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house92.md

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+---
+layout: default
+title: "House 92"
+permalink: /essays/house92/
+---
+
+*It was a scorching hot day. Scorching in more ways than one. I walked for what felt like endless hours, dumbly scuffing the dirt as though that would explain everything. Each step was a tough one, fueled by some unseen thing. I’m still not sure I know what that ‘thing’ was. But with it, I pressed on.*  
+
+My friend’s green eyes sparkled with excitement. “You won't believe it,” she exclaimed, her red hair frizzing up all over the place. “The rolling hills, the vibrant greenery—it’s like stepping into a postcard. Indian Hill.” 
+
+I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, and smell the earthy scent of the forest. Despite her exaggerated descriptions, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by the allure of this place. With each word, she added layers to the landscape, embellishing the details with the fervor of someone who had found their own personal paradise. 
+
+“And the view from the top,” she continued, “It’s like being on top of the world–” 
+
+“It’s like you want to be Indian Hill,” I interrupted. I couldn’t help it, I felt unnerved with the dazed look in her eyes. Almost as though Indian Hill was her stoic seventh wonder, her god of some sort. But I can see it, and I can touch it. It’s not unattainable– it can’t be that great, really. Can it? 
+
+“I wouldn’t mind that, to be honest,” she chuckled, unfazed.
+
+As we trudged along the dusty trail, the sun beat down mercilessly, its rays turning the air into a stifling oven. I felt every step as beads of sweat trickled down my forehead, my clothes sticking uncomfortably to my skin. “Are we there yet?” I groaned, wiping my brow with the back of my hand. 
+
+My friend chuckled, her grip on my arm tightening as she pulled me forward. “Almost,” she replied with a determined frown. 
+
+Finally, we crested a rise, and Indian Hill stretched out before us in all its supposed glory. Eager to rest my weary legs, I plopped down onto the grass—or what I thought was grass. But as soon as my body made contact with the ground, I squirmed in shock. The “grass” beneath me felt more like sharp shards of paper, digging into my skin like tiny needles. 
+
+My friend’s face turned pale when she saw the red spots on my arms, her eyes widening in alarm. “What happened?” she gasped. 
+
+I couldn’t help but smile at her in disbelief. “Is this what I get for lying on the grass?” I joked, holding up my hands to show her the evidence. Her expression shifted from worry to realization, as she let out a sheepish laugh. 
+
+“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “They replaced the grass with artificial turf for the golf courses.” 
+
+It was that easy, then, to pluck along the driven roots festered from years of nurture and, in its absence, stick on patches of synthetic fiber. It felt that easy to call these patches ‘grass,’ and forget all that came before them. It was that easy, huh? 
+
+While I was lost in my reverie, my friend pointed towards a gazebo. “That wasn't here before,” she remarked, her tone tinged with a hint of nostalgia. “They keep renovating Indian Hill, trying to make it more kid-friendly.” 
+
+Kid-friendly meant something different here, I realized. Well, different to what I thought it meant at least. Kid-friendly here meant red ruby swing sets, glorified sand boxes filled with gold, monkey bars glistening in silver. And of course, I couldn’t forget the plastic spikes of ‘grass.’ Kid-friendly didn’t mean to run around barefoot in the mud, getting splattered with grime and god knows what on our shorts. It didn’t mean racing each other up and down the hill, rolling like torpedoes against the flowers. There wouldn’t be space for the golfers to set their tees because we’d be there picnicking with the worms, chasing the birds, and finding animals within the clouds. I guess I didn’t know what kid-friendly meant in Indian Hill. 
+
+*Water. I need water. I wiped my shoes by the door, washed my hands, and grabbed a cup. My hands were pink and wet. Tiny drops of perspiration fell onto them from my face, my hair, my– my eyes? Am I crying?*    
+
+The houses looked strange. Maybe it’s because they all looked the same. What, with their white stucco shields, peachy roofs, groomed yards, and a dog yipping every other second, it was an eerie sort of beauty. A copy and paste. Each house was massive. The yawning driveways stretched towards open verandas and clear blue windows. Some houses curled into each other through a cul-de-sac– but even that was done with a certain grace. A perfect twirl of blocks forming a neat green circle at the center. The grass seemed to hold an unnatural glean– must be turf again, I thought. 
