Ariadne

It was the first week of fifth grade- the sun was shining down, bringing with it the last remnants of that summer’s blistering heat. The playground gleamed in the distance, now abandoned for lessons and learning. A fat black crow was perched on the tetherball pole, regarding us with no small amount of greed, its beady eyes scanning our small forms for any food or sparkling trinkets. It was the first week of fifth grade, and I was standing single file with my classmates- many strange, a few strangers- facing the sprawling Orchard at the edge of the school grounds.

An eerie hush fell over us- the children, the crows, the songbirds in the apple trees- as our teacher moved to stand in front of us. Mr. M was, or so he seemed at the time, a tall, hulking giant- electric blue eyes all but hidden behind lenses that gleamed in the sun, his brown hair tousled into stiff peaks by the last few warm winds. I exchanged a glance with Angela- my best friend- before looking back over at the wise old master, suddenly aware of a deep intelligence blazing behind his eyes.

Mr. M swivelled slightly on the spot, picking up a cloth bag and pulling from it small lengths of black cloths. “Put these around your eyes,” he said, so casually that I didn’t think to question it, “and hold hands with the people on either side of you.”

Angela’s hands were cold despite the hot day as they fumbled with the cloth at the back of my head. Her fingers folded into my hand, tiny and brittle. I opened my eyes slowly, aware of the fabric rubbing against my eyelashes. The world was black- the darkness broken by small pinpricks of light, the black and yellow blending together into a haze of confusion.

“Follow me!” Came the order from somewhere beyond the darkness, “Stay together.” I felt the tug as the boy in front of me lurched forward, and off we lumbered after our teacher.

After what seemed like an eternity of walking- tripping over opened velcro and stumbling through piles of raked leaves- I felt the sunlight slide off us, slowly being replaced by the cool shade of spreading trees and the gentle whisper of wind through branches, carrying the smell of overripe apples with it. I felt Angela drop my hand and was suddenly overcome by a bizarre panic- a residual, primal fear of the darkness, the woods, the loneliness they carried. The blindfold was suddenly heavy on my face, the fabric too rough, the knot too right. Then I felt my teacher gently take my hand, guiding me forward until I could close my fingers on a smooth, nylon rope.

I felt a hand brush against mine, then heard Angela whisper, “What do you think is going on?”

I shook my head, forgetting that she couldn’t see.

Then Mr. M cleared his throat, the sound coming from somewhere ahead of us, echoing amongst the clustered trees. “This,” he said slowly, “is a maze. Follow the rope and find your way out. Take as much time as you need and if you want help- just raise your hand.”

I almost snorted- help, who needed help? I was smart- I could beat a maze made for ten year olds. After all, I was almost eleven myself. I could do this.

And so, under the light slanting through the trees, with the blindfold over my eyes and my hand clamped firmly on the nylon rope, I walked. Every time I came to a tree, I felt along the rope- forward, back, right, left. And when I turned I made a mental note- left, then left, then left again. And I kept walking.

And walking…

And walking…

Soon enough, the footsteps around me faded away. I couldn’t hear Alex’s thumping stops, Tyler’s stuttering, stumbling gait or Angela’s familiar, careful footfalls. They had all faded away, leaving me to walk alone in the forest, still following the rope. I walked alone, in a silence unbroken except by the crunch of leaves beneath my light-up sneakers and the song of a lone bird above the Orchard.

And slowly but surely, a new emotion crept into my mind- one that my overconfident, innocently stupid little self found utterly foreign. Fear. Was I alone? Did they… leave me?

Then I heard the giggles, girls and boys, familiar voices, and the fear crumbled into embarrassment. Cheeks burning, ears red embarrassment. They were laughing at me. They were mocking me.

I growled. Everything around me tunnelled inwards into a red-tinged rage, driving me forward. I tripped over my own foot and caught myself on the rope, a sob of frustration building in my throat.

Why couldn’t I do this? I was smart– dammit. Why couldn’t I find my way out? I reached to the back of the blindfold, ready to rip if off, to admit defeat.

But I had never given up in my life. I was smart. I could do this.

“Remember,” rang out Mr. M’s voice, “if you need help, you only have to raise your hand.”

