Spring of '93. Graduation was close enough to taste. The warm and inviting sun poured through the car windows as my buddies and I returned from lunch, the pulse of Metallica blaring from the stereo. It felt nothing short of a sin to return to the grim classroom's confinements after enduring yet another relentless Iowa winter.

My next class was American Lit. Sam had the same class earlier that day and told me there was a sub — a rare stroke of luck this close to summer. He also had insider knowledge. Sam was a door runner, one of those kids who, instead of sitting through study hall, made rounds fifteen minutes after the bell to collect every classroom’s paper attendance slip. In 1993, paper ruled the system — flimsy, hand-written proof that a kid was or wasn’t in class. The slips hung from a metal clip on the inside of each door, waiting to be snatched by whoever opened it first. Sometimes they got lost, sometimes “lost.” And on a bright day like this, the difference didn’t matter.

Sam leaned against the car, eyes squinting in the sun. “Steal the attendance sheet,” he said, half-dare, half-grin.

He laid out the routine — wait eight to ten minutes, slip inside before the official runner, grab the sheet, and the day was mine. He’d be in the car, ready to roll the second I came back out.

When the bell rang, I hesitated just long enough to make backing out impossible. If I walked in now, I’d be tardy. Eight minutes after the bell, I pulled open the school door, climbed the stairs two at a time, and eased into the second-floor hallway toward American Lit.

I cracked the door just enough to reach for the clip — and nothing was there. My hand closed on air. My heart jumped into my throat. The substitute must have forgotten to take attendance altogether.

I couldn’t just stand there; someone would spot me. Sam was outside waiting, and my only way out was through. I pushed the door open wider and walked straight in.

As expected, the slip was nowhere to be found. Stepping into the room, I walked directly to the substitute teacher. I requested the slip with the unshakable confidence of a high-stakes gambler despite the collective chuckles that greeted my audacity.

I shot a pleading glance at my classmates, silently urging their complicity. The substitute teacher continued his attendance ritual, and laughter swept through the room when my name was called. I watched my classmates as the roll call dragged to an end. When it finished, I turned and walked confidently toward the door as the chuckles continued, my hand closing around the attendance slip and crumpling it into my pocket, praying I wouldn’t run into the official runner on the way out.

I took the stairs two at a time and burst through the front doors into the sunlight. Sam was already behind the wheel, engine idling, stereo still thumping. I got in, and we pulled away before the official door runner ever reached our hall.

The attendance slip never made it to the office.

No one stopped me.

No one questioned it.

The system never noticed it was missing.