Hillerson 1

Natalie Hillerson
Honors 345A
Frances McCue
10 February 2016
One Hundred and Forty Fifth
Im sitting in the backseat of her red Acura. Were the only two in the car, but her tote
bag, filled with books and papers from Speech practice, gets precedence. Its settled in the
passenger seat instead of me. The windows in the car are slick with frost; she pushes the heater,
defroster, and recirculation buttons in quick succession. Once the front windshield is clear, she
slowly pulls out of the parking lot and I peer to my left, trying to get a glimpse of my old high
school. Moisture still coats the backseat windows, so the dim light emanating from classrooms
refracts in the droplets, blurring my view. Im not able to see much of anything.
We drive up the slowly sloping hill and pass the snow-covered football field, out of
commission until the next fall season. But no one comes to the games for the football. People
pack the metal bleachers each Friday night, patiently awaiting the marching band performance at
halftime. Our marching band was sixth in the nation. The football team won a few games during
my high school years.
We reach the stop sign at the top of the hill. She slows, then turns right onto Highway 3.
Wouldnt it have been quicker to turn left and then take Connemara? I ask, though Im positive
Im correct. She may know this town better than I, but technically, Ive known it longer than she
has.
Um, yeah but I didnt want to deal with the hassle of turning left. Highway 3 is pretty
busy. She explains. But its nighttime, and were the only car on the road. Just as I open my
mouth to protest, we pass the library, then the church, and I notice something is missing.

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Hey, werent there brand new apartment buildings here? Or like, an old person home or
something? I remember the structure clearly: alternating tan and red brick faade, tall and
sterile, blending seamlessly into the monotony of suburbia. But on this wintery night, the lot next
to the church is an aging parking lot with faded white lines and cracks in the asphalt where
spring has allowed grass to creep through.
She flicks her eyes at me through the rearview window. No? This has always been a
parking lot. Are you sure you lived here? Ah, yes. The apartment complex hasnt been built yet.
I let out a short breath through my nose and run my hands through my shoulder length hair. Her
hair, when undone, undulates in crescendos of brown that reach well past her sternum. Tonight,
the waves are roped into a bun and bobby pins flank each side of her head. One frayed strand has
fallen out of the bun and rests loosely behind her right ear. She instinctively tugs it; her repetitive
and compulsive pulling has rendered this clump shorter than all her other hair.
She turns right onto 145th Street West, propelling us into downtown Rosemount.
Downtown Rosemount spans a total of two blocks, the only skyscraper a water tower, bulbous
and emblazoned with a faded green shamrock. We pass the flower shop (which doubles as a yarn
shop) where I bought my corsage for prom, the bank, a small building with LAWYERS above the
door in illuminated red text, and Celts Irish Pub, finally reconstructed after a woman crashed her
car into the entryway in the humid summer of 2010.
Our car tires turn against the resistance of slush in the road as the downtown buildings
disintegrate into the remnants of a grain field. The combine harvester has cut wheat stalks down
to a bed of frozen nails, snow packing the weaving indentations of tire treads the combine left in
its wake. On the horizon, I see faint glimmering lights. I chuckle, Remember when we used to
think those lights were the Minneapolis skyline? She nods tensely. I continue, But then we

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found out that it was the oil refinery on the outskirts of town, in the opposite direction as
Minneapolis. She doesnt find this amusing. Pursing her lips, she retorts, Yeah, I remember
when this town deceived me into thinking it was hip by geographical proximity, near the only
part of Minnesota thats actually worth spending time in. I dont say anything in return. My
gaze returns to the barren fields.
Stripped and venous trees mark our entry into a residential neighborhood. The houses
look familiar, but I havent been down this road in awhile. Eventually, I piece together where we
are. Oh, were going to drive by Sallys house. Im sad you dont see her much anymore.
Sallys house was my favoriteold, small, brown, with a wooden plank for a swing hanging on
the tree out front. Every room was in disarray, and even though the mess stressed me out, I
always felt welcome and warm when I came over. I remember nights spent on her roof, talking
about boys, family drama, music, and what our lives would be like after high school. Nearly
three years later, I cant recall the last time we talked comfortably, openly, and without hesitation.
What are you talking about? I see Sally every day. She quips, dismissive and distracted.
Once again, her eyes glue to the rearview mirror. This time theyre not directed at me. I twist
around and look out the rear windshield. Bright streetlights shine up and down the street,
beacons of light on an otherwise black canvas. A smile, understanding and melancholic, grows
on my lips. I know why she took the long way home.
She keeps her eyes locked in the rearview mirror for longer than she should, and only
returns to the road in front of her when she feels herself drift towards the opposing lane. She
sighs and whispers, I cant wait to get out of here. These streetlights line the road like a runway,
guiding my ascent. I look back and I feel like I can take off and finally escape this place.

