“URGENT: Last Day of School Canceled Over On-Campus Gun Violence Threat”

  I didn’t need to open this email from my principal to understand that stepping foot on campus to celebrate the last day of high school was a life threatening proposition. Instead of signing yearbooks, hugging our favorite teachers goodbye, and sharing one more round of tales and tater tots at our red rickety round tables, all the graduating seniors stayed home.

Our graduation ceremony nearly became another casualty of the gun violence threat when it was almost canceled as well, but it nonetheless took place on our football field the following week. In spite of frying in a flimsy folding chair while fretting for my life for four hours under the relentless San Gabriel Valley sun, the day ahead still pulsed with faint promise. That evening, my class was about to spend their final hours as a class together at Disneyland, otherwise known as “the happiest place on earth.”

After peeling off my layers of academic achievement metals that my mom would no doubt fast-track into a memorabilia box, never to bedazzle as brazen fashion accessories again, I changed out of my cap, gown and stilettos into amusement-park appropriate attire - tie-dye Crocs, 2016 Girl Scout t-shirt, dad-style cargo shorts - and walked up to the front desk to receive my bus ticket. My two friends and I requested to ride the same bus on the preferences form, so I had already brainstormed travel games to play en route.

After I received my bus ticket with Goofy’s ear-to-ear grin dominating the document, I opened the office door that led to the school entrance. As I approached my friend, Leah, to show her the ticket, I could see the monumental Magic Kingdom buses struggling to parallel park on the narrow sidewalk, belching and bumping like mechanical whales engaged in a mating ritual.

“After our role in the senior prank, I’m not surprised we’re riding the Goofy bus,” I giggled to Leah.

She raised her eyebrow as if she was looking at the Phillips curve for the first time in AP Macroeconomics.

“…You weren’t assigned to the Daisy Duck bus?”  she asked. 

“No, my ticket says ‘Goofy,” I replied.

“Mine too,” said the voice of our other friend, Kate, greeting us with a shoulder tap from behind. Kate made it a habit of entering our confabs from the rear, so when we turned around she was already in extreme close up.

“Dammit,” sighed Leah.

“I’ll go ask a chaperone if you can ride with us instead,” I said.

As I approached the chaperone, she pulled out a dusty loudspeaker that looked like it had been sitting in the storage shed since 1994. When she pressed the “on” button, the speaker released a blood-curdling screech that sounded like 101 dalmatians in heat.

The graduates stared at the chaperone in silent shock. Again, she shouted through the cone of cacophony, “IT IS NOW FIFTEEN PAST FIVE. LINEUP AND BOARD YOUR ASSIGNED BUSES IMMEDIATELY.”

“Could our friend Leah possibly ride with me and Kate? We all requested to ride the same bus,”  I timidly asked the chaperone.  

“Absolutely not, that will mess with our attendance sheets. Get in your line,” she snarled.

Kate and I waved goodbye to Leah and got in line to board the Goofy bus. But before we even got inside, Kate shut her eyes and slammed her head onto my shoulder.

“You good, Kate?” I asked.

“Yeah… just extremely sleepy,” she mumbled.

At first, I assumed Kate, who had been hyping up the Disneyland trip for months, was just goofing off. But I reminded myself that she recently recovered from COVID-19 after someone contaminated her during a “congratulations” hug for her prom queen victory. She had tested negative the day before and was still fighting off post-virus symptoms. Any remaining energy was likely vaporized by the southern California sun at graduation. 

When Kate and I stepped onto the bus, we were instantly struck by the scent of Banana Laffy Taffy scented cologne permeating the passenger cabin. When I sat down on my galaxy-patterned seat and cracked down the window, the chaperone snapped at me to close it completely to “ensure comfort and security for all passengers,” despite the fact we were all going to be disgorged into Disneyland smelling like gigolos. I was getting bus sick before the bus even moved.

Before the bus hit the road, the driver explained the safety procedure. But Kate was already slumbering on my shoulder. By the time the bus passed the double decker billboard that promoted Jesus Christ’s resurrection and the McDonald's $4.99 Filet-O-Fish combo, I could feel her doze drool soaking through my t-shirt. Instead of playing the travel games I planned, entertainment had been reduced to watching The Emperor’s New Groove on the bus DVD player.

