tone was chiding.
“Don’t joke. The spirits will be offended.”
Whatever would we
do then? Miv said, watching the stove spirit
roll around in the rice some more.
I almost laughed, but my mom was
right. All spirits, even good ones like house spirits, have dual natures. They
protect your home and bring good luck, but they can just as easily turn on you
if they feel they aren’t being properly honored. Harsh, right?
My mom lit a stick of incense and
placed it across the rice offering on the altar. Hidden between two sheets of
shiny joss paper, the small altar spirit stirred. Mom didn’t notice. She
couldn’t sense or see spirits. She just interpreted their messages through
tools like bells or horns.
Real shamans can communicate with
spirits through rituals and trances, but I wasn’t sure how it worked. The only
shaman I knew was my Aunt Kalia, who my mom didn’t get along with. The last
time I’d seen her was two years ago during Christmas lunch, and she hadn’t
given any indication that she’d noticed Miv pretending to drown in the gravy
bowl.
“I’ll be home late. Love you both.”
Mom grabbed her lunch box from the table, pausing just long enough to kiss Matt
on the temple.
I think he tried to say “Bye, Mom,”
but when he opened his mouth, chewed-up cereal dropped into his bowl. Little
brothers can be so disgusting.
She blew out the door just as Matt
leaped from his chair and announced, “Done!”
After shoving the last of the granola
bar into my mouth, I was already slipping on my sandals by the front door. A
hissing sound came from one of my mom’s sneakers. A second later, the door
spirit slithered out. She was a small green snake with black markings around
her eyes that made her look like she wore tiny glasses.
You look
sssplendid in purple, she said.
I flashed a triumphant smile at Miv,
who only turned his head, nose tipped in the air as he disappeared out the door
ahead of us.
Outside our apartment building, hedges
that had once been square and were now Swamp Thing blobs lined the sidewalk.
The neighborhood was mostly other drab brown-brick apartments with yellowing
lawns and trees strung with old Christmas lights. The school sat a few blocks
down the road, past an open field that led into the woods at the edge of town.
My mom had moved us here three years
ago. After my dad left us, a whole parade of gossiping aunties kept showing up
to ask too-personal questions and bully her about being a single mother. I
always got sent to my room, but that didn’t stop me from overhearing things
that made me wish I could breathe fire or turn them all into frogs.
Matt and I hadn’t gone far from our
apartment when a half-dozen mushroom spirits emerged from beneath the hedges.
They were each about the size of my fist, with stubby limbs and oversize
mushroom cap-heads that made them look like mini Funko Pops. Miv flicked his
tail and trotted faster, but I waved as the little spirits darted alongside us.
Matt couldn’t see them, but he was
used to me waving at empty air. He chalked it up to my imagination. Usually, he
played along. He was only four when we moved, so he didn’t know that, even
within the Hmong community, being able to see spirits—or just talking to
seemingly no one—was still considered freaky, unless you were a shaman. In
fact, from what I’ve been able to gather, seeing and interacting with all kinds
of spirits the way I could isn’t typical even for shamans.
“The troops have arrived,” I said to
Matt, gesturing to the invisible mushroom spirits. “Are you ready to return to
the war front?”
He grinned. “Yes, sir! Ready, set,
march!” He began pumping his short arms and legs a little too enthusiastically so
that instead of marching, he looked more like a climbing monkey.
I followed him, pretending I was a
general leading my brave mushroom soldiers into battle. We were heading into
the warzone that was a classroom crammed with hostile, stir-crazy sixth-graders.
Fun fact #1 about me: I like to
pretend to be something more exciting than an eleven-year-old who spends all
her time babysitting her little brother and talking to invisible spirits. Some
would say I’m too old for imaginary games. But some people also like olives, so
folks can be just plain wrong.
“Can I pick the movie tonight?” Matt
asked. “Since it’ll be just us?” He didn’t sound disappointed, probably because
he was used to it.
The reminder that Mom was skipping out
on movie night, though, made my nose wrinkle. When Matt caught my eye, I
quickly smiled and nodded. “Anything but Spirited Away.”
“Aw, but I love that movie.”
“I do, too, but it scares you! You
always cry!”
