Solstice - Of The Heart

by John Blenkush

  “Wouldn’t say that. They’re different. They don’t socialize with anyone I know. Pass them in the street you’d do good getting a nod, much less a word out of them. They keep to themselves pretty much.”

  I turned my head sideways to the wind and used my hand to keep the hair out of my eyes. I keyed in on the Delmon’s hair, blonde, wavy hair flowing like manes down onto their shoulders. Yet, even from this distance, I could see their hair wasn’t being blown about by the wind. I wondered why. And then I noticed nothing on them, their shirt tails or other, was being moved by the wind.

  Strange.

  The threesome moved up the trail with ease, as though gravity had little or no hold over them.

  Hollering from the main spire drew my attention away from the Delmons. I squinted to get a clearer look at what the fuss was about. A Spiderman hung like a fly on a skyscraper from the sheer rock of the spire. He shouted down instructions to his climbing partner.

  I overheard Cherrie say, “Hi”.

  As I turned I came face to face with the Delmons.

  For more than a second our eyes met and for more than a second I felt a lift beneath me as though I was rising up. Guess in actuality I was—rising up so to speak—to step aside and let the Delmons by.

  They said nothing as they walked by, their eyes focused ahead on their destination.

  “Creeps.”

  “Sshh.” I scolded Cherrie. “You could at least wait until they are out of earshot.”

  “They’re always out of earshot. They never say anything to anybody.”

  I suddenly felt chilled and fatigued as though heat and energy had escaped my body. As I thought about my sudden exhaustion, I remembered feeling a pull as the Delmons passed, the same way one feels when the energy created by emotion is transferred from one to another in the heat of battle or in making love. (Not that I would know)

  A smell tickled my nose. I was at a loss to describe it. It took a comment from Cherrie to clue me in.

  “Storm coming in,” she said. “I smell lightning.”

  I did too. I smelled lighting, or to put it more succinctly, I smelled scorched air, but not the severely pungent odor acquainted with the burnt air molecules my science teachers had referred to throughout my school years, but a milder, sweeter scent mixed in with a man’s sweat. It gave me the shivers, the good kind one feels as they step into the sun on a warm spring day.

  I turned and watched the Delmons march up and away as though nothing or nobody else existed. They seemed oblivious to the Spiderman’s hollering echoing across the divide. I watched them climb up the trail and, just about the time I was ready to lose interest, the boy in the rear, who was dressed in the blue shirt, stopped, turned, and stood. He looked out toward the spire where Spiderman barked another order to his partner.

  I poked Cherrie in the ribs.

  “What?” she said.

  “Look”. I pointed to the boy in blue.

  For once, Cherrie held her tongue. And me too. We stood, mesmerized by the sight.

  The boy in blue stood high above us, god like, a force standing strong against the wind. The sun, hanging low in the western sky, colored his hair gold beyond the natural blonde hue. His face shone bright to the point of radiance. His stance held importance, as though he could hush the disturbance being made by Spiderman, if he was so inclined. And then he turned his gaze upon us.

  For a second or two, I felt penetrated. As though he had reached out with his thoughts and invited me to climb with him. I felt the urge to follow in his footsteps. When he turned to rejoin his climbing partners, the feeling all but vanished.

  I spoke. “Are they Spidermen, too?”

  Cherrie guffawed. “Hardly. Not if you call hiking that,” she pulled the cigarette from her mouth and used it to point at the dome, “climbing.”

  I took a good look at the rock the Delmons were hiking. Unlike the other spires and sheer cliffs, the dome was nothing but a weather worn colossus of rock, smooth granite shaped like a man’s bald head. It stood alone, farther north than the other peaks. It looked climbable, even for me with my dilapidated tennis shoes.

  We waited until dark. No more Spidermen came up the trail. None of the climbers came back down by us. So much for scoring with the hunks.

  On our trip back down the trail, I couldn’t get the vision of the boy in blue, standing god-like, out of my mind.

  “Do you know his name?” I asked Cherrie.

