Skip Day

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Robb White

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       Senior Skip Day was a blast so far. Teachers took attendance; everybody knew they abetted the swindle and didn’t do anything about reporting absences. The friends sat behind the bleachers vaping or, in Jory’s case, smoking some of his buda stash. Unlike Maddie and Mina, who were joining them later, he wasn’t planning to go to trade school or a college in the fall. For one thing, he didn’t have the grades; for another, he lacked any desire to open another book in his life.

       “My goal is simple,” Jory told them, sucking in a lungful. “I’m going to grow the best weed, sell the best weed, and become the biggest drug dealer this county’s ever seen.”

       His trademark newsboy cap was drawn to his eyebrows—never mind the temperature was expected to hit 80 degrees by noon.

       “Mister Perkins would not call that a laudable goal,” Shawn said, waving away cloud of minty vape smoke. “Pass me that, bro.”

       Vice Principal Perkins was nicknamed “the Centurion” from some long-gone graduating class because he handed out detentions like Romans handing out crucifixions.

       Shawn asked, “Where’s Mina? She didn’t chicken out, did she?”

       Madison Sistrunk and Mina Dunston, the M & M’s, were an odd pair of best friends. Maddy made achieving what was called “Gentleman’s C’s” into an art form in her CTE courses, climaxing with a “perfect” 3.00 average, whereas Mina was class salutatorian with a 4.08 average in college prep.

       “She’s still pissed goofy Siefert kid nailed the top spot by a hundredth of a point,” Jory said.

He believed a minute spent on an academic subject was a minute wasted. Worse now, a buzzkill. Jory claimed with some accuracy he had never finished a single book in four years of high school. No one disputed that claim.  

       The four were “the Mavericks,” known for bucking the stereotypes of cliques—jocks, nerds, stoners, goths, preppies—owing to their personalities and backgrounds. Maddy was adopted out of the foster-care system by two gay women. Jory was raised by a single mother who fled from one abusive male to another. Mina’s father was a financial advisor with Edward Jones, her mother a Yale Ph.D. graduate in anthropology. Shawn’s parents were devout Catholics who owned a family restaurant in town. He was in a sour mood because he had to work bussing tables after commencement.  

       Mina came racing up, breathless. Maddy handed her the roach. “Where were you, girl?”

       “They want me to do a solo,” she said after her taking her “token toke,” as they called it. It always brought tears and a coughing jag. She did it anyway.

       “I had to get sheet music,” she complained. “They want me to do DeBussy’s Syrinx. Do they even know how complicated that is for a solo flautist?”

       “No,” Jory said, his face wrinkling in mock horror. “Do tell.”

       “What are you doing?”

       “Like, Maddy, you’d know,” Shawn said, laughing at her question. “Unless it was the theme song to Family Feud or Never Have I Ever.”

       “Leave her alone,” Maddy said.

       “I talked the committee into letting me do Honeger’s Danse de la chevré. Much, much easier, thank God.”

       “Okay,” Jory said. “Enough bool-shit about school. We’re done with that bitch forever! Yee-haw, motherfuckers, we’re free! Free!”

       “Say it a little louder, dumbass,”  Maddie snapped. “Maybe the whole school will hear you.”

       “I need to know where we’re going and what we’re doing tonight, so I can start working on my parents. God-damn, I should have stuck to my vape pipe. I can’t walk.”

       “Barbecue, beer, and bonfire,” Mina said. “Word’s all around by now. Siefert’s father’s springing for it at McDuffie’s. All because his kid’s valedictorian.”

       Her Pollyanna personality sometimes irritated them, even Maddie, who fought real depression with prescription meds. The bitterness in Mina’s voice was plain.

       “You gave it the old college try, Mina,” Shawn said. “Nothing to be ashamed of, girl. Look at Jory. His diploma’s gonna be blank like one of those ‘Social Promotion’ diplomas for showing up every other week.”

       They laughed, including Jory. “As long as I can do the math for my weed sales and read a scale, who gives a shit?”

       “Oh hell, yeah,” Shawn said, jumping up, despite his claim. “Steak flambeau, oh man! I’m down for that, homes. Gimme some of that tasty meat with a dash of Sweet Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce!”

