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Donut Holes
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by Catherine Eusebio
It’s Saturday night after finals. After a week of tests and presentations, my three best friends and I are anxious for adventure. Much to our parents’ distaste, staying out past midnight each weekend (but within city limits) is just the right amount of thrill.
We don’t usually have anywhere to go. This borrowed car is the only private space we can call our own. After driving aimlessly just to appreciate the glow of streetlights, we park the car. We feel safe, nestled in a dim, residential parking lot. We devour potato chips and unwrap piece after piece of Hershey’s chocolates. In between mouthfuls of junk food, we trade anecdotes about our eccentric AP Government teacher and exchange insults and criticisms about that stupid girl who stole my boyfriend (her bras were obviously padded).
But as we are in the final stages of high school, our carefree hangouts are occasionally interrupted by serious concerns.
“Are we ever going to get sick of this?” someone asks.
Will we ever grow too old to go hiking in the middle of the night armed with a flashlight in one hand and cookies in the other? Will losing sleep to count shooting stars ever seem senseless? Indeed, will our friendship remain the same after high school?
The car grows quiet as we each ponder the answer to this last question.
But then a car stops near us. It’s a police car. The officer approaches the front passenger side where I am sitting. He shines his flashlight through the window. It’s the brightest light I’ve ever seen. It’s so bright that it blinds me. He asks us what we are doing.
“We’re just eating donut holes,” one of us cries out. Someone else offers the officer a donut hole.
He wants to see identification. I can hardly contain my fear. I sputter that I’ve only brought my school ID. I hope he doesn’t ask why I don’t have a state- issued license with me.
He collects our IDs and disappears from the window.
While he’s gone, I panic. I hate myself for putting my family in jeopardy just because I wanted to stay out with friends at night and eat junk food. I hate myself for being so stupid, so irresponsible. I’m afraid he has entered my name into a mysterious database. He will see something suspicious, something that requires further investigation. He will unravel my life story and find the thread that ties me to my birthplace, a foreign country.
Curse words explode from my lips. My friends wonder why I am so distraught. It’s not a big deal to them. They aren’t at risk.
I imagine the police officer taking us into the police station. They’ll call my parents. We’ll all get caught. Good-bye to the house that they bought. Good-bye, America.
The policeman reappears. He tells us this is a private neighborhood. Someone complained because our music was too loud. He returns our IDs.
We all drive home. We never stay out late again.
It’s Saturday night after finals. After a week of tests and presentations, my three best friends and I are anxious for adventure. Much to our parents’ distaste, staying out past midnight each weekend (but within city limits) is just the right amount of thrill.
We don’t usually have anywhere to go. This borrowed car is the only private space we can call our own. After driving aimlessly just to appreciate the glow of streetlights, we park the car. We feel safe, nestled in a dim, residential parking lot. We devour potato chips and unwrap piece after piece of Hershey’s chocolates. In between mouthfuls of junk food, we trade anecdotes about our eccentric AP Government teacher and exchange insults and criticisms about that stupid girl who stole my boyfriend (her bras were obviously padded).
But as we are in the final stages of high school, our carefree hangouts are occasionally interrupted by serious concerns.
“Are we ever going to get sick of this?” someone asks.
Will we ever grow too old to go hiking in the middle of the night armed with a flashlight in one hand and cookies in the other? Will losing sleep to count shooting stars ever seem senseless? Indeed, will our friendship remain the same after high school?
The car grows quiet as we each ponder the answer to this last question.
But then a car stops near us. It’s a police car. The officer approaches the front passenger side where I am sitting. He shines his flashlight through the window. It’s the brightest light I’ve ever seen. It’s so bright that it blinds me. He asks us what we are doing.
“We’re just eating donut holes,” one of us cries out. Someone else offers the officer a donut hole.
He wants to see identification. I can hardly contain my fear. I sputter that I’ve only brought my school ID. I hope he doesn’t ask why I don’t have a state- issued license with me.
He collects our IDs and disappears from the window.
While he’s gone, I panic. I hate myself for putting my family in jeopardy just because I wanted to stay out with friends at night and eat junk food. I hate myself for being so stupid, so irresponsible. I’m afraid he has entered my name into a mysterious database. He will see something suspicious, something that requires further investigation. He will unravel my life story and find the thread that ties me to my birthplace, a foreign country.
Curse words explode from my lips. My friends wonder why I am so distraught. It’s not a big deal to them. They aren’t at risk.
I imagine the police officer taking us into the police station. They’ll call my parents. We’ll all get caught. Good-bye to the house that they bought. Good-bye, America.
The policeman reappears. He tells us this is a private neighborhood. Someone complained because our music was too loud. He returns our IDs.
We all drive home. We never stay out late again.