+
+Red ribbons were tied on each mailbox, their knots meticulously crafted with one half of the ribbon dropping downwards while the other half stood tall. Rows of pink tulips lined the manicured lawns, their vibrant blooms creating a sea of pastel perfection. Yet, amidst the sea of pink was a single red rose. In each house, the red rose was perfectly centered among the tulips, and as the breeze whispered through the neighborhood, it seemed as though the tulips were dancing around the rose. How can a place, so brutishly composed by man, be deemed worthy enough to hold this rose so lovingly? 
+
+I laid my sweater onto the hilltop and just sat there. I stared and stared, watching the wind twirl its rose about its finger. 
+
+A car suddenly zoomed by, its driver’s gaze fixed upon us with a mixture of shock and disbelief. 
+
+Though I barely registered her passing glance, the air thickened with tension as the car slowly reversed, its window rolling down. A moment of silent confrontation ensued, her eyes boring into mine with a mix of fury and disappointment that sent a shiver down my spine. She wore her blonde hair short, and I could see from afar the stillness behind her blue eyes. Two sharp points of ice that stared daggers at me. Beside me, my friend's voice broke the silence. 
+
+“Can we help you with something?” she asked. 
+
+Yet, the woman remained silent, her gaze unwavering as she seemed to fixate solely on me. The weight of her scrutiny was suffocating, her silence more menacing than any words she could have uttered. The tension in the air grew palpable as the lady’s piercing gaze locked onto me, her question hanging in the air like a challenge. “Why are you here?” she demanded. 
+
+Caught off guard, I struggled to find an adequate response, the weight of her examination bearing down on me like a heavy cloak. In a feeble attempt to defuse the situation, I let out an awkward laugh, my words sounding hollow even to my own ears. “Why wouldn't I be?” I replied, my attempt at levity falling flat in the face of her unyielding stare. 
+
+Despite the warmth of the sun on my skin, I couldn't shake the feeling of being singled out, of being seen as an intruder in a pristine enclave. Meanwhile, my friend’s attempts to defuse the tension seemed to fall on deaf ears as the lady made herself comfortable, and she proceeded to lean back onto her seat. It was clear that she had no intention of leaving anytime soon, leaving me to wonder what hidden motives lay behind her unwelcome intrusion. 
+
+The lady’s voice sliced through the tense air like a knife. “If you don't explain why you're here,” she threatened, her tone sharp and uncompromising, “you’ll have to explain it to the police.” 
+
+Ever since I was a kid, I was always told to prioritize my safety first. In a desperate bid to defuse  the situation, I grasped at the only detail that set each house apart—the numbers. There are 100 houses in Indian Hill, and while the mailboxes share the same hues of paint, a delicate touch of thin golden paint adorn each one with its unique number. 
+
+“I live in House 92,” I blurted out, the words tumbling from my lips before I could second-guess myself. That felt easy– too easy. This whole place feels too easy. Too easy to look at, too easy to live in. And for those few seconds of staring at the flowers, it felt too easy to forget I don’t live in House 92. 
+
+It was a gamble, a shot in the dark, but in that moment, it felt like my only option. As the lady’s gaze softened, she turned her attention to my friend for the first time, seeking confirmation of my words. Without any hesitation, my friend affirmed my assertion. Before the lady could leave, I couldn't resist the urge to seek answers, to unravel the mystery of her sudden evaluation. She mumbled a reply.“We’re not used to seeing people like you in Indian Hill.” 
+
+I wondered how such a name could exist without acknowledging its association with Native heritage. “People like me?” I echoed, my voice steady despite the flutter of uncertainty in my chest. “What do you mean by that?” 
+
+Her lips formed a thin line as she hesitated, seemingly caught off guard by my question. “I mean... outsiders,” she replied vaguely, her tone defensive. 
+
+I knew it was too easy, I just knew it. It was too easy to sit there and forget I didn’t belong there. It was too easy to forget this land, the tulips, the sole red roses, this all wasn’t ours to begin with.    
+
+My friend had drifted off into sleep. Gently, I slipped my sweater out from beneath me and placed it beneath her. Curious gazes pierced through the shiny glass windows of nearby homes, but their judgment no longer fazed me; I recognized their stares for what they were– as glossy as the turf beneath me. While the children in this neighborhood might have been deprived of experiencing mother nature’s caress, I basked in its embrace, letting the breeze weave its whispers around me. It was just me and the breeze atop what once really was Indian Hill.
+
+*One, two, three, breathe. Her words shouldn’t faze me. I saw something she couldn’t see. Indian Hill lost the roots that once held its tree.*  
+
+I wake up. Panting, panting, panting. It’s hard to tell, then, if Indian Hill was just like the turf it was dressed in: a dream.