The final period bell rang. Lucas stopped scribbling mindlessly on the inside cover of the math book, and snapped it closed—another grueling school day coming to an end. Another school week, done. He stuffed the book in his bag, and hurried to leave.
"Lucas," Mr. Jostin called out, "please wait a minute. I need to speak with you before you go."
Lucas slumped. Air from students rushing by smacked against his face in an unruly mockery.
So close, he thought, and turned to face this dictator. "Yeah? What is it?"
Mr. Jostin waved him over while skillfully keeping his eyes glued to a stack of papers.
"I said, yeah. What is it?"
Mr. Jostin's eye brows scrunched inquisitively. The pencil he'd placed behind his ear bobbed up and down like a plank of wood.
He flipped through the papers, and sighed. "We've got a problem," he said, finally looking at Lucas. His brows furrowed, rolls forming across his forehead.
"I want to talk to you about your homework."
"What about it?" Lucas replied.
"You haven't handed in the last three assignments."
Lucas scratched his head feigning surprise. "Are you sure you didn't just lose them? There's a lot of paper in that stack, seems like it'd be easy to lose."
"Yes, I am sure Lucas," Mr Jostin replied, sharply. "Currently, you're failing my class. Are you having any trouble with the formulas or the arithmetic?"
"No, I guess I just forgot to hand them in."
Mr. Jostin thought deeply for a moment. A teacher of greater than fifteen years and never once had he heard such a blunt explanation. It was almost comical. "Lucas, that's not a good reason. If you're going to pass my class, it's important that you complete the assignments and hand them in on time."
"Yeah, I know," Lucas said, growing impatient.
"Okay then, well listen, if you bring me those assignments in on Monday, I can give you at least partial credit. Think you can do that?"
"Sure, you got it Professor."
"Don't be smug, Lucas. I'm trying to help you."
Lucas wondered what kind of car Mr. Jostin drove. By the looks of his puke green sweater vest, the thick rimmed bifocals and the Co-exist sticker on his briefcase, he figured maybe a ragged station wagon or an old buggy. Whatever it was, it wouldn't drive well on slashed tires.
"Is that all? Can I leave now?"
Mr. Jostin shook his head. "Yeah, Lucas. You can go now."
Lucas darted from the classroom and careened down the hallway, weaving around the last few loitering students, and burst through the main doors of the high school. The fresh stench of exhaust still hung in the air from the departed busses. He looked towards the vacant senior parking lot, which was usually bustling like 5th avenue and hurried over to the crosswalk and without waiting for the guard to signal, darted across while laughing at the subsequent guard's whistle blaring at his violation. Everyone ordering him around—do this, do that—no body ever seemed to get tired of it. Holding him late like that, homework was just another crafty way of adults tried to control every minute. But Mr. Josten's concerns weren't an isolated incident. Wouldn't be long before the science teacher, Mrs. Daly, and the english teacher Ms. Hanley, added their two-cents. He'd not handed in any of their assignments.
He approached the football field. The football team practiced in their bulky red garb running drills and spouting all sorts of testosterone fueled rants.
In his pocket his phone buzzed—Mom. She'd been calling more and more over the last few days. It started off just once to check in, but now it seemed like every five minutes. Why was she so obsessed with knowing his whereabouts at every waking moment? She treated him like a helpless little boy who couldn't take care of himself. The phone acted more like a leash. Nag, nag, nag. He pressed the ignore button, and stuffed the phone back into his slacks.
Dianna sat on the bleachers. Next to her, bundled up in his customary puffy green coat and scarf, was their neighbor, James Mwangi. James lived in the house across from Lucas. The only son of Kenyan immigrants, him and his family had only been in Derryton a few years and hadn't acclimated to the plummeting temperatures of fall and winter. Lucas and James bonded under their shared scorn for Derryton, though James's disdain was mostly playful, directed at the capricious weather. James, or "the walking math book" as Lucas called him, was a robotics whiz, the youngest student ever in New Hampshire to win the state's highest esteemed robotics award. James always carried a frayed notebook stuffed with sketches of weird imaginary robots and math formulas that only a math wizard could translate. Lucas was convinced one day that James would grow to be the mastermind behind the inevitable robot world domination.
