Occasionally Serge would sit with us. He had been allocated Intelligence, which was the most highly regarded Class. I had this sneaking suspicion he had a crush on me, which Rash teased me about mercilessly. He would sit behind us as Serge tried to make conversation with me and raise his eyebrows repeatedly while the other boys snickered. Serge was sweet and I’m sure I could do a lot worse, but no match could be made here. We still didn’t know what town we were to be placed in. Romantic connections were pointless. They happened, but they were pointless.
“Your children would look like weird-eyed insects,” Rash said as he galloped awkwardly, imitating Serge’s long limbs and jerky movements.
“I’m not having any children,” I snapped. I couldn’t think of anything worse.
It was the first time in my life, apart from the short time I had spent with Joseph, that I felt like myself. Comfortable, and could it be? At home. I didn’t trust it, but tried my hardest to be in the moment. I had two years of this before I had to leave. I thought I might as well do my best to enjoy it.
Coming up to assessment, we started eating together quickly and then leaving early as a group, to get back to the workshop. As we were leaving, Rash whispered to me, “Why does that beautiful blonde man keep staring at you?” as we were clearing our table before heading back to the workshop. “I mean you are very pretty but he is always looking at you with sad, longing eyes.” Rash clasped his hands dramatically, swooning, making it sound like something romantic and forbidden. I felt myself constricting. I didn’t like that he made reference to my looks or Joseph.
“What are you talking about?” I said, punching his arm. Rash always exaggerated.
Somewhat seriously, well, as serious as Rash could ever sound when he was in this kind of mood, he said, “He looks at you, like, I don’t know, like you’re the only girl in the world, or something.”
I snorted. I highly doubted it. From what I had seen, Joseph could have his pick of any girl in this place. They threw themselves at him on a daily basis. I heard the other girls talking about him at the dorms. I hated it. I was tempted to make up a rumor that he had a hideous birth defect or something. Instead, I just quietly fumed.
“Maybe he’s looking at you, you idiot, since you’re always making a spectacle of yourself,” I deflected. I didn’t like thinking about Joseph and I certainly didn’t want to talk about him. That was enough to distract Rash, who then went on and on about how, of course, everyone was looking at him—he was the most handsome, clever person in this place. I kicked him in the back of the legs so his knees buckled. I glanced over at Joseph while Rash was sprawled on the floor, just to check. He was talking to his medical friends. His face was concentrated like he was talking about something very important. It had been months since I had heard his voice and I realized I didn’t really know him anymore—he seemed so grown up compared to us. I blushed as I realized if he had looked over this way, he probably thought we were all clowns.
I turned to Rash, who was moaning about his aching knees. “Can you be even slightly serious for a second?” I said loudly. Then more quietly, “We’ve got assessment to worry about.”
“Oh, I’m all about being serious, sister!” Rash stood up straight and started marching out the door, kicking his legs high in the air. The rest of the boys were barreling out the door laughing and knocking each other around. One of the Birch boys shoved me into the wall. I squeaked as I banged my elbow. I turned and leaned against the dark wood paneling, facing the doorway, rubbing the graze. Joseph was standing. Our eyes met, a pull so strong it was like we were attached with a fishing line and he was reeling me in. I took one step towards him. His fists were clenched, his face drawn down. He looked like he was having an inner debate with himself. But before I could react any further, a brown arm grabbed me and pulled me away from the entrance.
“C’mon, Soar, we have work to do.” I closed my eyes and tried to convince myself that I had imagined that moment. Assessment, I said to myself. That’s all that matters.
The assessment was a big deal. It determined what stream you would go into from your Allocation. So, if you were in the medical Class and you scored well, you would go into the high stream, training you to be a surgeon or researcher. If you did poorly, you would be emptying old people’s bedpans in the outer rings. For me, scoring highly meant the difference between laying bricks and crafting furniture. I desperately wanted to do well. I had found I adored working with wood and I was good at it. Mister Gomez had let us choose our own project. We just had to make something from local resources and it needed to have a specific purpose.
Most of the boys were making tables and chairs or desks with drawers. I chose something more delicate. I was aiming for the top, so I was trying to make a jewelry box for a woman in Superiors. I had to use a lot of imagination, as I had never really seen much jewelry. Only my mother’s simple wedding ring and a necklace Paulo’s mother had given her. I made a lockable box with a removable tray on the top that had small compartments for rings and earrings and a large compartment underneath for larger items. I needed it to be perfect. Simple but beautiful. I had carved eight concentric rings resembling the towns of the Woodlands into the lid of the box. I painstakingly inlayed the timbers from each town into the rings.
The boys all hovered around, admiring it. Nik slapped me on the back a little too hard and I braced myself against the edge of the bench. “Hell, Soar, ya did well. Ya tryin’ to make us all look bad,” he said with a crooked smile.
One of the boys punched Nik hard in the gut. “Don’t be a dickhead, Nik. Nah, it’s really good Soar, really good.” I just grinned. They were so kind to me. I never felt like I was in competition with them. We all wanted each other to do well.
