The first time I remember cutting school was in the third grade. It was innocent. The regular teachers were on strike and our substitute was a bitch. My sister and I were on our way to school talking about how much we hated our teacher and we decided not to go. We hid in our backyard all day.
And that was how it began. At the time I didn't think anything of it. But by Junior High, cutting school had become cool. The campus was closed for lunch, but we had other ideas. It became a sport. We would come to school just so we could cut. There was this security
Sometimes he'd be waiting for us at our favorite hang outs and we'd walk back to school shootin' the shit. At one point, the administration was getting mad at him because of all the cutting going on. So he bribed us to stay with pot brownies. We were in fucking sixth grade!
By eighth grade it was all about forging the absent pass. Bring a fake note that you had written to get an official pass from the vice principal. The highest prank was switching the official parent signature file with one of your own. That way it would be foolproof. However, it all came back to me by the end of Junior High when I was'nt allowed to graduate on stage. I had to leave a week early from school. I had beat the system with tremendous style.
Then came high school. Cutting at the beginning was too easy - I got kicked out of class almost daily. Whenever I got "sent to the principal" it was a free pass to go up to the store for the rest of the period. Cutting was easier because there was more bureaucracy at the high school level - they overlooked the masses. It was up to the individual teachers to enforce the absentee rules. This made it real easy to cut most classes.
But there's always gotta be that dick. Just when your enjoying a beer lunch and it's almost sixth period, you remember Winkley. How come the asshole teachers are always fat, slovenly pigs? It's a rule. The dreaded Mr. Winkley was the only fucking teacher in school to
"Remember, 6 absences or one unexcused absence and you receive an automatic F."
"How come? No other teachers have that."
"I know," he'd say with a grin.
Always looked like the motherfucker was drooling, too.
And that was all the challenge we needed. You could easily sign your own pass that you got from someone who worked in the office. Here's the thing, though. You'd be in The Canyon getting high and look through the bushes to see what was going on at school and Winkley would somehow walk by in the distance and catch your eye. I wish I could get instantly sober like that when I really wanted to.
I had the hooks, though. I had a teacher named Lilleth. He was a drunk old bastard who taught--more like kicked--photography. You didn't need to show up but once a week and say hi. He'd smile, ask if you met any pretty girls, and then lose all train of thought. We'd straight up tell him we were leaving, and he'd be down. So, of course, his was the only class we actually attended.
This story is very, very unfinished. Critique away!