  “Who?”

  “The boy in blue who looked at me.”

  “Us,” she said.

  “Okay. Looked at us. Do you know his name?”

  “Aaron.”

  Aaron Delmon. A fitting name for a god-man.

  “I’d sure like to meet him.”

  “Imagine you will.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “He’s a sophomore in your class at SHS, but I don’t expect he’s in any hurry to meet you.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ve had boys look at me that way before. Takes them awhile, but sooner or later, they come calling.”

  “Wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. Like I told you. Delmons are a different animal. They don’t socialize with us peons.”

  “He will. You watch and see.”

  “Sure,” Cherrie said, “and I’ll find Spiderman waiting in my bed when I get home.”

  2 DETENTION

  By the time Cherrie pulled into her grandfather’s driveway and I walked across the street to the cabin, it was pushing 9:00 pm. I figured Dierdra would be in bed, asleep with her glasses on, a book lying in her lap. Her nightly ritual had become habitual.

  Mom would go to bed, tuck herself in, and attempt to read. I’d finish my homework, get ready for bed, and then go to her room to remove her glasses, put the book aside, and turn out her light before retiring.

  Tonight was different. I found Dierdra waiting for me at the front door.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Cherrie and I were out driving.”

  “Driving where?”

  “Why all the fuss, Mom?”

  “Mr. Roberts...”

  I held up a hand.

  That’s all Dierdra had to say.

  Mr. Roberts is an institution at SHS. He has worked for the school district for over sixty-two years. Now, at the age of ninety-two, he volunteers as the school’s attendance monitor. Shouldn’t a ninety-two year old be taking it easy in a rocking chair instead of harassing me?

  “Okay, Mom. So I skipped a class.”

  “Why?”

  “History’s a waste. It’s boring. Ancient stuff no one cares to remember, or should have to. I want to make history, not read about it.”

  Dierdra sat down. She wrung her hands and stared into space. You know; that look of distraught mothers put on when they feel their children have turned down the road of no return. I felt a pinch of guilt, but only briefly. I hadn’t committed an act so outrageous to warrant such a display of wrought emotion.

  I knew mom’s hurt originated from a different point of view. The lack of a father in the house gave me the excuse to run amok. If I was her, that’s what I’d be thinking, even though, I felt, it wasn’t true.

  “Come on, Mom. I’ll help you to bed.”

  She took my hand and followed me to her bedroom. As she lay down, she spoke.

  “I love you, Julissa. I couldn’t stand it if you got hurt.”

  I understood. I believed what she really meant to say was, “I don’t want you to die.” She’s harbored that fear since I was the age of twelve, when I nearly drowned. Simon’s death exasperated her fear.

  “I love you too, Mom. And don’t worry. I’ll be careful. I won’t get hurt.”

  She waited until I stood at the door before announcing she and Mr. Roberts agreed I would serve two hours of detention for my discretion the following morning.

  There went my Saturday morning sleep in!

  “What time do I have to report?”

  “Eight o’clock.”
/>   I slipped out the door.

  “Julissa.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “I love you.”

  “I know, Mom. Go to sleep,” I said, as I closed her bedroom door.

  I was glad to be home, safe and sound, from our adventure. I showered and brushed my hair and teeth. Cherrie and I had stopped at the Burger King on our way home, so I wasn’t hungry. I climbed into bed and lay there, eyes wide open, my brain whirling away. I couldn’t get the image of Aaron Delmon standing, god-like, on the bluff above us out of my head.

  I got up and moved over to the desk and computer. I googled Aaron Delmon. I found Aaron and I found Delmon, but I didn’t find any Aaron Delmons. I checked the Shasta High School (SHS) web site. His name didn’t appear there either. But then, my being a new student, neither did mine. It made me wonder if he was a new student as well. Or had Cherrie been kidding me, pretending these guys went to SHS when they didn’t? Is that why she was so sure Aaron and I would never become, at the very least, friends? If so, she’d have some explaining to do.