"What took so long?" James groaned at Lucas. "Get lost again?"
"Mr. Jostin held me up after class for some stupid reason," Lucas said tossing his book bag on the bleachers. He sat next to Dianna.
"You get in trouble for something—again?" asked Dianna. A devious smirk creeping across her face.
"Something like that," Lucas said, a gleam in his eyes. "And that's not even the worst of it...you know what I had to sit through in History class today?—an entire spiel about that inventor-guy, Thomas Edison, and all the weird things he created. I mean why do we have to waste time learning what someone did a century ago. How does that even matter today?"
James piped in like a walking encyclopedia. "He was quite interesting. Invented some cool stuff—lights, batteries, and the phonograph."
"My grandpa had an old phonograph..." Lucas said, staring off at a passing cloud. Grandparents, now there was a thought, he wondered if they even knew he was in this shit town? Would they come visit?
"I had trouble with Mr. Jostin too," Dianna said, tying her hair back. "So don't feel bad, he can be really strict, an asshole to put it better. Gave me a detention once for chewing gum—gum! My dad was pissed. Grounded me for like a whole week. Said I 'disappointed the family.'"
"Really? Mad over one detention?" Lucas said.
"My Dad doesn't like when me and Mitch get in trouble at school—or anywhere, really. He expects us to be perfect. But I still chew gum so he and Mr. Jostin can shove it." She chuckled at her bravado.
Lucas smirked. He liked that flash of rebellion in her. Butterflies, an entire swarm, fluttered for her.
"What a natural rebel you are, Dianna," James snickered. "But, you guys are correct, Mr. Jostin is definitely a tough one. I should know, I had him in advanced calculus last year."
Lucas shook his head. "Adults are always acting as if they know some better way to live, and yet they mess things up all the time. Who gave them the right to be in charge? Their authority should be stripped. Just because they're older, they get to run over the rest of us, with no regard for how we feel. Age doesn't mean shit. Doesn't mean they've learned anything."
They sat still for some length of time, unsure how to respond.
Dianna shifted towards Lucas, having thought on his remark. "I think they mean well, but they can be too harsh," she said, her voice direct, "but sometimes, it's fun to mess with them, right? My dad pays more attention to Mitch, and treats me like I'm invisible. I find the only way I can get his attention is to get under his skin. I don't know if it's right but it's a way to get back at him."
"I know what you mean, sometimes getting in trouble is all you've got," Lucas said. "But you've got your mom?"
"She just follows my Dad's lead. I dunno if she even can think for herself."
"It sucks that you guys feel this way," James said. "I don't have any of those issues with my parents, except they're usually at the hospital working."
"There's something," Dianna added, "if you don't see your parents, they can't bother you, right, Lucas—"
Lucas had his mind fixed to something else. He rubbed the inseam of his jeans. "Mr. Jostin really pissed me off." Angst and uneasiness throbbed across his fingers, his legs trembled. He hated this feeling like he was no longer in control of his limbs, as if they'd been hijacked by some invisible puppet strings, compelling him to acts he knew to be wrong but were successful in relieving distress.
"Do you guys know what kind of car he drives?" Lucas asked.
Dianna had no clue.
"Some old black station wagon that squeals like a pig as it passes," James said, "it has a big ol' yellow bumper sticker on the back that says, I BRAKE FOR PEACE—Why?"
Lucas dug around in his backpack, and pulled out a pocket knife. He faced Dianna, grinning. This was a win-win opportunity: mollify his anxiety and impress Dianna at the same time.
"Let's go teach him a little street math—one knife plus four tires equals—four flats."
James shifted uneasily. "Good joke city boy. But, please tell me you're kidding."
"I'm not kidding at all," Lucas sneered. "Whatta you say, Dianna?"
"But we're supposed to meet Mitch at Potter's Bluff," Dianna said, not entirely opposed to Lucas' offer.
"C'mon," Lucas replied, emphatically, "it'll be fun. I'm quite talented when it comes to tire slashing." He closed the blade and tucked it in his pocket. "Just think of those detentions from something as stupid as gum chewing. Don't you want to teach him a lesson? Let that motivate you."