When I placed the last piece of wood in the rings, I felt an enormous sense of accomplishment. I had poured my heart and soul into making this and it was beautiful. The timber was warm and smooth to touch. The design was flawless. I had never created anything I was more proud of. I’d never created anything before. I was sure that this would be enough to secure me a place in the high stream.
On my way back to the dorms, Rash and I walked through the garden, which was actually called the Class Arboretum. It was my favorite place and we had come here often over the last couple of months. He would prattle on and I would pretend to listen as I walked from plant to plant reading the little plaques. Absorbing the information like a drug. If I hadn’t got into Construction, I think I would have enjoyed horticulture.
I was reading the description for the Pau Brasil tree for the hundredth time when Rash sidled up to me. He was light on his feet and he startled me with his closeness. It was dark, with only the moonlight and some garden lights dotted around to illuminate the way.
“Good luck for tomorrow, Rosa,” he said. He never used my real name. I frowned and bumped him sideways. “Good luck, Rash, you’re going to need it.” I winked at him and he grinned at me, only his white teeth shining like a low half-moon in the dark ness. If I were to have a brother, I would want it to be him. I gave him a big hug and he hugged me back. He didn’t jump away, or question the feelings behind it. We were friends. We parted and I went back to the dorm.
That night I dreamed a wonderful dream. I was in my own little workshop. Making furniture, running my hands over freshly sanded timber, working hard but enjoying every minute. I was content.
If I had known this was the day, I wonder if I would have done anything different. Could I have stopped the horrible events that unfolded before my eyes?
Maybe.
Probably not.
I had worked late into the night, putting coats of oil and endlessly sanding my jewelry box. I was obsessing over it, wanting to make sure every part of it was perfect. Not even admitting to myself how much it meant to me.
Now that I was back in the workshop, after a restless nights’ sleep, I stepped back and tried to appraise it critically. It was certainly eye pleasing. It didn’t look like something I made an
d I couldn’t help wondering where I had pulled it from. How was I able to create something so good? It was not like me, or at least not what I thought I was like. A sense of unfamiliar pride swelled inside me. I was nervous, but satisfied that this would be good enough. The dream crept back into my mind, a shiny, haze of a picture. My own workshop, my own work.
“Don’t worry, Soar, it’s fantastic!” said Henri, putting his long arm around my shoulders. I took a deep breath. He smelled wonderful, like a combination of freshly sanded timber and oil. I could tell by the dark circles under his eyes that he had been here all night, his usually flawless appearance showing some cracks, a hair out of place, a crinkle in his shirt.
Henri had been the moral compass of the group. From what I had gathered, life in Birchton was even harsher than in Pau. Henri had been raised in an extremely strict environment and his appearance reflected that. His ash-blonde hair was always neatly combed back. His uniform was always impeccable. Outwardly, he looked like the perfect student, serious and dedicated. But there was such a warmth and kindness to him. He was always looking out for us, trying, to no avail, to get the group to settle down at meal times and in class. I admired the fact that despite his hard upbringing, he had managed to keep his soul intact, unlike many of the other students. He was the one that we would look to, in case we had gone too far, and he would always let us know, but in a kind and measured way. Having someone look out for me wasn’t something I was very used to. In Pau, everyone looked after themselves. I only knew one other person who behaved like Henri, or at least used to.
“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 scanned the boy’s wrist and proceeded to type things in, adding a score to his name. The woman seemed senior. She ordered the other one around, occasionally tucking her grey bob behind her ears as she spoke in a low, hissing whisper. She had a stern, nasty face that was set in a permanent frown. The man was younger and kept looking to her before typing in his notes. His small, brown face twisting like he had smelled something bad as he inspected every aspect of the pieces. He reminded me of a rat, twitching and sniffing, following the other one around waiting for crumbs to fall.
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.
When they got to Rash, they didn’t take much time. The woman raised one eyebrow as she stared down at my friend. I noticed she was wearing makeup, a rare luxury. It was caked in the corner of her eyes, balled up bits of black grit that made her blink too much. Rash shifted uneasily from foot to foot under her critical gaze, smiling inappropriately at her. I had a moment of panic, thinking he might be stupid enough to wink at her. I wanted to whack him and tell him no amount of charm was going to help him today. When they moved on, I heard him sigh in relief. It was my turn.
The woman lifted the lid to my jewelry box with her little finger. It glided open gently, elegantly. She inspected every compartment with a critical eye, checking the workmanship meticulously. She closed the lid and ran her hand over the emblem on the front, tracing each individual circle of timber with her finger. I wanted to talk, explain to her the differences in the timbers, the purpose of each compartment. I bit my lip, tasting blood. She turned to her colleague and she smiled. It didn’t look right on her shrewd face. But her teeth were showing through her thin lips caked in dried-up lipstick. Mister Gomez was looking very pleased as she nodded her head approvingly in his direction. She typed in her scores and moved on to Henri. I relaxed a little. Rash and the other boys were all grinning at me. A feeling of elation was creeping through me, threatening to make me do something crazy, like jump in the air or yell out. Maybe this could work, I thought. My love of this craft was not misplaced—I might actually succeed.
The Woodlands Page 9
