by Tao Lin

Sandy has moved back to Canada. I could walk five steps into my front grass and peer diagonal at his hollow house. I could do that. I could chew weeds. I could walk around my house, ten times, in circles, like a drawing. And I could eat raw spaghetti, too, until nothing happened and nothing mattered. I could, I could.

Sandy arrived from Canada. Next noon he appeared on his bike. Appeared like a bug. Cycled over the blacktop. Him and his bike, like a tiny car. His hair like sand. Eyes like pelicans. Face like a pancake that was no good for eating. Feet, I don't know. And a sister. One sister with A's in her name, with outfits that billowed. A sister with a boyfriend with a head that reminded of beaks. Of eagles of hawks. Of beakers.  

I spent the night at Sandy's house. The Super Bowl was over. Finished for that Sunday. In the darkness, I smelled guacamole. Sandy's house had good walls, I knew, but it also had bad walls. I looked at the walls and couldn't tell which was what. What was which. Sandy slept on the carpet. He looked like napkins. I touched him. Then I ran home. The neighborhood was very broken and very quiet that night within its walls. Beyond the houses, there were churches, and gas stations. In the morning, Sandy's father drove by in his van.

Take Florida, says Sandy. Grab it like a frying pan. Place it on top of Canada, like a stove. Now watch the moose, watch them run. The moose with their antlers, watch them run, run, run. Then watch them become tired, and stop, and chew some grass. 

Once upon a time, a boy named Sandy flew down from Canada, flew down to Florida, landed inside a house. Him and his mother, and his uncle aunt, but no moose, and sister and father and more. The gang of them filled one house. And when Sandy decided to, he walked out his front door. And then, once upon a time, we met and became friends. There was a wind, and the sun, together, and there were lizards, and we stood there, feeling this. Then we saw his sister. She had put on make-up. She flew out a window and soared over us, like more than one kite, like four billowing kites, going to seek out her boys. Her beak boy was somewhere out there. Sandy and I smiled. I turned my head, caught my house in my eye, and pointed a finger at it. Then I twisted around, to show Sandy. But he had round-trip tickets. And now he was in the clouds, in a plane, strapped in a seatbelt, sipping 7-Up, flying back to Canada. There would've been one empty seat traversing the sky, because Sandy had round-trip tickets. There would have been nothing, nothing air in that seat, going from Florida to Canada. Air doing some traveling. So Sandy had to go. He had round-trip tickets.

In Canada, the tundra is gray, I tell Sandy, but in Florida, the beaches are gray. In Canada, there are moose, but in Florida, there are lizards. Canada has salmon, yes, has Alaska, in a way, it does, okay. But Florida has Lake Istokpoga.

The final time I saw Sandy was in the fourth grade. In that school, what we did was we walked in caterpillar lines to get where we needed to go. The teacher was the caterpillar's head. I saw young, haggard Sandy across the way. He was in his line and I was in mine. He smiled in a sleepy way. He waved at me. The person behind him glanced at me. I glanced at that person. Then I waved at Sandy. Then Sandy waved back. And then I waved again. Altogether, I waved twice. Sandy, also, had waved twice. But then I waved one more time. Three times I had waved. Then I smiled again. And after I smiled that second smile, and when Sandy was no longer looking, I waved three more times. The person behind Sandy saw me. That person behind Sandy saw me wave those last three waves, and now he waved at me, and he knew that altogether, I had waved six times. Six times was too many. He knew this and I knew this. Six times I had waved. Six times and I had waved Sandy all the way back to moose-filled Canada.

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