Page 77

My mom calls on Saturday, after the Philadelphia game.

"You didn't slide," she says, in French, instead of hello.

"What?"

"Your goal. In the second. You didn't do the slide. You haven't done it in three weeks. I counted."

"I didn't feel like it."

"You always feel like it. You've been doing that slide since you were nine years old. You did it in the driveway. You did it in my kitchen, Rémy. You ruined the linoleum."

"I'm getting older."

"You're twenty."

"Twenty's older than nine."

She's quiet on the other end. I can hear the TV behind her, and my dad's voice asking her something, and her saying shh, I'm talking to him.

"Are you happy, mon grand?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Really?"

I think about Owen asleep with his arm across me. About the rug and the fern and the laughing on the hotel carpet. About the closet in the back of Gus's equipment room, and Sorel standing in the doorway in penguin pajamas, saying in case anybody gets hungry.

"Really," I say. "I'm really happy, Maman."

"Okay." She doesn't sound convinced. "People are talking about it. On the fan page. Bring back the slide. There's a hashtag."

"There's always a hashtag."

"Your cousin Luc made T-shirts."

"Oh my God."

"He's selling them for twenty dollars. I bought four." She sighs. "You're coming home for Christmas?"

"The twenty-fourth. I get three days."

"What about your roommate? The sad bear? What does he do for Christmas?"

I'm quiet for a second too long.

"He's staying in Chicago," I say.

"By himself?"

"I think so."

"That's terrible. Bring him."

"Maman—"

"I'm serious. Bring him. I'll make tourtière. Your father can show him the truck. Nobody should be alone at Christmas, and especially not a sad bear with a divorce."

I close my eyes. I want to. I want it so badly I can feel it in my teeth: Owen in my mom's kitchen with the ruined linoleum, eating tourtière, my dad showing him the truck. My mom looking at the two of us across the table with that face that sees everything.