caught!

I was burrowing pleasantly in my room amid the books and journals, but couldn't help feeling rather wistful every time I received a new and increasingly illegible text message. Bonne and company had clearly had a grand time at the game and were now carousing through nearby neighborhoods in search of new bars. At around 12:30, I got a call that indicated they had given up the pursuit.

 "We're outside with a bottle of tequila!" She slurred. "Come down!" 

The phone was then passed from person to person, with each informing me in their own inebriated way the top five reasons why I should join them, despite my protests that I was in my pajamas and really quite ready for bed. I hung up feeling secretly excited to have a little nip of debauchery after all, and I ran to the kitchen to prepare a concoction that would quickly catch me up. With a water bottle filled with 98% vodka, I trotted downstairs to join the revelers, who were putting the neighborhood playground to good use. Garrett and Steph were on the seesaw, Mo and the tequila were on the slide, and Bonne and Andrew were taking turns pushing each other on the swings. I jumped aboard the other swing and we all had a good hour of so of silly talk and shenanigans before everyone went their separate ways. 

By that time I was decidedly tipsy, and hungry, of course, and Bonne and I headed straight for the kitchen once we climbed the stairs. In the refrigerator we found a sublime sight; a pan full of delicious empanada. The crust of a pizza encircling chorizo sausage, garlic, tomato.... within seconds we had it on the table and were pulling out large sections with our hands, me squirting ketchup on each piece on its way to my mouth. It was like something out of a Heironymus Bosch painting. I was just about to break out the Principe cookies to add to the glory when I heard a sound that was neither chewing nor the ripping of empanada. 

It was a bedroom door opening. 

I looked at Bonne to see if she had heard it too. She had stopped chewing and was looking rather pale, and only got more so once we heard another creak. We sat silent as mice, praying that Senora was only on her way to the bathroom, that she would not notice the light that was on in the kitchen. I was about to tip-toe across the tile to turn it off, but I was too late. The door swung open,  and there was Chiqui in her long white nightgown, looming like the Angel of Death. 

She surveyed the scene. There were pieces of empanada all over the table, and on the floor. Bonne had some in her hair. I had ketchup on my hands. There was a tortuously long pause, then, 

“Ohh!” Senora cried.

We cringed.

“Ohhh!” Senora said. Her nightgown billowed behind her as she stalked toward the table, yanking the half-empty empanada dish out of our reach.

“Ninas,” she clucked as she deposited the plate in the oven and switched on the heat. “Que horror. How could you waste this food by eating it cold?!”