After by Francis Chalifour Read Free Book Online Page A

three messages. They could ask for advice or tell them that they were loved and are missed. One of the questions I would ask Papa is, how do I take care of Luc? I don’t know what the other questions would be.
    When we got home from the park and I had put a plate of cookies in front of Luc and wiped the mud off Sputnik’s paws and hairy belly, I found Maman in her usual place, curled up at the end of the brown corduroy couch, Papa’s vest clutched tight against her body. Despite the sheer nuttiness of her having built a fire on this warm day, she seemed much calmer. A TV evangelist was pacing back and forth on the screen. She was watching him punch the air with the sound off.
    “Maman?”
    “Yes, honey?”
    “Do you believe in God?” It had never occurred to me to wonder what she believed, but now it seemed urgent for me to know.
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it makes me feel better.”
    “That’s it?”
    She turned her attention to me. “I want to think that your father is in some kind of paradise and that he’s looking out for us,” she said firmly.
    “You really believe that?”
    “Yes. I like to think that he is our guardian angel. You want to know something, honey? Sometimes, especially when I’m here, in front of the fireplace, I feel some kind of a presence around me. I don’t know. Maybe it’s him.”
    I wanted to believe her, but I wasn’t sure what to think. I never felt any presence, ever. She reached out to ruffle my hair and smiled, really smiled at me for the first time since last June.

7 | H OUSTON
    T hat old Grief Monster had its own schedule. Just when I thought my head was clear of the water, it would rise up like a sea serpent and drag me down again. I could be pointing to the pizza in the cafeteria line, or trying to work out an equation in math when it would grab me by the legs and pull me under, so that I felt like water was pouring into my lungs. I thought I had cried all the tears that a human being could possibly cry, but evidently there is no limit. I
was
turning into some sort of grief freak. I discovered every single spot in the school where you can cry without being seen. You’d be amazed at how many there are.

    Everybody liked Houston. I’m not saying that just because he was my best friend. It was impossible not to like the goofiest guy in the entire universe. He made people think that the world was one good laugh. When Aunt Sophie first met him, she shook her head fondly. “That boy is a tonic. That’s what he is, a tonic.”
    It just goes to show what shape I was in when I tell you that Houston, my friend since forever, and the sweetest guy you can imagine, was driving me crazy. Since the day at the bike rack I’d been spending more time with him, but it wasn’t easy. I never realized until Papa died that he talked nonstop about his father. Life at their house sounded like a neverending season of
Father Knows Best
, There was the “Houston Get’s His Dad’s Old Electric Razor” episode, and the “Houston and His Dad Go to the Mall and Can’t Find Their Car,” episode. He treated me to “Houston’s Dad Teaches Him to Drive.” He had hit sixteen.
    “My father wants me to learn on his car because he says it has all these safety features. It’s a real drag because he has an old man’s car. Plus it’s white.”
    “You’re pretty lucky,” I said.
    “Are you serious? I’m going to be driving a car that’s white. White!”
    “At least you’ve got someone to teach you.”
    “How about one of your uncles?”
    “Not a chance. They all have their own kids. They don’t need anybody else’s.”
    Houston had hit yet another sore spot. I was full of them at the time. I know it sounds horrible now, but I sincerely wished that Houston’s father would drop dead.

    There was this amazing girl in my French class. She was from Barrie, somewhere in Ontario–you know, the
center
of Canada. Her name was Julia and she always smelled like lily of the