For Thursday, October 9, 1997 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 728 words

My first prep period

I've been telling stories lately about my high school hi-jinx. They're mild compared to some of today's escapades, but schools were strict in my town and getting away with anything was both a terror and a treat.

At the start of my junior year I injured my knee. It filled with water and hurt a bit. The doctor told me to skip PE for the rest of the year. I gave Coach Mundock my drop slip and checked out. I was supposed to go to the cafeteria and sign up for study hall that hour. I didn't.

As a result, for one hour each day I was unscheduled. I was on nobody's roll. I could go anywhere, do anything. I only told a few friends because I didn't want anyone to get jealous and snitch on me.

The first problem I faced was that I could not be seen anywhere during that hour. A teacher might ask me where I was supposed to be. I had to hide. That introduced the second problem. Few places existed.

My school was in one big square doughnut-shaped building, surrounded by open fields and plenty of windows. To attempt a daily escape would be fool-hearty. For a month I hid behind the stairs. I sat on the floor and just sat there. The hour ticked by. When the bell rang, I slipped in with the crowd and went to art class.

Eventually, I discovered that a nearby house had gone vacant. It had a nice back porch facing away from the school. I became fool-hearty. Each day I'd risk a serpentine dash through the parking lot, ducking behind cars and trees. I would then sit on the back porch swing and enjoy the out-of-doors.

In time this porch became a popular cut site. I'd show up to find several students already in the best seats. It wasn't too many weeks before Principal Donovan moseyed around the corner one day and rounded us all up. I was eating an apple. He took a bite, and said, "All you boys have detention." He turned, hooking his finger over his shoulder for us to follow him, and walked us down to the office. While signing up for detention, the bell rang for art class. No one ever asked me what class I'd missed. I dutifully served my detention.

The snow began to fall. I had to find an indoor hide-away. And I did. I made a glorious discovery. One day my English class was using the auditorium. I found a trap door behind the stage that led downward. The next day, during my free time, I returned and climbed down a ladder to a dirt floor. I was underneath the school.

Several trails lead off to different corners of the building. Strings of weak light bulbs hung over each trail. I followed them all. At the far end I discovered another ladder leading to a narrow door. I opened it a crack. It led directly out into the hall, not far from the stairs where I once sat.

I'd seen that door many times before. I'd always though it led to a janitor's closet.

The inside doorknob had a lock button. I unlocked it, and that door became my best friend. I'd be walking down the hall, slowly, waiting for the coast to clear, and then, whoosh, I was gone. I'd wander around under the classrooms for an hour, then pop up on the other side of campus.

Of course, this discovery was too good to keep a secret. I showed a few friends in my English class. One night at play practice, we tried to play head games with Mr. Olson, our teacher. We'd walk past him, go back stage, race through the underground, back down the hall, and then walk past him again. The first time we did it, he was puzzled and we had a good laugh. The eighth time we did it, he found the trap door. The next day it had a lock, and the far door was locked, too.

In the spring I confessed to Mr. Schull, my art teacher, that I had no class for an hour. I asked if I could stay in the art room and work. He said, "Sure." He covered for me, and I finished out my year making extra jewelry and oil paintings.