"Okay," Dianna said, "only if you let me slash a tire."
Lucas gleamed. This is really working. "You can have the first one."
"I won't be involved in this guys," James said, interrupting their little amorous moment, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'll meet you at Potter's Bluff. Go on and have a blast."
~~~~~
Lucas and Dianna hurried through the senior parking lot, around the vocational building and crouched down behind a bush at the rear foyer overlooking the staff parking lot. A few cars remained including the black station wagon, parked under a telephone pole a few yards off.
"We're in luck," Lucas remarked. "Looks like Mr. Jostin has after school detention duty today."
"His car is so ugly," Dianna said, giggling. "No wonder he's so miserable all the time. I'd be angry, too, if I had to drive that thing around. We're doing him a favor."
Lucas chuckled hard. "Alright, let's go duck down by the telephone pole."
They scampered across the parking lot, moved passed the telephone pole and crouched by the back bumper of Mr. Jostin's station wagon.
Lucas pulled out the blade and handed it to Dianna. "The honor is all yours."
Dianna grasped hold of the knife and starred blankly, as if this was the first time she'd ever held a pocketknife. "How do I do it?"
"Just jab it in by the tread—hard," Lucas said, pointing to the inner treading of the rear tire.
Dianna nodded. "You really have done this before," she said, tightening her grip around the knife. She inhaled and thrust the blade into the tire's rubbery flesh. The sharp knife failed to penetrate. She recoiled, and thrust once more—a loud burst of air screamed from the sizable hole. The station wagon listed back.
"Oh my god I really did it," Dianna exclaimed.
Lucas put a finger to his lips, his eyes communicating the martial code of silence. He steadily moved to the next rear tire, a grin spread across his face then he stabbed.
"What a sweet sweet melody that sound is," he said, before moving on to the front tires. And as a final production note, he ripped the silly—I BRAKE FOR PEACE—sticker from the rear bumper.
"Can't hand out detentions now if you can't get to school."
Dianna gleamed at him with an innocent admiration. "You're so—-"
"Hey!" a voice rang out. "What are you kids doing!"
Dianna gasped, her eyes matching the circumference of a full moon. Lucas leapt to his feet and peered through the station wagon's rear window towards the foyer. Charging towards them was the resource officer.
"Run!" Lucas shouted and pulled Dianna to her feet. They sprinted across the staff parking lot, laughing wildly, soaking up the enormous waves of adrenaline that seemed to force their legs to run in speeds they didn't think possible. They stormed up and over a slight hill, nearly stumbling and hopped the fence like liberated gazelle disappearing into the cover of trees.
~~~~~~
They arrived at Potter's Bluff holding hands, gasping and laughing hysterically following the chainlink fence.
"Did you see the way his gut was jiggling," Lucas said, his eyes tearing, "when he was running after us."
Dianna bent at the waist. "My stomach hurts I'm laughing so hard."
Two joyous rebels basking in naturally commissioned enterprise, their pious laughter filled the air and echoed off into the Bluff with reckless abandon. Early evening was setting in, and the bluff cast an enormous dark shadow bringing a welcomed cool.
After his laughing fit passed, Lucas looked up and tried to spot the top of Potter's Bluff. "So this is it, huh?" he said. "Looks like someone just dropped a hill in the middle of nowhere—that's what a bluff is, right?"
Dianna nodded, and pulled his by the shirt. "Basically a big hill. C'mon lets go see James."
James was sitting by the cut section of fence reading a magazine.
"Hey, there you guys are—about time," James scoffed, putting his Robotics magazine into his bag. "Did you do it?"
Lucas smiled at Dianna.
"Oh, we did it," Dianna declared, proudly.
"Jeez, you two are crazy. Hope you get away with it."
"We will, don't worry," Lucas said, letting his gaze once again drift towards the bluff. "How far up?"
"About a quarter mile," Dianna replied.
"Oh," Lucas lamented. "All that for a beer?"
"There's a really nice view I want to show you," Dianna replied, touching him lightly on the wrist. "You can make it, right?"
