Never Trust A G.P.S.
Okay, so here’s how it happened. My friend Lacey and I were supposed to be going to a baby shower. It doesn’t sound too spectacular, does it? Well, this was definitely more than your average party; it was my future nephew’s.
“I think we’re lost,” I admitted while surveying my unknown surroundings.
“No we’re not,” Lacey scoffed. “We have a G.P.S!”
“You always blame the G.P.S. That excuse stopped working two years ago when you blamed it for making you leave the house without cleaning your room.”
“Okay, that was totally not my fault! I can’t help that I’m forgetful…”
“Well, you need more excuses. The one’s you use never work! It’s like your plan to eat as many carrots a day as you can so you can turn orange. What excuse will you use to convince your mom that that’s an accident?” Sadly, my friend ignored my remark, and stubbornly wouldn’t let go of her over-used excuse.
My fingers gripped the steering wheel nervously as I tried to find the right location. The rarely trustworthy device on the dashboard dinged, informing us that we had reached our destination.
Causing my stomach to clench uneasily, the brick building had no sign in front of it. Rows of cars lined the entrance. And, to my dismay, a hearse was parked in the far right corner of the lot.
“Lacey?” I gulped. “We’re definitely not at the right place.”
“ Of course we are!” she chirped while placing her blue sunglasses that read “It’s a boy!” on the lenses over her eyes. “We have the G.P.S., remember?”
How could I forget? I silently lectured myself. Not knowing what else to do, I opened the car door and stepped out. Lacey was excitedly fidgeting with her bag, pulling out a baby blue kazoo, ready to make her grand entrance.
“I really think this is the wrong place,” I once again warned.
“Chill,” she urged, placing a balloon in my hand.
“But-“ I began, only to be cut off by Lacey sprinting off towards the doors. Slowly following her lead, I noticed that the only people I saw were dressed in black. Waiting anxiously by the door, Lacey tapped her feet and stared at me with an outraged expression.
“C’mon, granny, move it!” she yelled. Rolling my eyes, I strolled through the door after the hyperactive girl. When we entered the building, I took in the sight of old people surrounding what looked like a large box at the end of the room.
“It’s a boy!” Lacey exclaimed, claiming the attention of the senior citizens. As she began blowing her kazoo, I began giving apologetic glances to the guests of the funeral. Pulling on Lacey’s arm, I dragged her out of the room.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“We’re not at the shower, we’re at a funeral home!”
***
“That was totally awesome!” Lacey declared as we sat on the bench facing the front desk, awaiting our parents’ arrival.
“We got arrested,” I argued.
“So?”
“So? So? I don't know if you noticed this by now, but we just got arrested! I don’t know about you, but having to be escorted out of a funeral home isn’t exactly what I would call a good time.”
Lacey then, ignoring my attitude, continued to reminisce on they day’s events. This was the day that Lacey and I became known as the funeral crashers. The moral of the fiasco? Never, ever, trust a G.P.S.
