After by Francis Chalifour

school so his voice boomed. I looked up the street and could see that the front door and all the windows were flung wide open.
    I left Houston behind and ran, my heart throbbing in my chest, and pounded up the steps.
    “Take off your shoes this instant! I just washed the floor.” Maman was dressed in a torn Grateful Dead T-shirt and shorts, her hair tucked under a baseball cap. She was on her hands and knees polishing the floor with wood soap.
    “And stay away from the walls, they’ve just been scrubbed.”
    “Why? They looked fine to me.”
    “The house was due for a cleaning. After I’m through here, you and I are going to attack the attic.”
    The attic. No way. “I’m not setting foot in it.”
    “Did you hear me, Francis? You have to help me.” She leaned back on her heels and wiped her hands on her shorts.
    “Why? You’re the one who wants to go up there, not me.”
    “Don’t start.”
    I looked around the living room. Cardboard boxes from the liquor store were piled on the dining room table and in the hall. They had been packed and labeled.
    “Papa’s clothes?” I asked.
    “Yes. Uncle Ted’s coming around to pick them up,” she said firmly.
    “You’re giving everything away?”
    “I have enough souvenirs of your father in my head. I need to clean up.”
    “But maybe I’ll fit into them someday.”
    “I put away his favorite T-shirts and his good sweaters for you and Luc. The rest of the stuff will never fit you. You’re a skinny one.”
    Skinny. Hey, I hadn’t noticed. I was so skinny that if you shone a flashlight at me you could see the light through my body.
    “Don’t be a baby. You’re sixteen now. You’re old enough to understand.”

    Sweet Sixteen. I had turned sixteen on April 13, and it was, to say the least, nonfestive. The only thing I knew was that I didn’t want a party with my friends. The ol’ Grief Monster wasn’t tamed enough for me to be sure it wouldn’t show up, an unwelcome guest, so in the afternoon we visited Grandpa at the nursing home and spent forty-five long minutes listening to him call me Ben while we fed him a carrot muffin. Sputnik sat expectantly at his feet in anticipation of the inevitable crumbs. Mom had invited Uncle Ted and Aunt Sophie for supper. Uncle Ted didn’t show up, but Aunt Sophie did. Maman made lasagna, my favorite food. Aunt Sophie gave me the new U2 CD. I kissed her and her explosion of laughter actually made me smile. Luc gave me a drawing of Sputnik. Papa’s birthday was April 14 th , and Maman had always baked a cake for us with both our names on it. That year, his name was not there. Mine took up all the space.
    It was one of those yo-yo days when I went from feeling okay to zoning out to feeling happy. Aunt Sophie left around seven.
Look Who’s Talking
was on TV she wanted to watch it. So ended my big day.

    “Francis, did you hear me? Yoo-hoo! Where are you? Francis? I’m talking to you.”
    “About what?” With a snap I came back to the living room smelling of lemony soap. “Throwing out my father’s things?”
    I slammed out of the house and coasted on my bike down the steep street to Deli Delight.
    Mr. D. was pouring coffee at a table where four old men were shoveling in eggs and fried onions and having a full-volume enthusiastic argument that had to do with a racehorse. When Mr. Deli saw me he put down the pot and came over.
    “I have exactly what you need.”
    He brought me a cup of coffee and sat down on the stool beside me. The old men were wrapped up in stories of bets gone wrong and paid no attention to us.
    “What’s wrong with your eyes?”
    “Nothing.”
    “So, what?”
    What’s wrong? Let’s see. Everything. Feeling like a prize dork about Jul. Being scared that my mother would crack apart and vanish like Papa. Worrying about Luc who seemed happier playing catch with Sputnik than being with kids his own age. Having been such a disappointment that my father didn’t think it was worthwhile to stick