“That’s what makes it cool!” Matt
laughed and started flapping his arms and hopping up and down, pretending to be
the witch.
He was ridiculous. What kind of
seven-year-old liked being scared? I’ve always hated that
feeling—I couldn’t even do those cheesy haunted houses around Halloween.
It didn’t take us long to reach the
school. Merdel Elementary looked like it belonged in another time period. The
bricks were red and crumbling, and a rusty flagpole stood out front. A handful
of cars were lined up along the curb to drop off sullen-looking kids who’d
rather be anywhere else.
I walked Matt to his entrance. Before
leaving, he planted a sloppy kiss on my cheek and said, “I want ramen for lunch
later.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I mussed his hair,
laughing when he smacked my hand away. “Hurry up. You’ll be late.” I waved as
Matt went inside, and then continued to the attached middle school.
Wind spirits sent a sharp gust to tip
over the mushroom spirits still trailing after me. This apparently inspired
Miv, who flicked a mushroom with a tiny black paw. The small spirit was so
top-heavy that they flipped upside down and could only rock back and forth on
the speckled red cap of their head, flailing their tiny arms and legs. Miv
grinned in satisfaction as the other mushroom spirits rushed to help their
friend.
“Stop that,” I whispered loudly.
“Who is she talking to?” a kid mumbled
behind me.
“Weirdo,” another boy said, laughing.
My face went hot, but I pretended I
hadn’t heard. Although I’m not about to tell people the truth about me, I’m not
always good at hiding it, either. As you can imagine, that doesn’t make me very
popular. But being the only Asian kid in my grade already makes me an outcast.
Even though I’m surrounded by a world filled with spirits, sometimes I can feel
pretty lonely.
Miv jumped onto my shoulder. “I should
use his locker as a litter box.”
I smiled but kept my gaze on my feet.
You’d think that with only morning classes and fewer kids, summer school would
be easier to get through than regular school. But nope. Fewer kids just meant I
stood out more. Yay me! So I pretended I was an undercover spy. I had to
complete Operation Beat the Bell by reaching my first class as quickly and quietly
as possible without attracting the enemy’s attention.
I made it to my seat near the windows
just as the bell rang. Someone had stuck flower decals on the glass panes but
forgotten to remove the plastic snowflakes.
My mom had signed me up for two
classes. The first, Intro to Algebra, made my brain feel like it was slowly
melting out of my ears. Math should be illegal during the summer. Anybody who
attempts to assign math work should be punished by being the last one picked
for every team. (I’ve been that kid. It sucks.)
I slouched low and tried to project my
best I’m a bush, please ignore me energy. It mostly worked, except for
when Miv began peeling off the window decals. Some of my classmates glanced in
my direction. I wasn’t sure what people saw when spirits messed with physical
objects. Probably nothing too bizarre, because they didn’t run screaming from
the classroom. They only squinted a bit, their eyebrows pinched. I resisted the
urge to throw my pencil at Miv’s head and sank lower into my desk.
My second class, the Symbiotic
Relationship of Plants and Insects, was down the hall, and I had to admit, it
wasn’t all bad. On cooler days, our teacher took us out to the flower bushes
behind the baseball diamond to watch insects. Today, though, just the short
walk to school had made my hair stick to the back of my neck. Mom always
complained about how cold winters were in Wisconsin, but Wisconsin summers were
no joke, either.
As I took my seat there, Hailey Jones,
who sat to my right, looked over. She was tall, with long light-brown hair. Her
shorts were embroidered with roses. She frowned a little, which she did a lot
whenever she looked at me, like I confused her or something. She didn’t seem
very bright. Maybe that’s why she was in summer school.
Since it was too humid to be outside
today, we spent the class period doing worksheets about honey bees. Miv amused
himself by peeking at other students’ papers and declaring punishments like five
minutes of me scratching a chalkboard for wrong answers. I cringed, but at
least he wasn’t drawing any attention.
At last, the bell rang. As the other
students rushed to escape, relief coursed through me.
Then Hailey Jones pointed at my
sleeve. “Ew! Is that snot on your shirt?”
Awesome right? I can't wait to read more!
