The Northern Lights

Chapter 4. Bonjour. Merci.

France, 1987

A new girl has arrived at school today, though Eden doesn't care, he's too busy sketching a map of fictional islands that run just south along the Earth's equator. He adds rivers and patches of grey to signal mountains and treacherous terrains filled with forests. He sits in the back of class, just below a thin wire that hangs from one corner to the room to the other. Triangular flags, blue, white and red, hang from the rope and point down towards the ground. They blow in the artificial wind.

He lifts the pencil from his page. Bright rays of light glare through the window and reflect off his round glasses. Outside the classroom, on the other side of the glass, lay tall blooming orchids, trees as big as mountains and hills that stretch far and wide. That's where he belongs. Climbing those trees. Smelling those flowers. But instead, he sits alone, in a classroom filled with whispers and spoilt brats.

He is wearing a cream sweater that was gifted to him by his Grand-mère last Christmas. It is far too big for him, it's sleeve would leave room for another arm if he hadn't pushed them up. Eden's hair is dark timber, flowing across his forehead and down just above his eyes. It covers the acne that he is too afraid to admit is insecure about.

The popular girls sit in front of him, covering their mouths as they whisper into each other's ears. Their voices echo, "Rumour has it that she is from the middle east," the blonde one utters to the brunette.

"Do you think she wears a mask?" the hazel haired girl ponders out loud, alienating the thought.

The boys laugh at the thought of a girl in a burka, "She won't belong here," one of them say. The boy has a golden cross that hangs loose around his neck and onto his chess. Azure blue eyes and thick blonde hair. The sun's rays cause his cross to sparkle.

Eden frowns. His pencil is now blunt. He finishes his doodle, smiling as he admires its different shades and tones. He gracefully inscribes his signature beside it.

He looks up from the corner of his page. There is an unfamiliar face that locks eyes with him from the door. She hides, investigating the layout of the room with the top half of her face. Her skin golden and clear, eyes brown yet vibrant. Hazel was the most common eye colour in the class, yet Eden noticed how lively and different her gaze was. Finally, she walks in, shoulders tight and pupils locked onto the ground. The whispers of rumours have fallen silent. All the boys are taken aback.

The teacher greets the class, introducing the nervous girl, "Bonjour class, this is Azra Alhaya, our new student." She pronounces her last name terribly wrong; Eden concludes from the expression of the new girls face.

The class is still silent, though some boys begin to giggle and whisper. The blonde Christian boy is now speechless. The teacher coughs, awaiting a reply. In unison they sing like a Church choir, "Bonjour Azra!" All except Eden.

There is only one seat left in the classroom, it sits silently to Eden's left, closer to the window. Closer to the world. Closer to where he belongs. Her steps are hushed as she walks through the gaps left by the chairs, her scent is heavenly. She walks past the popular girls, catches their devilish stares.

She sits. Eden can't stop his eye from gazing, "Bonjour," he whispers to her kindly. He notices how nice her teeth are.

"Bonjour," she whispers back, "I am not that good at French," she says in perfect English.

He smiles, "that's okay."

The two spend the rest of the class learning about each other rather than division. Where the other is from, their favourite foods, and so on. Azra is from Syria. Eden was born just outside of Paris. Azra enjoys a Syrian food called Yabak. Eden loves the buttery popcorn from his local theatre.

"What is Syria like?" he whispers, as their teacher begins to write equations on the black board, her chalk is becoming far too short like Eden's blunt pencil.

Azra is unable to keep eye contact with the French boy next to her. He is handsome. Skinny, but handsome. His hands look soft. She wonders if that's a weird thing to think. Her pupils flick away to the window, the outside world, the horizon, "It is hot. Sun scorched," Eden sees a flicker of fantasy in her eyes, a sense of adventure, "There are mountains upon mountains of sand. Small villages. It can be very beautiful. I loved it." Her accent is as light as feather. It is indescribable. Not alien; unique.

He smiles, he has never been anywhere outside of France, longing to escape, "when will you go back!?" he asks, what was meant to be a whisper came out as a miniature shout of excitement.

The teacher turns her head back, her eyes stare down into Eden's soul with a muted aggression, "Eden! What is the answer to this question?" she points at the blackboard with a new piece of chalk.

The symbols on the board make no sense to Eden, he was too busy imagining what the sun scorched sand cities of Syria were like. Azra murmurs the answer ever so quietly, "twelve."

Eden coughs, mumbles unsurely, "It's twelve, madam."

Mrs. Lamont is surprised, "Correct," she says, before turning back and finishing the equation, the white stick powders to her fingers and squeaks it against the board.

Eden and Azra look at each other, giggling under their breath, "Merci," he says in a soft voice, before cracking a charming smile.