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work. We have a candle shaped like an owl that sits on the mantelpiece in the living room. I got it down, set it in the middle of the kitchen table, and lit it. I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and placed it in the center of the room.
    “Papa, if you can hear me, please, make the chair move.”
    It didn’t.

    My mother spent more and more time at work. She said she did overtime to pay the taxes on the house. She developed a mantra: “I pray to God for good health so that I can keep my job. That’s all I ask.” The more she said it, the more terrified I was that she’d get sick and die.

    I skipped more and more school, partly because I could barely stand to be with Houston. When I couldn’t weasel away from him, he’d rattle on about being in love with a girl from the twelfth grade. Love. What an improbable idea. Though it was a refreshing change from the Song of Caroline, it made me crazy to listen to him. One spring day when everything had turned to mud, but there was that softness in the air that can transform Montreal into the most beautiful place on earth, I was unlocking my bike at the stand in front of the school. I had just enoughtime to ride up to the cemetery and back before it was time to get Luc from day care. I looked up to see Houston standing in front of me.
    “Francis, dude, what’s going on?”
    “Nothing. What do you mean?”
    “Stop it. I’m not as stupid as I look.”
    “I never said you were stupid.”
    “You’re never home when I call, and you don’t stop by my place when you take a walk after supper like you used to. You know what?”
    “What?”
    “Maybe you lost your father. Okay. I’m sorry for you. But I lost my friend. I lost you.” His face was splotchy red.
    “I miss you too, dude,” I said.
    “It’s hard for me to say this, but I want my buddy back.
    The guy with the weird hair and the skateboard under his arm. You know, that spoiled little brat? Wait a second. That’s not you! That’s Bart Simpson.”
    “Easy mistake.” I straddled my bike, not knowing what else to say.
    Houston continued, his voice rising. “But seriously, you’re my best friend. Remember when you came to my place every night for two whole months in grade five because I wrecked my neck break dancing? Where’s that guy, Francis? Where is he? I’m looking for him, you know, but he’s turned into some sort of grief freak. I miss him, you know, dude?”
    Houston was crying. I had never seen him cry before–except when he wrecked his neck.
    “I don’t know where you went, but come back.” He hugged me, right there in front of the bike rack. I started crying, too. If anyone was watching us, and I’m sure they were, I didn’t notice.
    “I’m sorry, man,” I said.
    “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
    “I feel like I’m in a girlie movie.”
    “Me too.”
    We laughed.
    “Want to come to my place tonight? You have to try my new Play Station. You’ll see, it’s freaking great!”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Come on, Francis!”
    I realized how much I had missed him, and I nodded.
    “Great! What about seven-thirty?”
    I hadn’t forgotten about the cemetery, exactly, but pushing my bike, I walked home with Houston. When we got to my place, he put a hand on my shoulder, like he used to. Neither one of us said a word, but we were friends again.

    Beginning of April. The days were growing longer and the boulders of frozen, dirty snow that had choked our street were almost gone.
    I had skipped school that day–and the two days before–to go to the cemetery. Crocuses and tulips were sprouting on the lawn.
    When I got home Luc was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, watching
Sesame Street.
My mother was rooted to her usual spot in front of the kitchen sink, washing dishes as if she hadn’t moved since morning.
    “How is it going, sweetheart?”
    “Good. How was your day?” I rummaged in the cupboard for a cookie. I snapped it in two and gave half to Sputnik.
    “Good.