"It'll be nothing," Lucas quickly asserted, turning away before she noticed his blushing cheeks.
"We should get started," James said, tightening his backpack straps around his shoulders. "Or else they'll drink all the beer." He yanked the fence open and gestured for them to slip through.
Lucas regretted his decision shortly after starting the ascent. The severe lack of a clear trail posed a formidable challenge. The brush acted like camouflage hiding the vicious incline. Repeatedly, he slipped on wet mud. His saliva took on a pasty quality. Everywhere he turned, armies of bony trees seemed to rise up and soon it felt as if they were going in circles. He languished behind Dianna and James, who appeared to be advancing with great ease. Every so often they glanced back, smirking at the inadequate and grossly out-of-shape city boy who looked as if he'd never seen a tree.
"C'mon, man," James called back to Lucas, "it's not Mt. Everest."
Lucas muttered a mouthful of profanity, and nearly slipped and fell in his exasperation.
Dianna paused, enjoying Lucas's ungraceful display. "Not much of a hiker, huh, city boy? Try and keep up, will ya."
Lucas, blinded by his unwavering determination to impress Dianna, pulled his shoes from the mud and propelled forward like a fire-eating locomotive all the while his insides churned and pitched in ways that anatomy wasn't meant to twist.
He came to a prostrated heap by Dianna and leaned on a tree, his face crimson red. "This is nothing compared to the buildings I used to walk up," he said, unconvincingly.
"I bet you always took the elevators," Dianna quipped.
"You've got tons of jokes today," Lucas replied, still breathing heavily. "No way, I always took the stairs. If there was such thing as the stair climbing olympics, I'd win the gold."
James burst forth, always one to take on hypotheticals. "Let's do a simple calculation," he said, "what's the average building height in New York City, Lucas?"
"I don't know. I've been up the Empire State Building a bunch of times. You get dizzy just looking straight up at it from the sidewalk, I'd say that's pretty tall."
"Okay then, let's suppose each flight of steps has ten stairs, and let's suppose that each flight is about twenty feet in height. Now if we multiply—"
"Oh zip it, James," Dianna said. "Can't you see math class has already given Lucas enough trouble. No more lessons for today."
Lucas wiped a bead of sweat running down his cheek. "I don't wanna hear anything else about math for a long, long time."
Dianna giggled, her nose wrinkling gently.
Lucas enjoyed her laugh. He liked being the funny guy and though rested, his heart thumped faster.
"Why, yes!" James said suddenly, as though the cure for the common cold just popped into his mind. "I meant to tell you guys this earlier. But you got all snagged up with popping tires. You're not gonna believe it, Oh, when I heard it I was like, 'Oh I can't wait to tell them, they're going to burst' it truly is the second most fascinating bit of news I've gotten and—"
"James—spit it out," Dianna snapped.
"Sorry—so here it is, my mom was on the phone the other day. Not sure who she was talking to, but they were talking about Mr. Moore and I overheard her say something about him."
"Well, what about Mr. Moore?" Dianna asked.
Lucas dug his fingers into the tree bark.
"Every morning, on her way to the hospital, she sees him—in Old South Cemetery. She said he's there every morning doing God knows what. Every morning," James said. He leered triumphantly, waiting for Dianna's and Lucas's inevitable awe.
"Every morning?" Dianna asked. "How sure are you?"
"I know what I heard. I'm not deaf."
"Why would he go there?" Lucas asked.
"How should I know?" Dianna responded. "Maybe to dig up the graves?"
James nodded affirmatively. "Or maybe he's looking for a new face."
"Shut up with that nonsense," Lucas scoffed, shifting uneasily.
"We gotta tell Mitch," Dianna said promptly, waving them onward. "If he's at Old South every monring—well I think we've got to pay him a visit and see that ugly face."
Lucas gestured for them to go ahead. "I have to take a leak."
"You're gross," Dianna said, and continued on.
"What I say?" Lucas remarked, sarcastically, giving James a shrug.
"Girls don't like to know those sorts of things," James said, grinning then took off after her.
