The Heartland (Draft Two)

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 in the 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’ve been inseparable. Divided we stand, untied we fall. Leggings, sharks and Delta Airlines…who would’ve thought?

It all started at precisely 12 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 candlelight 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 back,

It’s a death trap, It’s a suicide rap,

We 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 cobblestone 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 Smokies’ of Tennessee are on our horizon. Emily’s in the passengers 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 Carnegiee Hall bound singer in the group can’t deal with our raccket. 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 infested 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 sides 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 it. 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 ballad 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 bustles around the kitchen. Louisa rolls her eyes and decides to takes us on a tour around the farm, acting as if having three strange girls crash into their sunflower field is an everyday occurrence. By the time we are back at the house Louisa’s mom is looming in the doorway, her face contorted in skeptical lines. “A mechanic can’t get out here until tomorrow morning, so you girls are welcome to stay the night…” she offered. Louisa let out a yelp of joy as if she was coyote at midnight and started babbling about all the fun we were to have. We smiled at each other as Louisa’s braids flew around in excitement. I thought to myself, maybe this is the heart of America that we literally crashed ourselves into: a regular family, a farm, some good ol’ American hospitality. What more could we ask for?

Part Four

As I was walking a ribbon of highway,

I saw above me an endless skyway,

I saw below me a golden valley,

This land was made for you and me

By eight the next morning we are back on the road, speeding through the mountains of Colorado, the heat momentarily subsiding. We talk for hours and hours of memories of school, even back to the days of fifth grade. We revive of our countless beach trips, our many hilarious memories. But for even longer we speak of the future, of what college will bring us, how we will all change, of how even though we will be spread across the map we will remain inseparable.

After a couple more sordid hotels and a smoother driving experience, we are driving through West Hollywood. The palm trees loom above us; Polyphemus over Odysseus and his men. (Going a block without a stoplight is as frequent as the infamous cyclops’ amount of eyes.) Barbies walk the streets, struggling across the cross-walk in their Manolo pumps. But these Barbies are different than Louisa and her golden plats. Their Botox, extensions and plastic surgery leave a trace of foreignness, an inability to relate to our world, while Louisa’s authentic simplicity truly represents our country’s heart.

I awake from my daydream to the genius of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young filling my ears. My mouth cracks into a smile as I listen to Young’s wisdom: in the heartland on any given day, you can find your way back home. I look around at my three best friends as they stare out the windows, they are ignorant to the revelation Mr. Young and I just shared, but for once I keep it to myself. Emily gasps and I look out the window: the Pacific stretches out in front of us, an endless blanket of blue. Ellen pulls the Saab over to the side of the highway and before we know it we are running through the boiling sand towards the ocean. We wade through the icy perfection and suddenly the ocean floor drops and I am under water. I am totally immersed in the heartland.