One long hour later, we arrived at The Magic Kingdom. As I eagerly gathered my belongings, my excitement was detained by a stout man sporting Ray-Ban sunglasses and a traffic cone colored vest.

“ATTENTION, GRADUATES! My name is Cruz. I’m just here to lay out a few ground rules. No drugs of any kind. No water bottles. No sunscreen. No makeup products. No jewelry. No nothing! Fifty students have already been arrested today - DO NOT BE ONE! Enjoy your evening and congratulations.”

What a way to welcome us to the “happiest place on earth.” After a few splattering of students sarcastically cheered for Cruz, Kate woke up.

“You’ve awakened from your sleeping spell! Get enough beauty rest?” I joked.

“Ugh, I’m more tired,” she groaned.

We got off the bus and waited in the security check line, with Kate’s heavy head still spraining my shoulder. When we were near the front, my spirits lifted when I saw the sun setting over Sleeping Beauty’s castle. While pulling out my cellphone to take a photo, an army of German shepherd guard dogs sniffed my groin, depriving me of the cheap thrill of finally reaching the front of the line. I placed my purse on the conveyor belt and walked through the body scanner. On the other end, a balding employee rummaged through my bag. He pulled my maxi tampons out of my purse, lifting each one up into the last ray of sun for inspection for everyone to see - including the riders on the top of Space Mountain. Recklessly throwing them back into my purse, he discovered my Pamprin, reacting to the menstrual medication as if he just discovered a concealed bomb.

“I THOUGHT WE MADE IT CLEAR THAT NO DRUGS OF ANY KIND ARE ALLOWED IN THE PARK!” he intoned.

“I’m sorry, this is just for my menstrual cramps - I thought over-the-counter medication was okay,” I said.

“Unless you have a doctor’s note, we don’t make exceptions. If you want to enter the park, I have no choice but to throw this bottle away.”

 Despite the fact that the Magic Kingdom’s security system made LAX feel like a love-in (without the drugs), Kate and I were finally inside the park! Every attraction - even the bathrooms and water fountains - seemed to be covered in glitter and gold.

I called Leah, who was already deep into the park. She told us to meet her in front of Grizzly River Run. When Kate and I spotted someone dressed as Donald Duck in ToonTown, we politely asked where to find this ride. But all the bothered bird offered was his shrugged shoulders. 

I called Leah back, who tried her best to guide me and Kate from ToonTown’s EnginEAR Souvenir Shop. After what seemed like an eternity of aimless wandering, Leah spotted us and screamed out our names from the 3-story tall ceramic grizzly bear. Finally all reunited, we got in line to ride the Grizzly River Run, a whitewater raft ride designed to splash and soak its captive customers.

“This oughta wake you up, Kate!” I exclaimed.

 The line moved at a pleasant clip and Kate decided that Leah’s shoulder pad made a more comfy pillow. Things were looking up. As I absorbed the smell of chlorine and the banjo tunes while edging toward the front of the ride, I felt like an overstimulated seven-year-old at summer camp.

In no time Leah, Kate and I tucked ourselves into our raft and took off. While Leah and I were ducking to avoid getting drenched, we noticed that Kate was fast asleep. Even after we plunged down the 50-foot water slide, Leah didn’t even open her eyes. When we guided her out of the ride, she was so drenched that she looked like she had actually dived into the river.

Leah and I grew increasingly concerned about Kate’s somnolent condition. She couldn’t even walk down the exit staircase without slipping. Leah caught her twice. She was way too young to be the new face of Life Alert.  She assured us she was fine, just unexpected post Covid fatigue.

After we wandered around the park, constantly stopping for Kate, we decided to explore Tarzan’s Treehouse. In the midst of racing down one of the vine-shaped slides, there was an announcement on the loudspeaker that the treehouse attraction was closing and that all visitors had to make their way out. As Leah and I left and scouted out the next ride, we noticed Kate was missing. 

I sprinted up to an employee at the front of Tarzan’s Treehouse, explaining that my friend was possibly lost in the treehouse.

“It’s 8PM which means the attraction is closed - no exceptions,” she brusquely barked without a trace of sympathy. Did none of the Disney employees get the “happiest place on earth” memo?