  I looked out of my bedroom window and out across the street. The only light I could see in Cherrie’s house reflected out the back porch. I imagined, by now, Cherrie and her Spiderman (in the form of her pillow) were hard at it—at least in her mind if not in her dreams.

  I slipped back into bed not knowing any more about Aaron Delmon than he had two brothers, he overdressed for hiking, he was, according to Cherrie, unsociable, and, physically, from what I saw, he looked flawless. Could it be I was fishing in the shallows where no depth exists? I pondered this for a minute, and thought not. Quiet waters run deep. If you want to explore them, you have to dive in. Swim the currents, if you will. Explore the depths. I fell asleep, dream-swimming in Aaron Delmon’s god-like vision.

  Morning came quick. Much too quick! Who gets up before eight on a Saturday morning? Figured Mr. Roberts was going to be disappointed as I was already running late. I wondered if he would extend my detention.

  I hurried.

  I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, figuring the outfit would be appropriate attire for detention. One look in the mirror told me I didn’t have time for a face-over. I pulled my unruly hair up on top of my head and slung it through a hair band. There. On my way—pony tail and all.

  I stopped long enough to check in on Dierdra. She slept soundly, snoring a bit even. A biting cold met me at the door. I retreated, threw on a coat, and made my way out into the world.

  As I passed by Cherrie’s house, I couldn’t help but muse how nice it must be to sleep in, to be curled up under six inches of blanket on a frosty morning, to wake naturally, and to lounge by the fire with a mug of mocha topped off by whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. I guess it’s the price one pays for breaking the contract as our principal, Mr. Hertzog at SHS, is so fond of saying to the point of nausea.

  The walk to SHS is six blocks, just long enough to do what the cup of coffee I was lacking would have done for me; wake me up. An older man, fifty or so, keys dangling from his belt loop, met me at the front door. He unlocked it and let me in.

  “Where’s Mr. Roberts?” I said.

  “I’m Bernard. I run the detention program on Saturday. And you are?”

  “Julissa Grant.”

  He pulled a note out of his pocket. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Got you right here. Julissa Grant. Two hours detention.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. “Yep. That’s me.”

  I looked up and down the halls. The big clock mounted on the wall in the foyer showed 8:20 AM. I glanced back over my shoulder and out the door.

  “Anyone else coming?”

  “No. You’re it.”

  Bernard turned and walked away. He had a small limp in his gait, so, to compensate, he used his arms for balance. The motion set his keys to jangling, in a musical sort of way.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Follow me,” he said, waving a hand.

  We walked down the main hall and entered the north wing where, on both side walls, banks of lockers stood. Nothing strange about lockers in a high school, except all the doors on these lockers stood wide open. Can’t say as I’ve ever seen that before.

  Bernard handed me a putty knife. “What I need you to do,” he said, “is scrape the gum and anything else that doesn’t look like it belongs, off the lockers. Then wipe them down with this,” he said, handing me a spray bottle and rag.

  I looked down the endless row of lockers. In my mind, I said, you got to be kidding me! As the nice girl from the heart of Minnesota, I verbalized a, “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  I watched Bernard stroll away. For some reason he looked familiar, but I was certain I hadn’t met him. Maybe I had seen him in the halls while going from class to class.

  In my limited experience, janitors often become part of the furniture in a school. Most students, I imagined, do not have any interaction with them and therefore do not even realize they exist. If they did and knew the impact their sloppy, trashy habits had on the custodial staff maybe they’d be more courteous. Maybe I’d be more courteous. Given the task at hand, I felt empathy for Bernard and the work he did. I assumed from here on out, Bernard and I would be saying hello.

  As Bernard walked away, a smell stung my nose. I lifted the bottle he had given me to my face and sniffed. Whatever the contents, it didn’t give off an odor. Then it dawned on me. The smell was the same one I had sensed up on the Crags when the Delmon party passed by; the scent of scorched air mixed with something sweet.

