Each a Fruitful Bough

2:55.

Jo clicked her mechanical pencil, then jabbed it against her desk, the graphite disappearing. She repeated. Once. Twice. More times than she could count.

2:55. Still. How is that even possible?

Now Jo traced the rings of the lifeless wood, flattened into elongated patterns. She imagined the rings speaking to her, as though her pencil were a stylus revealing a story older than the building she sat in. She drew a dark spot in the middle, the gray spirals becoming the revolving rings of a distant, undiscovered planet.

The stillness was unbearable. Jo crossed her fingers at the teacher, and put on a display of earnestness. From his seat in his corner workspace, Mr. Buxley looked up, gave a slight nod. Jo was out of the door before he could reconsider. Free.

The halls of Greenborough were not wide enough to drive a Honda Civic through, but to Jo, they might as well have been the Grand Canyon. A wilderness during passing period, it now served as a quiet bridle path, punctuated only by a few lone rangers, or the infrequent caravan with which she would have to contend.

Down the hall, Max Wilder leaned against a trophy case. The new boy in school, a late transfer from out of state, stood next to him. Max had spotted her. He said something to the new boy, who looked Jo’s way and gave a muted laugh, revealing perfect white teeth. She had to go past them to at least give the appearance that she was using the bathroom. Best not to make eye contact. 

The new boy looked like he had been punched in the gut by something Max had said. Max’s voice, now brimming with confidence, grew louder.

“Heard yer paps was thrown in the paddy last weekend down at Bitters. Did he use his one call on yer, or is he savin’ it for his other fam?”

Jo forced hot air through tight lips, “Least I know my dad.” She kept walking.

If Mr. McGonnagey had drunk his afternoon cup of coffee, the boys would be gone when she made her way back. Judging by the stillness of the bridle path, Mr. McGonnagey was tucked away in his office somewhere, loaded up on Tylenol and sipping chamomile tea. Jo decided to make a detour.

Huge snowflakes dangled from lines of yarn strewn across the ceiling. Some were as intricate and symmetrical as a spiderweb, others looked like they had been attacked by an angry crow with scissors. A poster with huge red and black letters read: “Bullying is the act of making someone else feel small, so that the bully can feel big. Bullying can only happen if no one speaks up about it. If you see something, say something.”

Jo meandered slowly through the 2nd grade hallway, admiring quotes the students had picked out for their Dr. Seuss unit. She looked through all of them to see if someone had chosen the same one she did 4 years ago. No one had. No one ever did. 

Jo made her way back to the bridle path and continued on past the boys restroom, where she heard a loud popping sound, amplified by the porcelain and steel. Then an “Oh SHIT!” Two boys, who looked to be a couple of years younger than Jo, ran past her in the other direction. She got to the girls restroom. Just beyond it lay a small staircase widening into a larger, darkened hallway. The Junior High Wing. Jo kept walking.

____________

The Junior High Gymnasium was as large as a concert hall. Muted light from the high windows revealed padded walls and hard rubber flooring. A rope hung from the rafters in the Northeast corner. Jo made her way there, but slowed when she saw an unfamiliar object under the retracted basketball hoop on the North side. At first, it just looked like a blank wall, but as she drew nearer, she could see little handholds. The wall was maybe 8 feet high. Jo quickly climbed to the top, then climbed back down. She couldn’t much see the point of climbing a wall that was only 8 feet high. 

When she was younger, she had climbed trees in the woods behind her neighborhood. She remembered scaling the great pines with a few neighborhood friends, but as she continued higher and higher into the canopy, one by one they would back off, until Jo was alone. One pine tree in particular gave a view of half of the neighborhood once you reached the upper branches. Jo remembered one summer when her dad’s drinking was particularly bad, climbing that tree until the branches were just flimsy suggestions, and clinging to a trunk no wider than her leg. She trembled with fear, but she could see Sammy Hagar’s house all the way at the end of the street, the park with the small pond where her mom used to take her for picnics on weekends in the Spring. The view reached as far as the outlet mall across the highway to the North before fading into a bleak horizon. It was as if her whole world was just a board game, laid out neatly in front of her, and despite the fear that she felt from being up so high - she grew less afraid. It was a game of Stratego. But like she had done in her daycare days, she could bend the rules: rearranging the pieces however she wanted, discarding the ones she no longer needed. 

Jo turned toward the rope when the lights to the gym snapped on.

“Line!” A gruff voice shouted from the Northwest entrance. Jo froze, still staring at the rope as a hundred shoes squeaked their way towards the baseline under the basketball hoop.

Two girls in long gray t-shirts that mostly hid their green gym shorts skipped past Jo, pausing to giggle at her entrancement. They looked back to their gym teacher and then tucked into formation with the other kids.

“Decided to skip out on afternoon lessons, have we?” Jo turned to the man. He was holding a clipboard down by his side, peering at Jo through dark eyes. Hair trailed out of his white shirt up past the start of his neck, around which a stopwatch hung.

Jo looked at her feet, “Uh-ah, I was just using the restroom”.

“There’s no restroom in here. Are the bathrooms in the Primary Wing all boarded up, or what?” The man’s bushy mustache concealed any emotion. 

“No, sir. I’m a 6th grader.” There were giggles from the line of students. The teacher shouted at one of the boys to lead a warm-up, and they began doing arm circles.

It was a common mistake - Jo was small for her age. But she had seen this man before, many times, in the Middle School hallway, the bridle path marking the passage from her Primary School years to the elevated Junior High Wing. He apparently hadn’t seen her. 

“What’s your name?”

“Joanna.”

“I’m Mr. Hearsey. What class should you be in now, Joanna?”

“American History.” 

“That’s Todd’s class. Think you can find your way back?”