As they vanished, Lucas struggled to grasp why everyone was so obsessed with this Mr. Moore, as if he was a homegrown celebrity. What was it about peoples fascination with the ghoulish and unusual? He had no real interest in seeing this man's mangled face. By all accounts, Mr. Moore sounded like the exact type of person you avoid. At least that's what you did in the city. Homeless with missing teeth and screaming incoherently—you go the opposite way; not gawk at their sideshow. He had almost zero interest in what Mr. Moore looked like—almost zero—if it weren't for Dianna. Her curiosity was his interest.
He finally designated an appropriate spot to void under a craggy looking birch. Mid-stream, his cell phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. And without hesitation he hit ignore button knowing full well who was calling. As he refocused his gaze to the business at hand, he heard a flapping noise somewhere nearby. He parted a few branches and noticed white paper, a book. He crept over a few slick rocks and grabbed the red book. The cover was blank. The inside cover didn't have a name or an address either. The pages weren't as damaged as he thought they might have been being out in the elements. He flipped through the pages, a pleasant vanilla scent greeting his nose, and soon he realized it wasn't a book but a diary. And whoever's diary this was, had some of the neatest cursive he'd ever seen. The delicate loops of the letters, connecting one another so fluidly without blemish. It was actually quite beautiful, something you'd see on a hallmark card. He couldn't recall the last time he used cursive. Seemed like some ancient language.
He let his fingers stop at a random page. His eyes grew wide. The date written on the top sent a thrill through his body—1692. It was clear this didn't belong to anyone alive. He wondered if he'd stumbled across an ancient treasure, some kind of missing artifact by a lost adventurer? Maybe a museum would pay thousands for it, no, millions. He calculated just how old the diary was—over three-hundred-something years old. In spite of its age, to have been in such good shape was astounding. Once his initial elation simmered down, he proceeded to read the passage on the page:
-October 6, 1692-
The plague has ravaged half of Derryton thus far, and has been every bit as murderous as professed. Symptoms I have observed: dysentery, sweating sickness, graphic night terrors, and severe respiratory distress leading to asphyxia and ultimately death. Time is of the essence, Mayor Kelsey has persuaded most of the remaining citizens that this is the work of witchcraft. The poor souls, they're ready to believe anything. All they want is salvation from their suffering. The fear is making them vulnerable to superstition. I fear it won't be long before the town is laid to waste, not by the plague as much as the rancor disseminated by the fearful. I must continue my work in secrecy, I am so close——I can sense it. I will help these people, if it's the last thing I do.
The writer's desperation made his skin crawl as if the words were leaping from the page and scurrying across his body with spiny little legs. He flipped through a few more pages, glancing at the entries. Towards the last pages of the diary a list was scribbled down, the handwriting had an urgency to it, dissimilar from other pages. The words Orchid Elixir were written sideways in the left margin.
The last half of the diary were all blank pages, as if the writer had decided to up and quit and pursue other interests.
He closed the diary, reflecting on what he'd read. What's an orchid? What's an elixir, for that matter? Was that an old fashioned word for soda? At any rate, with all the strange words and fancy cursive, this diary was worth some kind of reward. Maybe it belonged to some mysterious group of nomadic forest chefs? And he was the first one to discover their sole piece of literature. He laughed. Sometimes his mind really was outrageous.
The sound of snapping branches garnered his attention.
"Hey, man," James said peering over the brush. "You lose your wiener?"
Lucas quickly placed the diary into his backpack. "No, thought I saw a dollar bill floating by."
"Uh, okay—there's no way your eyes are that good, that's like Superman good."
"Maybe I'm a superhero and you just don't know it," Lucas said, stepping from the bush.
"Super slow is more like it. C'mon city boy," James insisted, "they got cold beers but they're running out fast. You want me to carry you the rest of the way?"
"No thanks but I'll race you," Lucas said, shoving James aside and darting up towards the peak.
They burst from the treeline. Lucas paused, catching his breath once again and spotted Dianna sitting on a stump, a beer in her hand. Two other kids he didn't recognize, probably Mitch's friends from the baseball team, were laughing wildly, guzzling beers in a brash revelry.