  Naturally, the smell brought Aaron Delmon front and center in my mind. Geez, I begin to think, was there no getting away from this guy? I laughed and spoke out loud.

  “Why would you want to?”

  Let me tell you, there are very few things more disgusting than cleaning lockers. Course I have never cleaned toilets, at least public toilets. As I worked my way down the locker row, removing gum, food, spittle, and what appeared to be tobacco chew, I made a point of promising myself I would not do anything to receive detention, whereby I would have to clean toilets.

  Thirteen or so into the locker row, I sensed the scorch air smell again, only stronger with a mixture of new smelling sweat only a male could have produced. I jumped ahead two lockers and found the source.

  Locker 813, I read.

  Most of the lockers were either empty or contained a few books and loose papers. Nothing of value I could see, hence, I figured, Bernard’s ease with leaving me alone in the hall with all the goodies. Besides, where would I run?

  This particular locker’s décor appeared unusual, not only because it contained the source of the smell, but it remained free of graffiti, gum, or anything of offensive substance. I wondered if the derelicts of the school were afraid of the boy who used this locker and, if so, why?

  There wasn’t a need for me to clean locker 813 at all, but I hovered, pretending to spray and wipe down the door should Mr. Bernard appear. At the same time I poked around at the contents of the locker, which contained a sweatshirt (where the smell originated) and, like many of the other lockers, books associated with our classes. The loose-leaf notebook somehow made it into my hands. I looked up and down the hall with the full expectation of being caught in the act of espionage. I imagined toilet cleaning would be one of the punishments, but I inhaled a breath and chanced it anyway.

  I opened the binder and, written in block letters, I saw the name AARON DELMON. The lettering could have been stamped, it was scribed so perfect. Yet I could see red pen had been used.

  This guy is a neat freak.

  I felt a bit weak and more than a little nervous at prying into Aaron’s private things, but somehow (give me a break here) I could not resist. What does a gorgeous boy like him have to hide? I turned the pages of his notebook. From his outlines I could tell he took school serious. Everything was so organized. Tabs indicated his classes, English, Math, Science, etc. Under one heading, I found Schedule.

  Here we go. He has to be in at
least one of my classes.

  The chart said no.

  Bummer.

  He had biology class seventh period; my science class was first period. The wheels in my head turned. It might be possible to get my history class switched with my science class. Certainly after my breach with the contract, Mr. Whittinghill, our counselor, would concur I could use a bit more stimulus in the late afternoon. What better stimuli then to attend class with the mysterious Aaron Delmon? I closed the note book and put it back with a plan in mind.

  Only then did I notice the décor on the interior walls of Aaron’s locker.

  As I cleaned the lockers there was no doubt which ones belonged to the boys. For one, strange looking growths seemed to thrive on male lockers whereas the girl lockers—generally—smelled of perfume and were kept tidy. Nearly every boy’s locker contained some kind of pinup of a girl, the more skin (within school guidelines, of course) showing, the better.

  Aaron’s locker didn’t include any pinups of girls, which, in one way, came as a relief to me, knowing he had not settled on a girlfriend and, another way, disturbing. The question, is he gay? ran through the back of my head. It would explain the neatness and why the derelicts shied away from messing with his locker. But it wouldn’t explain his fascination with Mount Shasta. He had wallpapered the interior of his locker with pictures of the same mountain shadowing our high school.

  I could tell Aaron had spent a good deal of time picking and choosing the pictures of Mount Shasta, probably the same way the boys did in choosing their pin-up girls. I saw pictures of Mount Shasta from all angles and in all seasons. One had even been taken by a pilot flying a 747. (said it on the picture) They were all pretty amazing pictures of what was becoming, in my mind, a pretty remarkable piece of rock.

  A few of the pictures included cloud formations draped over Shasta. One in particular stood out. Shasta, as large as it is, in this image looked small in comparison to the bank of cirrus clouds fanned out over the mountain. I leaned my head into Aaron’s locker for a closer look and read the inscription on the picture entitled Abraham’s Tree.