The Woodlands

“Thanks, I love yours,” I said, thinking it was not enough but not knowing what else to say. I ran my hands over his impressive desk. Henri had constructed a strong-looking desk out of the pale orange-colored timber of his hometown. It was deceptively complicated. Upon closer inspection, you could see the craftsmanship that had gone into it. The top, lockable drawer that slid open effortlessly and the carved handles made it look extraordinary. Each one was shaped like a delicate birch leaf, curled perfectly to allow the opener to grasp it and pull with ease.

As I shut the drawer, Mister Gomez stormed in looking like a terrified mole, squinting and crashing into things. I suppose, for him, this was an assessment of his teaching skills, and for us to do poorly reflected directly on him. But when he took in the superb creations his students had produced, his shoulders, tensed and almost touching his ears, seemed to relax a little. Until his dark eyes glanced at Rash’s wobbly-looking table.

“Listen up everyone. We have until twelve to finish. Rasheed, I suggest you attend to the wobbly leg on that table.” He proceeded to walk around the workshop, pointing out minor issues that needed to be fixed. When he came to me, I was just about to pick it up and take it over to the sanding bench. He put his hand on my wrist. It was all sweaty, but I did my best not to pull back.

He said, “Leave it, Rosa, I don’t think there’s any more you can do.” I think I must have looked hurt or worried because he quickly followed it up with, “You surprised me, girl, it’s excellent work,” then he gruffly snatched the box out of my hands and placed it towards the end of the judgment line.

Rash winked at me and mouthed the words, “Told ya,” and then started squirting way too much glue into the join between his tabletop and leg. I wished he had taken this more seriously. I highly doubted he would end up in the high stream with that table.

The other boys were all working really hard. They were focused and I didn’t want to distract them. I wasn’t allowed to help, so I asked Mister Gomez if I could take some free time. He waved me off, muttering something about having enough to worry about, as he snatched the hammer out of Rash’s hands. Rash had given up on glue and was trying to hammer a wedge in the join between the leg and the table to even it up. Bricklayer, I thought.

I wandered outside and made my way back to the Arboretum. The weather was getting colder and my thin cotton uniform was failing to shield me from the chill. Soon, I thought, there would be a light blanket of snow covering most of these tree branches. It would be a beautiful sight, another I had never seen before. I could imagine trees laden with heavy snow, green contrasting against the cool white. In Pau we had snow. But snow on concrete was just snow on concrete—it was nothing special.

I welcomed winter; there would be less people outside. I could walk freely around the trees without interruption. I walked from plant to plant reading the plaques. Each time, I remembered a little more, finding I could repeat the names of at least half of the plants in here just by looking at them.

I arrived at my favorite place. The Banyan tree’s limbs stretched out, beckoning for me to climb under their thick, grey branches. The hanging roots dripped down, providing a curtain under which to shelter. I pulled them apart and nestled in amongst the roots and the damp dirt. I had about one hour to wait.

I thought about what had got me here. Hate and love in equal measure. Then I thought about how I felt now. I had changed. I had let go of the hate now. The love was harder to free but maybe, in time, that too would fade. I had learned so much. Things about myself I had never known existed, what I was capable of. Somehow I had managed to make friends. Most importantly, I felt like I had a place. In this awful situation, I had found something good. I was amazed at myself and reluctantly, proud. I held one of the Banyan roots in my hand. It was dangling maybe a centimeter off the ground, stretching and straining to get to the cool, damp earth. If I had a place, maybe I could start to heal, start to grow. I let the root fall, not long now and it would find its way to the ground, be nourished and in turn nourish its mother tree.

I heard him before I saw him. One thing he never was, was quiet. Joseph stomped up the path, snapping twigs and branches as he went. I retreated further behind the curtain of grey roots and watched. He was pacing back and forth, clearly distressed. He plonked himself down against the Brasilwood, his large form looking out of place next to the tiny trunk. Sitting right in the spot where two months ago, I had read his letter. He sat with his elbows on his knees. His body was tense, like a spring trap, as he pulled his golden curls back from his face.

My heart ached for him. He was only a few meters away, but it felt like such a distance to cover. I wanted to crawl over to him and hold him, have him hold me. But remembering the letter, I froze, feeling that stone where my heart used to be, twisting and wringing out my insides.

I clutched my chest, the imagined pain starting to feel real. I couldn’t breathe. The once comforting roots of the tree now felt like they were strangling me, trying to tie me down, pull me into the ground. I knew I couldn’t sit there for much longer. But I didn’t want to burst out of the tree, revealing that I had been watching him this whole time. I struggled to contain myself but thankfully, after about five minutes, he sat up straight, like he had remembered something important. He muttered, “I have to do it,” and then he stormed off determinedly.

I parted the curtain of knobbly roots and stepped out, surveying the scene. I wished I had time to sort through these feelings, to try and understand what I had just seen. He always seemed so happy when I saw him. I wondered if it was something that had just happened—had he done poorly on his assessment? I doubted it. There was no time. There were no answers anyway. I ran back to the workshop with minutes to spare, distracted and weary.

I walked through the swinging double doors to the workshop and was confronted with a re-stressed Gomez flustering his hairy arms about. “Good, Rosa, you’re here. The judges will be here any second now.” He grabbed me by the shoulders and jostled me into line with the others, leaving palm-shaped wet patches on my t-shirt. I noticed that Rash had somehow managed to salvage his table and it stood straight. It was terribly simple and I didn’t hold much hope that he would score well, but at least it wasn’t leaning at a forty-five-degree angle anymore.

I stood between Rash and Henri, my two favorite people, and held my breath. The judges entered. One woman and one man both dressed in a red uniform with the same gold trim as the other guardians. I didn’t recognize them; they must have been from outside the Classes. Readers in hand, they walked to the first piece and circled it, whispering to each other. They sca

I was the second to last to be appraised and it was agonizing waiting for them to get to me. I leaned and swayed on my tiptoes, inadvertently peering at the male Guardian’s screen. He scowled at me and tucked it under his arm, protecting his piece of cheese. All he needed were whiskers to complete the transformation.