Kansas Girl
By Christie Gallen
It was late spring in 1981, and Topeka, Kansas, was already blooming with life. The sun warmed the earth with a soft persistence, and the breeze carried with it the scent of lilacs and the promise of summer. But for eight-year-old Cindy, that day held nothing sweet. Her school day had been a disaster—complete with awkward silences, sidelong glances, and the kind of embarrassment that only a shy child can truly understand. As soon as she got home, she made a beeline for the one place she could breathe: her treehouse.
Nestled high in the sturdy arms of an old oak tree in her sprawling backyard, the treehouse had been her sanctuary since the previous summer when her dad built it just for her. Together, they had picked the perfect tree, mapped out the planks for climbing, and tied a thick rope with knotted footholds to help her scramble up with ease. It stood twenty-five feet in the air—far enough to feel like she’d left the world behind.
Inside, the treehouse was small but comforting. The floor was padded with worn blankets, and a few throw pillows leaned against the back wall beneath a tiny window. Even though the afternoon sun poured through the slats, warming the space, the scent of damp cedarwood lingered from recent rains, wrapping around her like a memory.
Cindy tucked her legs underneath her and opened a library book she’d clutched tightly all the way home. Reading always helped her slip into another world when her own felt too loud, too complicated. In books, she wasn’t the quiet girl who didn’t know what to say—she was brave, confident, important.
But her peace was interrupted by a voice she didn’t recognize.
“Hi up there!”
Cindy froze. She peered down over the ledge of her window and immediately pulled her head back in. It was the new girl, Kate. Cindy had noticed her at school today. She had blonde hair that shimmered like honey in the light and striking green eyes that didn’t miss a thing. She had marched into the classroom as if she owned it, smiling widely and asking the teacher a million questions. Cindy didn’t know what to make of her, except that she didn’t like how loud she was. How bold.
Kate didn’t wait for an invitation. “Can I come up?”
Cindy wanted to say no, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she mumbled something that sounded like “yes,” and within moments, Kate was climbing the planks and rope as if she’d done it a hundred times.
When Kate popped through the hatch, she looked around, her eyes bright with curiosity. “This is amazing! Did you build it?”
Cindy shook her head. “My dad did.”
“Lucky,” Kate said, plopping down across from her without waiting. “I’ve never had a treehouse. Or a backyard this big. We just moved from Chicago. Everything there is loud and crowded. I like this better.”
Cindy didn’t respond, but Kate didn’t seem to mind. She filled the silence with her chatter—about her old school, her cat named Merlin, and how she once got stuck in a revolving door at a department store. Cindy didn’t know how to keep up, but she didn’t need to. Kate seemed to talk enough for both of them.
As the evening unfolded, Cindy and Kate found themselves sharing more and more with each other. They discovered common interests, similar experiences, and a shared dislike for math class. The treehouse was no longer just Cindy’s sanctuary, but a place where their friendship blossomed.
They spent hours in the treehouse until Cindy’s mom called from the back porch. “Cindy! Dinner!”
Cindy climbed down first, Kate right behind her. Her mom had set the long picnic table with sandwiches, bowls of potato salad, and tall glasses of lemonade. The family often ate outside in the spring, before the summer humidity took hold. Cindy’s older twin brothers started teasing the girls the second they sat down, nudging each other and making jokes about “Cindy’s new best friend.”
“Leave them alone,” their father said with a stern look that made both boys mumble apologies.
As dusk fell, the air cooled, and the lilac bushes at the edge of the yard filled the space with their heady perfume. The world seemed to slow. Crickets began their chorus, and fireflies flickered like magic around the garden.
Cindy’s mom handed each child a mason jar with holes punched in the lid. “Go catch some fireflies,” she said. “And stay where I can see you.”
Cindy and Kate wandered toward the far end of the yard, barefoot in the cool, damp grass. They caught a few lightning bugs and whispered about how strange they were, how the light seemed to come from their bellies. But soon, Cindy felt sorry for the bugs, and so did Kate. One by one, they opened the jars and let the fireflies drift back into the night.
As they lay on their backs, the Kansas sky above them was a canvas of stars, each one a tiny miracle. The tranquility of the evening and the beauty of the sky filled Cindy with a sense of peace and wonder she had never experienced before.
Kate rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand. “When I grow up, I want to be a singer. Or maybe a writer. Or both.”
Cindy smiled softly. “Me too.”
They lay in silence a bit longer, listening to the crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves overhead.
“I’m glad I came up to your treehouse,” Kate said.
“Me too,” Cindy whispered.
Neither of them knew that this moment—beneath a blanket of stars, surrounded by fireflies and friendship—would live in their hearts forever.
And neither of them would forget the night they promised to be friends. Forever.