But of course there was more to botany than that. I had to learn things that were meaningless to me: the difference between xylem and phloem, the general equation for photosynthesis. I felt bait-and-switched, but it was my own fault, and I accepted it as one more indignity mixed into to the texture of my life. Just another layer of epoxy poured on top of what had once been something good and tender, so long ago I can barely remember, one more dull crust that felt impossible to peel away.
I spent many afternoons in that cavernous room, half-listening to the professor drone on, often staring at one boy. He seemed rough around the edges, like someone who would have a job laying cement, or putting shingles on roofs, something where you worked with your hands out in the sun. But here he was in this musty auditorium, studying chlorophyll and root systems with the rest of us. I wondered about him. Was he was the first in his family to go to college, believing that a better life would come? Or did he come from a well-educated family who just happened to look brawnier than most? I wondered if he studied hard or just coasted through, whether his grades were better than mine, what he planned to do when he graduated. I kept hoping for a clue that would unlock his story: a wrinkle on his forehead, a label on his shorts. But he was as inscrutable to me as lichen.
One Saturday afternoon I went to Top Market to buy some beer. I almost didn’t recognize him, but there he was in the dinky housewares section, where they have things like band-aids and mops and needles and toothpicks but never what you are actually hoping to find. My heart accelerated. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know his name, or whether he’d even know me at all. I usually sat behind him (it was better for staring). But before I could walk over, an angry shout made me turn around.
Just as the manager took a deep breath, about to intercede, the boy from class walked up to her. He moved confidently, like he had an agenda, like this grocery store was his domain.
“It’s okay, ma’am. Let’s go and talk outside.” His voice was a surprise: squeaky and high-pitched, like he’d been sucking helium. I expected her to spew her incoherent venom on him, but she cocked her head and shrunk down. He reached his arm out, and she took it, letting him lead her away.
“What a gas, man!” some kid said. “Leave it to James.”
So that was his name. James, my bronze boy, prince of my classroom fantasies. I imagined he was like some mystical folk tale being, capable of mighty deeds: raising drawbridges, battling tigers, retrieving a magic golden scarf. But I was still as far away as ever.
That night I drank all the beer. It was dark, and I stared at the moon through my dusty window. It seemed like a good idea to do a ritual, so I went downstairs and out the back door. A sweet heavy smell laced the air: night blooming jasmine, cestrum nocturnum. I walked out into the back yard, past the alder tree, over to where the grass had worn down into a scrabble of hardened dirt. I drew a chalk circle just like the one I’d made on last month’s equinox, when I only had asked for simple things: a good life, a sense of peace. I wanted something more now. “This earth is my playroom,” I said out loud as I stepped inside it. I took a shovel and began to dig.