Hillerson 4
Escape? When I think about this town I feel a tenderness bloom inside of me. These
streetlights are stars guiding me home after my years spent away. Ill admit, dissatisfaction once
snuck its way into my bones and commanded me to leave, to be bigger than this towns small
borders, but now. Now, Im filled with only the gentle hum of affection and acceptance,
nostalgia begging that I both mourn and miss who I once was when I was once here.
Why do you want to leave so bad? What makes you so sure somewhere else will be
better? I pry. The itch I felt to leave Rosemount was insatiable. I was ready to be independent in
a state where no one knew my name. To define myself freely and without constraint. To finally
be able to breathe in a huge city after years of suffocating in a small town.
My freshman year was miserable. Nearly two thousand miles away from Rosemount, I
felt cold and unwelcome in my dorm roomtransient in a place I had hoped would feel like
home. Stuck in the liminal space between who I was in high school and who I hoped I would
become in college, I didnt feel like myself. Moving back to Minnesota never once crossed my
mind, but there were nights when I yearned for a familiar and comfortable place, even if that
meant the town I had spent years trying to abandon. Now, after reflection and subsequent change,
I am at peace with this current iteration of myself. I am finally content with who Ive become.
Still, as I look the silhouette of the girl in the front seat, I wonder if I should warn her whats to
come.
She turns onto Shannon Parkway, giving the lampposts one last glance through the mirror
before they glide out of view. Eventually, she replies, I feel so trapped here. Im tired of doing
homework all the time, Im tired of immature boys at school, Im tired of hearing about parties I
wasnt invited to even though I wouldnt go to them anyway, Im tired of going to McDonalds at
ten at night on a Friday, calling that a fun and wild adventure, but being home five minutes

Hillerson 5
before curfew anyway. Im tired of feeling like Im wasting my youth by failing to capitalize on
the teenage experience. Im seventeen and nothing is how I expected being seventeen would be.
Like in songs, like in movies, I yearn to fall in love with some boy and go on spontaneous
journeys with friendsinstead of what Im actually doing, which is wishing I were somewhere
else. Wishing I were someone else.
I stifle a laugh. She whips her head around, betrayed, and glares at me for giggling at her
anxieties. I remember those feelings. I remember those spiraling thoughts. I laugh because most
of her complaints are still true: I still do homework all the time, boys are still immature, I dont
get invited to parties but I still have no desire to attend, and I celebrated my twentieth birthday
feeling the weight of unfulfilled teenage escapades. But these things dont bother me anymore.
Im no longer concerned with the experiences I think I should be having. Instead, I seek out
friendships and activities that fill the spaces where I once felt I lacked. Rosemount wasnt
keeping me prisoner in its gridiron street plan. I was.
I return to this town every winter as a resident visitorsomehow both removed and
deeply connected. Though my room remains virtually unchanged since I graduated, I sleep in
someone elses bed; looking through her desk drawers feels like snooping. Yet the sprawl of
suburban terrain is a map only I know how to navigate. I traverse the landscape without asking
for permission. I dont know how to explain all this to her, so I simply state, Youll love and
miss Rosemount, eventually.
She scoffs, Doubtful. The air blasting from the heater radiates throughout the car and
neither of us speak. Her face is partially illuminated by the glow of the moon. In the darkness of
the backseat, I stare blankly out the front window. Minutes pass, marked by the silent turn of the
dashboard clock, and I watch the road in front of us twist away into the night.

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