Heartbeats
Left. Right. Left. Right.
I subtly glanced at Luke Johnson, who was sitting one row directly behind me. I didn’t open my mouth, but the message was clear — don’t you dare pull my chair out from under me when I sit down.
“I never want to grow up,” I felt the words escape my lips before I could withhold them as thoughts.
A quick glance to my left and right, our front row standing in wait for Ashley to arrive back to her chair. It was our curtain call, these brief moments of silent smiling towards the home bleachers of Longenecker field, a quaint grass palette where our beloved football Panthers performed every Friday night, taking on foes from communities that would appear identical if it weren’t for the difference in costume. It is at these performances — in the bleachers, under the bleachers, or in the green expanse between them and the band-run concession stand — where the pulse of the rural high school experience runs rampant.
And here the class of 2019 stood, looking forward at the ghosts of our past dance along the stands, fluttering past our parents, friends, family and into our hearts, waving goodbye 13 years after it made its entrance in the halls of West Amory Elementary.
The pulse of the heartbeat was fast now, as we were ready to burst out of the chest of a childhood within small town America.
I sat down slowly but surely and found the cushion of my chair. Much to my relief, Luke had spared me. In my lap laid a black folder, with sweaty hand prints courtesy of the sweltering southern heat, gracing the cover. The engraving on the leather— Amory High School - etched into my vision as my eyes floated upwards into the summer Mississippi dusk.
My gaze fell back down to the melting pavement of Highway 45. We were headed due south, anywhere between 65 and 80 miles an hour, with the mission of living an American teenage stereotype. According to the map, Destin, Florida, was the destination for our senior trip escapade. In reality, anywhere would have been suitable. We weren’t searching for a beach, some fancy house, or a pool. Rather, we were on the hunt for a rather elusive injection of vitality, as our youth seemed to be fading with each passing second.
The “Welcome to Florida” served as more than a state boundary indicator. It signaled a change in the flow of time — from linear to an entanglement. Just 24 hours earlier, we were stressing as to when exactly we would change into our gowns, when would the rain start, when would the ceremonies start….and, of course, when were the after parties.
When the wheels of our cars touched Florida asphalt, time began its measurement in memories. Not all hours were equal, and time passed with relatively little consequence.
A few short hours after unpacking our bags, we hit the beach. Or rather, the girls hit the beach — throwing down towels, setting up chairs, and Jami pulling out her book. The guys went straight for the water, evident by the football flying through the air and splashing into the ocean every few seconds.
After a week of full residence in the sand, we packed our bags into our car and headed back home to Amory — our welcoming party being a sense of responsibility.
But, make no mistake, the soul of teenage freedom would not rest peacefully without a fight. The drive should have only lasted 6 hours, but ours lasted 8. From the beginning, we were plagued with stop after stop. First, Joe felt sick.
“Hey guys, we have to stop….my nose is bleeding,” Corbin interrupted our short-lasted forward momentum.
And that was the only sentence I needed to describe the trek home. We stopped 8 times in that 6 hour path. I couldn’t help but feel like it was fate. After all, I wrote my most successful story on a store that we stopped at for Joe (Prayers and Profits in South Alabama).
Once all of the bags were unpacked and we were settled back into the comforts of our own homes, it was clear that we left a crucial part of our personalities behind — freedom.
When we locked the door to the rental, we condemned the fluttering appeal of our teenage freedom to the past. It was no longer ours anymore.
And, at least for us, the spirit of that freedom still roams in Destin, touching the hearts and souls of countless senior trips to come. And in that connection lies the beauty. That sense of freedom never belonged to any of us individually. Rather, it nestled in the center of our generation, breaking pieces off for each of us to enjoy…together.
Will we ever be able to flirt with the lady of time and seize that freedom again?
One thing is certain. Our senior trip to Destin wasn’t just a reckless escapade on the beach.
It was a final stand by our tight knit army of friends in the war against growing up. Although we may never take up arms together again, it is certain that the battle is not yet over. The war for youth will be long running. All I can hope for at the end is to smile at the end and say the one sentence every child dreams of….
“I never grew up.”
I don’t have photos with all of you handy…but to LJ, Davis, WIll, Sam, Peyton, Kai, Joe, Corbin, Micah, Macie, Logann, Jami, Jade, Ashley, Abigail, and Anna — I love you all forever.