Lucas let James lead him through the maze of gutted trees and stumps, stepping over the assorted piles of trash reminiscent of the filthy New York City streets—so much for the cleanliness of rural towns. Overhead, the abrupt lack of trees on the peak seemed to exaggerate the proximity of the sky, as if it were slowly falling down, not in an armageddon sense, but in the way a warm fleece sweater falls over a body. Something about it made him feel light, like floating.
As he approached the group, Lucas noticed Mitch a few paces away. He held a baseball bat, tossing up empty beer cans and smashing them into oblivion. One of Mitch's friends, startled by the sound of approaching footsteps, whirled around, spilling his beer in the process. His face stretched into a pasty white, expecting to see a cop but soon melted into frustration.
"Don't sneak up on us like that, James," he whined and gestured towards Lucas. "Who the hell are you?"
Mitch paused his Babe Ruth routine, and ran over, or more accurately, stumbled. "Hey, look who made it. He's cool Chris, don't worry," Mitch exclaimed with a noticeable slur.
"Don't worry? He made me spill my beer."
The other friend, Dan, began to cackle. "No, your stupidity did that. Don't blame it on—what'd you say your name was again?" he said slurring worse than Mitch.
"Lucas."
"Give him one of those beers," Mitch said, motioning to Chris.
"There's only one left," Chris said hesitantly, tightening his grip around the case of beer. "And I bought them, so the last one is mine."
"Yeah," Dan sneered, "maybe if you didn't drink half the case, Mitch, there'd be some left."
Mitch shrugged, "What can I say, I gots one hell of a thirst." He returned to hitting stupid things with his stupid bat.
Lucas glanced at Dianna, who seemed to be telling him something with the sly grin she inconspicuously let loose across her face.
"It's fine, some other time," Lucas said, diplomatically, to the trio of drunken baseball players.
Dianna gestured for Lucas to follow her. She lead him a white birch stump. They sat down overlooking Derryton. Pale yellow fields stretched outward melding with the horizon. The air felt warm around them.
Lucas felt his breath quicken, as the tenderness of her body rubbed against his shoulder.
"Here," she whispered, "I saved you one." She handed him a can of beer she'd hidden under her coat.
"Wow, thanks," Lucas said. He stared at the can. "You know my mom would kill me if she found out I was drinking."
"How come?"
"My father is a drunk," Lucas said bluntly, cracking the beer open and taking a long sip. "I guess it's time you hear my story." He took a long sip then began. "My dad hits my mom. All the time, but more so whenever he was wasted. She thinks, or worries, that I'll turn into him. It's the reason we moved up here. To get away from him. But sometimes I think she's crazy, way too protective. My dad is bad, but she drives me mad in other ways. She's already called me a hundred times today."
"She just cares about you, that's all," Dianna replied, softly, "that's not something you should take lightly. Some kids don't even have a single parent that wants them. There was this girl that went our school last year, Julie Gethers, she was a foster child. Her real parents abandoned her, left her in a carriage outside of a store when she was only a baby. She told me about the foster system and how she would be passed on like a meaningless accessory, from one foster family to the next. She was told she was supposed to be a 'gift' to the families but each time it failed. She felt more like a burden. Each time, the families decided they didn't want her, and she'd end up back in the foster ranks. Isn't that sad? At least you have a mom trying her best."
He fell silent, his lips pressed together in a grimace. His thumbs drummed against the top of the beer can. He had never focused on much else than the kids that seemed better off. That familiar, dark feeling, began to creep into his skin—was he just a bad son, after all?
Dianna offered a conflicted smile. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to upset you." She inched closer, resting her hand on his leg.
He cleared the lump in his throat. "I know, it's okay," he replied, taking another sip of beer. "Let's talk about something else."
Dianna turned her gaze towards the ledge. "What do you think of the view? Isn't it so pretty up here? Told you it'd be worth it." She pointed towards the outline of some faded structures in the distance. "If you look south, follow the bottom of the cloud line until you see that twig looking fixture out there, that's the roof of St. Elizabeth. Old South is right there, too. And if you keep going, just beyond that tree-line, on the other side, is our street."