“Yes..but..” Jo stammered. One of the boys had begun throwing a lacrosse ball against the padded wall, the dense thuds interrupting the cadence of the warm-ups. Mr. Hearsey shouted at the boy to stop.

He looked back to Jo, “What is it? I have a class to teach.” 

Jo chanced it, “Frances Earley told me that he did the rope climb one day after his brother’s basketball game. He only made it halfway. I think I can make it to the top.”

The boy with the lacrosse ball lobbed it toward the ceiling, apparently trying to get it wedged between the rafters. It came down on the other side and landed an inch shy of a girl - the same height as Jo but as thin as a rail - who stood petrified. Mr. Hearsey sighed.  “Frances was here with his parents, who gave him permission. I can’t let any student who walks into the gym - while skipping classes mind you - attempt the rope climb. It’s too dangerous. Now get back to class.”

Three girls had been sitting in the Northwest corner of the gym, avoiding the warm-up. Mr. Hearsey called them over and shouted “Numbers!” to the class. The students abruptly quit their warm-ups and found their spots on the gym floor. 

Jo thought of the pine tree in her backyard, no longer there. Those woods were gone now, chopped down by the Church of Latter Day Saints, which owned the property, and replaced with a parking lot and two playgrounds. She thought of Max, who would probably still be leaning against the trophy cases when she got back, with new ammunition at the ready. And the new kid whom he wanted to impress, making his comments about her father and stepmom that much crueler. 

“It’s just.. I know I can do it!” Mr. Hearsey, who had been lecturing the class on nutrition and circadian rhythms, stopped mid-sentence. It was evident from the stillness in the room and the wide eyes of the students that Mr. Hearsey wasn’t used to being interrupted. When he turned towards Joe his face still hid any expression, but his complexion had reddened.

“Well class, I was going to delay your fitness tests for a day, but thanks to Joanna’s insistence, we can start now. Bradley, fire up the wall.” The boy who had led the warm-ups jumped to his feet and ran behind the climbing wall that Jo had summited earlier. To Jo’s surprise, the wall began to move like a conveyor belt. The holds, which Jo could now see were of various colors, moved downward and disappeared beneath the wall.

Mr. Hearsey addressed the class: “15 seconds on the green holds for Acceptable. 20 seconds on the yellow for Superb. And above 20 seconds on red for an Exceptional mark. If you can last more than 10 seconds on the black holds, you can have my job. Sammy, show Joanna how it’s done. Once she’s off, we'll go reverse alphabetical.” A girl in the back left corner whimpered.

From the middle of the students, a wiry boy with bangs covering his eyes stood up and approached the wall. He flicked his hair to the side and gave a thumbs up to Bradley, who stood next to the wall holding a remote. The wall slowed to a crawl. Sammy grabbed two large yellow holds and climbed midway up the wall. “Testing speed.” Mr. Hearsey called to Bradley. The wall sped up. Jo marveled at the boy, who moved delicately, placing his feet like a dancer with his body tight against the wall. Thirty seconds must have passed before Mr. Hearsey shouted, “8 degrees!" The wall tilted forward, Sammy now suspended from the holds at an angle less than vertical. He climbed a little less like a dancer now, a little more like a monkey hanging from a tree limb. A minute had passed when Mr. Hearsey said, “15 degrees!" Sammy’s feet slipped a few times, and then he dismounted and landed in a full squat on the padded floor.

“1:28 on yellow. Do red when it’s your turn in the line-up.” Mr. Hearsey's voice was dispassionate, but he looked pleased.

“Just warming up, coach,” Sammy replied, flicking his hair back and rejoining his peers. The looks of admiration he received from a few girls in his class were only outnumbered by the envious scowls of several boys.

Mr. Hearsey continued, “Well Jo, still think you got what it…” 

Before he could finish, Jo was already at the wall, which was vertical again, grabbing onto the red holds. “Okay! Back up to testing speed then, Bradley!” Mr. Hearsey commanded. But Jo quickly climbed to the top before Bradley was able to increase the wall’s speed. The wall felt weirdly flat, compared to the 3-dimensional world of trees. In that other world, Jo was always able to give herself a break, hanging upside-down from her legs or stemming across branches. Here, she could only rely on her hands and feet. Her forearms tired quickly, but she was still at the top of the wall, at times waiting for the next red hold to appear over the edge. 

“8 degrees.” Mr. Hearsey’s voice was less stern now. The incline of the wall actually made the climbing feel more familiar to Jo, like being suspended from a supportive bough. Light from the high windows reminded her of sunlight filtering through branches. At one point, she grew impatient of waiting for a new red hold to appear and switched to black. She immediately regretted it, the black holds being just big enough for 4, sometimes only 3 fingers, but she couldn’t switch back to red now. Jo no longer thought of the great pine tree. It was gone. The only thing was to grab the next black hold, to contort her body in whatever way she needed to hold on. Eventually she grew tired and her feet sliced away from the wall, but she continued climbing with only her hands. Sweat pooled on her palms. The ache in her forearms was like nothing she had ever felt. She was at the middle of the wall now. She lunged for each next black hold until her fingers finally gave out and she crashed to the floor, panting.

Jo pushed herself up to a seat. The class had gathered around the wall. There were some exclamations, a couple of curses. Mr. Hearsey either didn’t hear or didn’t care. They were all looking at her. Mr. Hearsey held up his stopwatch.

“7:22.” he said. It was obviously a mistake, or she had misheard. But it was confirmed as the numbers echoed around the room, in whispers and a few shouts:  “7:22!” 

How was it possible, she marveled, for time to move at such a different pace?

“Joanna..” Mr. Hersey said. She looked at him, his expression finally drained of any hardness, his eyes gleaming, “You’re a climber.”