I didn’t need help. I didn’t need help. I didn’t need-

My foot caught on something- maybe a branch, maybe the back of my own ankle, and I almost went flying. In that instant something inside me snapped and my hand went flying up almost on its own, my fingers reaching up, up, up, towards the leaves I could hear rustling above my head.

For two terrifying moments, nothing happened.

Then I heard them- the heavy, strong footsteps of a grownup.

“Go under the rope,” Mr. M said quietly, “here.” He lifted up the rope and helped me step under it. I stumbled forward a few steps before taking off the blindfold, blinking owlishly in the sudden light.

My classmates were sitting on the brown grass in front of me, grinning and laughing. Angela was sitting a few feet away from the rest of them, her smile half-pitying, half amused.

They were laughing at me. How did they get out so- I glanced over at my shoulder, back at the maze and I felt the breath leave my lungs.

It’s not fair.

The ‘maze’ was nothing more than a simple circle of unbroken string, wrapped tightly around five old apple trees. No entrance, no exit.

No solution. That wasn’t fair! How could he-

I stumbled over to where Angela sat, sinking into the grass beside her. My cheeks were still warm, I could hear the others laughing at me. I felt Angela brush against me, her chin-length hair falling over her eyes.

“You should’ve asked for help.” She mumbled softly.

“I didn’t need help.” I hissed back, “It wasn’t fai-”

“Alright!” All the laughs and giggles faded to silence as Mr. M paced in front of us. “What do you think the purpose of that exercise was?”

“Wasting time,” I muttered to Angela, proud of my wit.

She ignored me. “Teaching us.” Angela said quietly, in that silent, confident voice I knew so well. “How to be adults.”

How to be… Adults? She was crazy.

But Mr. M smiled, looking from Angela to me, taking in my baffled expression. “Perfect. Precisely. And can someone explain how?”

“Adults have to do hard stuff,” it was Alex talking now- a smart-ass genius who read The Elements for fun, “so sometimes they don’t know how.”

Our teacher was beaming now, looking up and down the row, “And?”

Tyler, the class clown, grinned at me before speaking. “And if an adult needs help they have to ask. If they don’t, no one’s going to help them.”

The next snide remark caught in my throat, twisting into a lump. Mr. M- in his seemingly infinite wisdom- noticed. I saw his eyes wrinkle in a small, private smile.

“You’re all growing up.” He held himself taller and in that instant he looked like a wizard, a knight, a king. “You’re all going to high school soon enough. You- all of you- are becoming adults. And I know how scary that is.”

Had he seen the fear in our eyes, smelt it in the air?

“But adults aren’t as strong as you think they are. They’re not perfect. None of us are. We just know one special thing- when to ask for help. When you’re an adult, no one is going to be checking in on you, seeing if you need help, seeing if you’re lost. When you’re an adult, you have to recognize when you’re stuck, when you’re going in circles. You have to ask for help– otherwise you’ll get stuck walking forever.”

You have to ask for help. I looked down, at the grass, at his shoes. I needed help.

I felt Angela take my hand and squeeze it. Her big brown eyes were soft as she whispered, “None of us can do stuff all alone. Not even you.”

Mr. M smiled at us again, then motioned for us to follow him. We walked back to class, slowly and in silence, and all I remember is turning the same phrase over and over in my mind.

I needed help. I needed help. I needed help.

~

I visited that school again, my university student card in my back pocket and a laptop weighing down the straps of my bag. I walked through the too-narrow hallways, across the tiny playground, up the tiny hill and into the miserable copse of gnarled trees once called “the Orchard,” “the Forbidden Forest,” “Mirkwood.”

Mr. M had long since left- the last I’d heard he was working on a master’s degree. I’d tried so hard to get in touch with him, to tell him everything I’d done, to tell him that I still remembered.

The crunch of the leaves beneath my fur-lined boots, the smell of the apples on the wind, the song of a lone bird in its nest- all of these reminded me of a ten year old dressed in sweatpants and baggy shirts, her black curls wild and frizzy.

There, ahead of me, was a circle of trees. I reached out, gently brushing my fingers against their bark. And there, just below my hand- a single, pale groove worn into the bark. The mark of a nylon rope tied there years ago- in my first week of fifth grade, when I learned how to grow.