He squinted, trying to follow, but everything meshed into undefinable shapes and blurs. "I dunno," he said, redirecting his thoughts, looking around at the bluff, "this place kinda reminds me of a graveyard, like Old South, with these stumps and all."
"It does feel like a wasteland up here, huh," Dianna said, morosely. "It wasn't always like this. My mom says there was a time when people used to flock to this bluff for its beauty. This whole area was covered with luscious vibrant trees that nearly scraped the sky, songbirds from all over would perch in the branches and sing in harmony. Lilacs and tulips covered every bit of soil. She says it was a natural paradise, where people would come to get away from the troubles of life. A place where lovers could hideout, and be alone with each other. I think it sounded, you know, romantic." She sighed, and looked at Lucas. "Wish I was around when the bluff was like that."
For a second, he thought the alcohol caused the flushing in his face but it was scarcely to blame. Rather something about the bluff seemed to be endowing them with a raw essence of missing and longing, vestiges of old Potter's Bluff still lingered in this beaten soil and were suddenly rising around them like pollen, as if the goodness and beauty Dianna spoke of, was just underneath the blemished and stripped surface, underneath the ugly the outside world had cast upon it. This energy desired to engage them in a singular moment of revived innocence.
He focused on Dianna's curious blue eyes, in all their blameworthy glory, and watched them widen, almost anticipating. Say something, he implored his trifling tongue. It was obvious she wanted you to make a move.
"What are you looking at?" Dianna asked, noticing his penetrating gaze.
"Nothing," he stammered as he snapped from his rapture, subsumed by a sudden shame for missing his opportunity. "Thinking about those flowers and trees you were talking about." He shifted his eyes to the floor. "And that I think you're so pretty," he sputtered. "I mean—it's so pretty up here." Now, more than ever, his face burned. He gulped the last of his beer.
"Thank you," Dianna replied, giggling.
His chest heaved. The infamous pity giggle. He looked for the fastest way to make his escape. Maybe just leap off the cliff—that seemed a fitting end.
"You're cute," Dianna whispered. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
Perhaps for the first time ever, he felt joy.
The tangerine orange sky swept genially into a deep violet under the setting sun.
"Seriously," Dianna started, "try to imagine just how beautiful this place must have been with all the lilacs, tulip and orchids."
"Orchids grew here? Funny you say that—" He turned to tell her about the diary, when Mitch stumbled over, in a near stupor.
"So, I heard the news," Mitch began, beer-laced breath pouring over them. "James was just telling me about his interesting discovery—Mr. Moore, going to Old South, every morning. Every morning? Wow, what a sweet break. Can you believe it, every morning? And we didn't realize it?" He attempted to sit next to Lucas, slamming his uncoordinated body into him, nearly knocking them over.
"I was thinking, you guys wanna scope it out. You know, go get a look at that ugly face of his. C'mon, whatta ya say? Let's do it."
"When?" Lucas asked. His hasty response, stunned him. How funny his objection to seeing Mr. Moore's face had conveniently disappeared after only a kiss on the cheek. Keep impressing Dianna, the influential primal voice in his mind commanded. Kiss on the cheek leads to kiss on the lips.
"We can't this weekend, Mitch," Dianna said, irritably. "Mom and Dad are dragging us up to Dartmouth, remember?"
Mitch frowned. "Oh yeah, that's right. Dad says I gotta know the ins-and-outs of the campus so when I interview for admission, I look like I know what I'm talking about." He stared off blankly for a moment. "I don't really wanna go to Dartmouth but he's insisting, and well, you gotta do what dad says—right Sis?"
"Yeah, sure," Dianna muttered.
"Then Monday?" Lucas offered as James came sauntering in on the conversation.
"Uh it's a Monday—Did you forget we've got class?" James said. "You shouldn't be skipping."
"Oh you're such a nerd," Dianna said, sharply. "Skipping one day won't kill anyone and it'll be totally worth it. Aren't you guys wondering what he does at the cemetery?"
James crossed his arms, no comment was necessary, every one knew he wouldn't dare skip out on a school day.
"I'm going," Mitch slurred.
Lucas crushed the beer can under his shoe then looked at Dianna. "It's settled then, Monday it is."