After practically begging on my knees, the employee reluctantly let me back into the treehouse, but not without threatening to call security if I didn’t return in under a minute. She even set her watch.

Panicking, I sprinted through the treehouse, screaming Kate’s name. I found her slumbering on a tire swing hanging from two plastic trees. She looked like a tranquil toddler in the midst of a delightful dream. But I felt like a pooped parent tugging her tuckered out tot off the playground.

Once Kate made it out, Leah and I knew that she needed to rest somewhere. After suggesting a number of spots, Kate revealed that her cousin was working at the Toy Story Midway Mania ride and insisted that we take her there instead. 

Leah and I agreed. After she was safely put under her cousin’s care, Leah checked the ride wait times app. The popular Radiator Springs Racers only had a thirty-minute line. We raced over.

As we were waiting in line, Leah whispered that someone who looked like a cross between Timothée Chalamet and James Dean was standing right in front of us. The moment I checked him out, a painful spasm in my chest forced out a strange sounding squeak into the ear of “Timothee Dean.” He turned around and stared at me with a mix of compassion and disgust, as if I was Cinderella's mouse perishing in the evil stepmother’s trap.

The spasm was not from the overwhelming sight of the genetically gifted gentleman. I realized that my Panprin had worn off. My entire body began cramping followed by a round of puking that splashed Tomothee Dean’s shoes. Leah flagged down help and before I could say Jiminy Cricket, a Disney employee pushed me into a car and we sped off into an artificial Grand Canyon.

Realizing I hadn’t eaten since noon, I figured that some food in my system might make my cramps more tolerable. After walking past all the closed restaurants, we settled for the only  open place - an “Italian” take-out booth. As we walked up, we found Kate eating a calzone on a table shaped like a slice of pepperoni pizza.

“There you guys are! I was just about to call. Feeling much better.”

Relieved, we headed inside to order our food. After checking the menu - which didn’t include prices - I settled for some Mickey Mouse-shaped pasta topped with cheese sauce. When I picked it up, it looked and smelled like a gas station microwaved meal. To add insult to injury, it cost me my last 20 bucks. After reluctantly paying, my friends and I joined Kate outside.

I only took a few bites of my overpriced pasta, but was already full with regret. It felt like the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad train was speeding through my intestines. I struggled to the nearest bathroom when my internal choo choo took a sharp reverse turn up my throat.

Seeing deconstructed versions of tiny Mickey Mouse heads floating in the toilet bowl was the low point of my night. When I returned to the table, panting and whimpering, Leah called a paramedic. After he checked my blood pressure and heart rate, he concluded that I should rest on a bench until the pain passed. I began shedding tears. Kate stood up from the table and slowly backed away.

“Sorry, but I don’t want to catch whatever you have. I think it would be best if I left,” she mumbled awkwardly.

I was too overcome with pain to contest Kate’s cold farewell. Other than the nausea and cramps, the only thing I could process was Leah, for the first time, losing her temper.

“WE SPENT HOURS AS YOUR PERSONAL CARETAKER AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY US?” Leah shrieked at Kate.

“I want to go home,” I murmured to the paramedic who was packing up his patient assessment kit.  “Please. . .

The paramedic reluctantly offered to drive me to the Disney Emergency Room, where my mom could pick me up. When I agreed and waved goodbye to Leah and Kate, he placed me in a wheelchair, walked through the hidden exit door and guided me into his car. We arrived at the ER.  He checked me in and left.

A nurse with Ariel’s red hair and glimmering ocean eyes walked me down a row of empty waiting rooms, placing me in one at the end of the hallway. As I reclined on the bed, I discovered that her princessy presentation belied her viperfish attitude.

“What's the problem?” she snarked.

“The paramedic said I was fine. But I just threw up and have cramps that make it difficult to move and breathe,” I replied.

“He said you were fine?” she interrogated.

 “Yeah. . .”

“I’m gonna need you to wait out front.” she demanded, already pointing to the exit door.

“But I saw about 20 open rooms. I really need to lie down,” I begged.

“Sorry, company policy,” she replied.

Grad nite ended with me curled up in a fetal position on the front steps of the Disneyland ER. Long live the class of 2022.