“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 and 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.