An ominous thump signaled the closing of the trunk above me, encasing me in darkness and an ear-splitting silence. My legs searched into the dark for a more comfortable position, careful not to disturb my cousin Danielle or my little sister, who both lay next to me in the trunk. My body rocks forward with the motion of the car, and I wonder where we are. Sensing that an onslaught of little-kid questions is coming, Danielle preempts me: “We need to stay quiet,” she whispers. “No one can know we’re in here.” I am lying on my side—a position that makes it awkward to brace myself against the turning and braking of the car. Careful not to take any superfluous breaths, I am just about to panic about the lack of air when I hear muffled voices in a negotiation at the front of the car. We all hold our breath, our faces lit by the dim red glow of the brake lights while we wait. Then, the car picks up speed for a few moments before stopping again. After a small “pop,” the trunk flies open and another cousin is staring down at me, giving me directions. “Hurry up. Get in the car.” I jump up out of the trunk and run swiftly to the back seat. Danielle and my sister cram in next to me as we take off. We turn one final corner at the end of the field, and it is as if we have been transported to another world. The car shifts into park, and I take in the glory around me. My sister looks at me excitedly: “Our first drive-in movie!”
I was ten years old on my annual summer visit with my grandma, five hours away from home. All my older cousins lived nearby, and one warm July night they asked me and my sister to go to the drive-in movie theater with them. We’d never been to a drive-in and didn’t know what to expect, but we agreed immediately. When you’re little, your older cousins occupy an untouchable space—no one is as cool and interesting as they are. Being included in their plans grants legitimacy to your existence that can’t be found anywhere else. My cousins gathered a bunch of us to go and planned to split us among two cars. They explained their tried-and-true strategy for saving money on all the tickets: They’d pull over just before the ticket booth and hide half the group in the trunk. There was a little field past the ticket stand, and before the outdoor theater that was a perfect spot to set the stowaways free. This sounded like a risky plan—and I was a highly risk averse child—but I was so caught up in their enthusiasm that I volunteered to get in one of their trunks. My sister agreed with no hesitation, and the deal was done. My cousins all drove yacht-sized Oldsmobiles that had been handed down by their parents, and three bodies would fit easily into those cavernous trunks. (We probably had room in there for a few pontoon boats if we really pushed it.) Before we left, our cousins told us there was one hard rule for riding in the trunk: “No farting.”
Their plan worked like a charm; we got our whole group in without incident, and we all took our places to watch the movie. Some stayed in the car, some sat on the hood, and some lay on the ground on a blanket. I chose my perch on the roof of the car, a spot that I felt honored the anarchy of the whole experience. It wasn’t too long before the mosquitoes started their attack, and I was forced to move back inside the car. I was okay with the change in location, though, because inside the car I had my pick of the many snacks that we packed for the trip. We were there to see a Keanu Reeves double feature that went late into the night. They weren’t the type of movies I’d watch at home, which added to their intrigue; I was transfixed. I also remember the little details about the evening: the novelty of hearing the movie’s dialogue through the car radio; the dampness of the air on my face as it got late and the temperature dropped; I felt so grown up as I stayed out past my bedtime to see the second movie, with only my (very lenient) older cousins as official chaperones. I knew for sure that none of the other kids in my class were having a summer like the one I was having. Most of them stayed at home to do pedestrian things, like day camp or local playgrounds. Meanwhile, I was rolling with my cousins, hiding in trunks, and running a swindle job on unsuspecting ticket takers. It was everything summer break should be for a kid: loosened routines, new experiences, and a dabble of rebellion.
That inaugural trip to the drive-in was also everything that a movie-going experience should be—heavy handed on all the magic. Whether you’re in an open field or a dark theater, the suspense of what comes next should hook you into your seat. The chance to participate in a life different from your own should keep you curious about humanity. Movies can just be entertainment, but they also display the power of storytelling and all the connections that make us alike. In a perfect scenario, the people you go to the movies with will add to the excitement so that the ritual of going is a movie unto itself. That’s how it was that late night at the drive-in with my cousins. I have seen thousands of movies since, but none were as memorable as the night I landed in the trunk.
This article originally appeared in the November/December 2025 issue of (585).
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