The digital display on the wall reads 2:59. A few kids with watches check the seconds, silently counting down the time remaining until school ends. Someone leans their head through the door, contemplating sneaking out early, shaving a precious 30 seconds off their journey home. Risking a quick glance backward, they see the teacher watching them intently, making the kid sigh and pull back into the crowd surrounding the exit. Nobody wants detention during lunch, as it’s the last bit of socializing time carried over from middle school. (By the way Mr. Joya, I want my recess back).
After an amount of time that definitely feels longer than the 25 seconds claimed by a classmate’s G-Shock, the bell rings, triggering an echoing wave of squeaks and footsteps down the school halls. At the front doors, a few people peel off, heading towards various extracurricular activities. But the majority are bottlenecked through the doors, slowing down through the small room that buffers the inside of the school from the outside, and then spilling out on the entrance plaza, like the runoff from some sort of teenager-powered hydro dam.
Students mill about the plaza, chatting with friends or siblings, or, if said friend or sibling has a car, trying to persuade them into a ride home. A few stand off to the side, waiting for someone to persuade or chat with, or simply procrastinating, unwilling to walk home just yet. Someone with a bicycle shouts, and people jump to the side, letting the student roll through. If they’re cool, the bike rider will bunny hop off the curb, or possibly manual down the sidewalk, but apparently this person is “kinda lame, dude,” as no tricks are performed as they pull away.
After another agonizing wait that feels a lot longer than the two minutes as recorded by the ancient Casio on my wrist, I finally catch sight of [REDACTED], the person I usually persuade into giving me a ride. [REDACTED] catches sight of me staring at him, and exhales a bit through his nose, before walking over to me.
“You want a ride, dude?” he asks, more of a rhetorical question at this point, as he already knows what my answer will be.
I reply in the affirmative, and he rolls his eyes.
“Dude, you should really, like, bring your truck to school more often. You owe for this, you know,” says [REDACTED] as we start to head to the parking lot.
“Yeah, whatever man,” I reply. “But we should really hurry though, or we’re going to have to wait for a while.”
There are three options for getting out of the CHS parking lot without having to wait in the line of cars that inevitably forms every day, and only the first two are really worth choosing. You can sprint out of school, get to your car as fast as possible, and drive out before the line starts. You can wait around 15 minutes for the line to dissipate before driving out, or, the third option, the one you shouldn’t pick, is treat the parking lot like a gladiator arena, battling it out against other cars and busses to make it to the exit.
[REDACTED] often picked the third option, as he didn’t like hurrying out of school, and wasn’t really fond of hanging around talking to people, unless it was a cute girl he was trying to impress. I really didn’t like battling it out in the parking lot, mostly for health reasons, so I tried my best to hurry him to his car. Unfortunately for my stress levels, by the time we reached our transportation there was already a large line stretching across the back of the parking lot, and several smaller lines forming in the aisles.
“Uh, maybe we should just chill in your car, dude,” I said, nervously.
“Nah,” replied [REDACTED], “We ball.”
I made a face to show my disapproval, but didn’t push the point any further, as a free ride is a free ride. Tossing my backpack in the trunk, I caught a glance of a police car parked by the curb, the officer inside probably trying to meet their quota by camping the parking lot. Police presence at a high school always gives me a bad taste in my mouth, especially at such a quiet one as ours. I feel like I have to try to not look suspicious whenever I walk past them, despite having done nothing wrong.
“Yo, there’s 12 on your 6,” I mentioned to [REDACTED], trying to feign being cool or something.
He raised an eyebrow at me, giving me the universal “really dude?” face.
“Damn bro, I didn’t realize you could count that far.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Just don’t get us arrested on our way out.”
We both climb into the car, and [REDACTED] turns the key. After a few seconds, the car’s Bluetooth connects, cueing up the grungy guitar tones of some 90’s rock band. I think they were called the Battlers of Fools or something. [REDACTED] mimes playing the drums on the song for a few seconds, before shifting the car into reverse, sending some freshmen walking behind the car scattering.
After pulling out of the parking spot, he starts scanning for shortcuts and cars to cut off, while I anxiously grip the arm rest. Suddenly, we start accelerating, narrowly missing another group of students. [REDACTED] yanks the wheel, and we dive into some empty parking spots, before emerging into the next aisle. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another car gunning towards us, no doubt trying to get in ahead of us. Before I have time to mention it, the car lurches forward, heading for another small pathway through the parked cars.
As we dive for the shortcut, the Fool Combatant song picks up, reaching a crescendo. I can imagine some sort of movie scene in my head, similar to what we’re doing right now, but with more explosions and hot girls.
“You watching the road, man?” [REDACTED]’s voice snaps me out of my sepia-toned imagination, and back into the real world. I look over to the cop car, but don’t see any movement.
“Nah, but I think we’re good,” I reply.
We make it out of the shortcut without incident, then hook a sharp right back towards the line of cars. I scan for friendly faces amongst the line, but don’t see any. A small gap opens up between two cars, and [REDACTED] dives in, eliciting an angry honk from the car we cut in front of. We stay as close to the car in front of us as possible, to prevent anyone from pulling the same stunt that [REDACTED] just pulled.
As we close in on the turn off, it looks like we’ve made it through, probably cutting 10 minutes or more from our wait with [REDACTED]’s shortcut-finding and cutting-off abilities. As if scripted, the police car suddenly turns its siren on, and starts heading towards us. Both [REDACTED] and I hold our breaths.
The car gets closer, and closer, and closer, and closer, and closer.
And then it drives right past us.
[REDACTED] and I both look at each other.
We both shrug, and then immediately break out laughing.
“That was the most stressful 30 seconds of my life,” I say, still chuckling. “Remind me not to take rides with you again.”
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