The Northern Lights

Chaoter 27. Show and Tell.

France, 2010

A circle of children sits on the classroom floor, their teacher towers over them. She sits just outside the ring. Each of the children have placed memorabilia in their laps, including flexible action figures, dashing model cars and dressed up dolls.

With his thin rimmed circular glasses, Arlo fiddles with a wallet in his hand. The girl across from him stands, her arms are tucked behind her back, "Bonjour," her lisp is minor, innocent.

The class responds in unison, "Bonjour Jolie,"

Her youthful hands pull out a golden bracelet. Sunlight from the untinted windows makes it sparkle. The children watch in wonder as they wait for her to speak. It reminds Arlo of the spirals of rose gold that coil around his mother's wrist.

"This bracelet was given to me by my Grand-mère, it is gold and shiny," she wraps it over her left hand, reaches up the ceiling, it rolls down her arm, "it is a bit big, but I like it." The little girl smiles, her teeth are perfect.

Her audience applauds, and as it fades away, the teacher smiles, "Does anyone have any questions for Jolie?"

Jolie points at one of the boys who have their arms raised. His voice is soft, "Why did your Grand-mère gift it to you?"

Arlo notices an expression on the girl's face, the way her eyes stare blankly for a moment. The exact gaze his mother holds whenever he mentions his father.

"She gave it to me in her will, when she passed," she pauses, looks up at the sky, "she's in heaven now."

The class falls silent. The teacher coughs, "Jolie, would you like to pick the next person for show and tell?"

"Hmm," she bites her bottom lip, her eyes gazing from left to right of the circle, Arlo's wavy brown hair, his thin glasses and small nose excite her. To her, he glows, he is a firefly floating amongst a darkened field.

Don't pick me, don't pick me... her finger points at him. Under his breath, Arlo sighs, before lifting himself off the ground. Each pair of eyes in the room stare up at him, his hands tingle, will they fall off?

Arlo takes a deep breath, opens up the leather wallet in his hands. His throat becomes as dry as the Australian outback. A polaroid of him as a baby sits under a plastic sleeve. After clearing his throat, he pulls a folded piece of paper out from the wallet. As he unfolds the crinkled page, he takes a moment to admire the image, "This is a page from my father's atlas, he kept it in his wallet," he spins it arounds, shows the class. With confusion, their eyes observe the faded pages. Jolie's hand erects. Arlo timidly lifts his arm to point at her, "Yes?"

"What is on the page? A painting?"

In his mind he smiles, he has always pounced at the opportunity to talk about the place he visits in his dreams, "It's a picture of the Northern Lights, in Tromsø, Norway," the girl nods, "he always carried it on him."

One of the boys, Franco, interrupt him, "Where is he?"

"He passed away, when I was five," Arlo misses his father's voice, his stories, his cooking, "but he's in a better place now."

"Heaven?" the boy's blonde hair is messy, untamed.

"No," Arlo points to the page, "my mama says that he is resting, in the Northern Lights."

Jolie listens intently, stares at the string of gold around her wrist. She beams, the picture on the page Arlo holds seems paradisiacal, her hand raises once more, "Will you ever see the lights?"

"I hope so." Arlo pinches each corner of the page, his fingers remain cautious and slow with each fold, "my mama promised me we would, and I believe her," as he places the folded page into the wallet, he whispers to himself "I miss him."

As he crouches, an applaud begins to thunder in the classroom.