High School Reunion

A couple of weeks ago, I went back to my hometown for my 10-year high school reunion. In all honesty, I am the type who watched Romy and Michele way too much when it came out and developed an over-the-top dramatic view of what a high school reunion should be.

I graduated with a grand total of 34 people, and went to school since kindergarten with 16 of them. We started with a tour of the “new” school. I say new, but it’s actually been there for nine years. We were the last class to use the old building, and it was torn down three days after we graduated.

We then went and had dinner. One guy from our class is now a chef at Flip Burger, so he cooked the meal. It was delicious. After eating, we all recounted stories of what happened back in the day.

Back in high school, I was painfully shy, but had a few close-knit friends. Whenever someone asks me about high school, two stories in particular always stand out. They both involve donuts. Lots of Krispy Kreme Donuts.

One time for cheerleading, I had to sell donuts to raise money for camp. It was my first year as a cheerleader, and I wasn’t particularly close to anyone on the squad yet. So, I recruited my friend Angela to help. We drove all over in my Mustang, going to neighborhoods and businesses. We knocked on one door and a man creaked it barely open. “Yes?” he asked.

“Yes, I am a cheerleader at Blankity Blank High School and I’m selling donuts…,” blah blah blah spiel.

The man: “I don’t have on any pants.”

Being the 17-year olds we were, we said thank you and then shot out of there like a speeding bullet. He wasn’t trying to be a creep at all; he’d just gotten out of the shower. It sure was funny at the time though.

The second story also involves donuts, except this time we were selling donuts for the student council. My cheerleading coach was also the student council advisor, hence the multi-functional sales route.

The one is about another friend, who shall be unnamed for story purposes. It’s a really embarrassing story.

We were bound and determined to sell the damn donuts, so we took my Mustang out into some “rougher” areas of city. I am still not sure why the school apparently thought it was just fine to send out helpless teenage girls to solicit, but I digress.

We saw a man in his yard and pulled the car right up to him, about 100 yards or so from the road. “You wanna buy some donuts? Donuts!?”

“Okay, four boxes.”


My friend handed me four boxes from the backseat, and I handed them out the window to the man. Since the area was “rough,” I had my foot ready to rip and roll and soon as I got his money.

He dug around in his pocket for what seemed like forever. At four dollars a box, he owed me a good 16 dollars.

It was all I could do to focus on getting his money before jolting out of there like a bat on wheels.

He finally handed the cash and I slammed my foot onto the accelerator so hard the dirt and gravel from his driveway slung everywhere. I didn’t care if he gave me correct change or if he even gave me enough. I made it half way to the highway when I look over at my friend, who is laughing so hard she’s in hysterics. I looked in the rearview mirror, and donuts were flying everywhere.

He had set his four boxes on top of the car.

I had to turn around, pull myself together, and creep slowly back down the driveway to apologize. We gave him three new boxes – one of them had been on the roof of my car the entire time, so we figured it had to at least be good.

I looked over at my friend again, who was sitting there in a puddle, unable to contain herself from the hysterics of what had just happened.


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