The Heartland (Draft One)

Part One

May your heart always be joyful,May your song always be sung,May you stay forever young

Silky, black graduation hats flew through the sky like shells on the Western Front. My favorite three shinning faces greeted me as I looked down from the blizzard of caps. The fluffy blonde hair, the arcing model eye-browns, the giraffe legs: the fearsome foursome. Emma walked into my life the first day of second grade, wearing leggings. The fashion faux pas of 1999. Her hair was straight as a chalk board, sleek as a penguin’s tuxedo, yellow as my banana go-gurt. How things change. Emily bounced herself onto the Darden-Towe soccer field, fall of 2001. Every practice a different shark shirt, every day the same tangled waterfall protruding off the back of her head. Ellen literally stumbled into my life fall of 2002, crashing into me on the stairs as she yelled “Hello, Delta Airlines”. Freak. With giraffe legs, I thought to myself. But ever since the fall of fifth grade we’d been inseparable. Divided we stand untied we fall. Leggings, sharks and Delta Airlines…who would’ve thought?

It all started at precisely twelve a.m. January 3rd 2003. It was the last night of Christmas break, the snow whirled outside but Emily’s basement felt like the soothing perfection of a sauna. Magic was in the air as we sat in our circle giggling over names of boys we hadn’t seen for a year. In between us was the candle, the same one that was lit at midnight every sleepover. We held hands as we chanted our oath, Emma bellowing out her solo “we are beautiful in every single way, words can’t bring us down” as if she had the vocals of Tina or Aretha. As if. The hand squeeze would be sent around the circle like a current of electricity and the meeting would be dismissed. But this night was different. This night in the words of profound, sentimental 5th graders we made oaths to each other by candle light and this was mine: “when we graduate from high school we will go on an adventure to the heart of America.” And so, call us a cult if you will but this my friends is how the adventure began.

Part Two

Baby this town rips the bones from your backIt’s a death trap, It’s a suicide rapWe gotta get out while were young`cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run.

The ancient Saab rattles its way down the highway like a horse-drawn carriage on a cobble stone street. The sunroof is open and July heat seeps through mountain air as the wisdom of Dylan blares. Charlottesville is in our dust and the Appalachian’s of Tennessee are in our horizon. Emily’s in the passenger’s seat chowing down on those Swedish Fish. Every red gummy she pops in her mouth becomes a battle between teeth and chewy perfection. I’m at the wheel as we speed past a 75 miles to Nashville sign and Ellen complains about my music choice, grabs the iPod and blasts Foundations. You said I must eat so many lemons,'cause I am so bitter. Emma, Ellen and my “singing” is even louder than Kate Nash herself and if I may say so myself much better. Emily groans as she covers her ears, the only Carnage Hall bound singer in the group can’t deal with our racquet. The sun is setting over the mountains as we roll into Nashville. The glowing orange orb loiters behind the lush mountains as it waits for the moon to shine and the sky to dim. It’s patiently waiting for its green light.

The sun is long gone when we pull into our hotel parking lot. The lights of Nashville twinkle like a giant chandelier looming from the sky. The concierge greets us with his most clichéd Ramada smile and yacks away in his southern drawl about the benefits of the ice machine and indoor pool. The hotel stairwell smells like an appliance store gone bad, that odor of fresh metal and deodorant overwhelms me as we lug our duffels to the 6th floor. Finally we are inside what looks like Ramada’s most grotesque room possible but we are so exhausted it doesn’t matter. Ellen flops down onto a bed and Emily heads straight to the vending machine to fulfill her ever metabolizing stomach. In no time at all we are fast asleep under the lice infected polyester dreaming of what tomorrow will bring.

Part 3

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail,Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn. "Come in," she said,"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

The next day we made it through Illinois and Missouri and spent another glorious night…this time in a Best Western. But the real adventure began this morning as we headed into the blankets of sunflowers…Kansas.

Emma is at the wheel and the iPod shuffle selects I Will Survive…never a good combination. Ahead we can only see the highway, above the sky, and to the side’s rows and rows of sunflowers. Never before have colors been so real, so in focus. The sky is a pure, crystal blue. It’s one big sapphire. The highway’s fresh tar is as black as my hair and reflects heat off it sending rays straight into my pores. Oh that feeling of skin crinkling under the radiation, turning browner by the second. There’s no other feeling like that. But I’m awakened from my daydream by Emma grooving away. She’s into it now, “GO ON NOW GO WALK OUT THE DOOR” she bellows. Crack. Bang. Smoosh. Silence.

Those golden petals and fuzzy brown circles have never looked so menacing. Every window is smothered in yellowish-brown, and a few stray petals have fallen through the sun-roof. “EMMA DOLORES MAGRAW PAINE” screams Emily. “Whoopsies” giggles Ellen. Emma cracks a smile and then we all start to crack up. Somehow Emma landed us in the middle of a Sunflower field, in reality only a few feet from the road but you’d never know it from the denseness of the stalks and petals. I try to open my door first: the stalks are sturdier than expected but with a good push a few snap and I’m out of the suffocating heat and air of the Saab.

We decide the best solution is to lead a meeting. That’s when we think best. Emily grabs the candle from the dashboard and we sit under the shade of the flowers and begin. By the middle of our oath we are all thoroughly covered in sweat and equally cranky. Emma’s usually soulful ballade isn’t more than a melancholy rap, she slowly speaks the words once again we are beautiful in every single way, words can’t bring us down. “You hardly sound like Christina.” We all jump at the unfamiliar voice and turn around to the presence of a little girl. She stands there with long blonde braids messy as an aged Barbie’s, with a brown glimmer to her skin and a shine in her eye. “Hi, I’m Louisa,” she pronounces as she extends her hand to us. We are awestruck, our own guardian angel drawn by the lyrics of Christina Aguilera.

The next thing we know we are standing in the kitchen of an ancient farm house, Louisa’s mother with the same identical braids calling a tow-truck and Louisa herself pulling out homemade popsicles. A chill shoots down my spine as I bite into the strawberry delightfulness. “Oh you poor souls, out here all alone! What parents would ever let their children roam free like this is simply beyond me…” Louisa’s mother rambles to herself as she bussels around the kitchen. Louisa takes us on a tour around the farm, acting as if having three strange girls crash into their sunflower field is an everyday occurrence.