* * *

      McDuffie’s had been a campground back in the 1950’s before it failed. A farmer tried growing corn but went bankrupt. A land developer came in back in the late-80’s boom, thinking he’d get rich building tract housing, but his pipe dream went up in smoke right after the cement for the foundations was poured. All the concrete squares and rectangles were now bordered by dockweed and sumac and slathered with graffiti, much of it from the current partygoers, happy to be celebrating their freedom for the summer. Lots of tributes to Kurt Cobain in orange Day-Glo spray paint. Although weekend bonfires weren’t unusual at the place, the fact that most of their classmates were there was.

       “Look at them,” Maddy groused. The friends felt as though their special place had been invaded by outsiders. “Same old cliques as in the hallways. Fuckwads. I’m surprised the Jones twins, Alicia and her crew, and them guys, aren’t all in their slutty uniforms showing off their pussies.”

       “Speak for yourself,” Shawn said. “I’m down with the vertical smile every day of the week!”

       “The what?” Jory said, laughing.

        “My God, grow up, you two,” Maddy said. “Giggling away like Beavis and Butthead.”

       The core of the night’s gathering were the cheerleaders and athletes, who rarely moved from their chosen spots. They laughed and joked among themselves, anchored in place like bees around a hive. The queen being prom queen and king the football star, destined for the state university on a full-ride scholarship. The less valued groups orbited around them, eager to be close to glory. It was as though they knew they were destined from birth to attend good colleges, wind up in high-paying careers, and create happy families. The fact that half of them came from divorced homes and the twins’ mother committed suicide by overdosing didn’t disturb that certainty.

       “Sour grapes, Maddy,” Shawn said.

       He had arrived early, ate and drank often, and was, as he said several times, “feeling no pain.”

       “I can’t believe the cops are allowing this,” Mina said. “There’s underage drinking all over the place.”

       “Freddie’s dad paid them off,” Jory said. “Money talks, bullshit walks. I’ll be putting half the police force on my payroll in five years.”

       “Oh, right,” Shawn said. “I forgot. Is that before or after you trade in your Lambo for a Rolls?”

Cops were aware of McDuffie’s as a hot spot, but as long as the trouble didn’t get out of hand, they’d patrol it, beam a high-intensity alley light on the smoking and boozing, then watch them scatter like fish, laugh, and drive off.

       Freddie’s father was considered one of the “cool adults.” There were rumors that said his wife had cheated on him and Freddie Jr. was not his biological son. Freddie was a loner, his academic devotion was legendary. Mina was the genius with her natural talent in music and math. But Freddie made up for it with fanatical diligence and  non-stop studying. He was in the library or he was in his room, teaching himself linear algebra, which the school didn’t offer. The few times he was approached and asked to join a club or engage in a social activity, he mumbled shyly and walked away.

       Freddie Siefert, Sr. was the opposite of his son. A professional gambler and oft-failed businessman, rumor said he was involved in shady enterprises. A notorious womanizer, Freddie’s dad divorced Freddie’s mom when he was a baby. Siefert went through a string of girlfriends, and often married women, causing scandals and divorces in his wake. Shawn said that the “flamboyant gene” in Freddie’s dad wasn’t passed along to the son’s DNA.

       When the announcement came over the loudspeaker in the morning that he had the highest g.p.a. and was named valedictorian, Tommy Blake, all-city linebacker, turned around in his desk and shot Freddie the finger. In seconds, the entire room booed him and did the same until their homeroom teacher smacked her desk top with a ruler to bring silence.

       “Why is he even here?” Maddy asked them. “No one likes him, the freak.”

       “I feel kinda sorry for him,” Mina said.  

       “Whoa, what?” Jory said, miming a double-take. “Two minutes ago, you wanted to kill him for taking your spot!”

       “I don’t care,” she said. “I’m going over to talk to him. He looks so sad.”

       “Mina!” Maddie exclaimed. “Don’t waste your time with that loser.”

       “There she goes,” Shawn said. “Two brainiacs coming together after their bitter rivalry. They’ll fall in love, have babies with IQ’s bigger than Elon Musk, and live happily ever after.”

       They all watched to see what Freddie’s reaction would be. Mina and Freddie stood apart from the others talking. After a few minutes, she returned. Her face had that worried look the others recognized when she encountered a difficult math problem in calculus.

       “Something’s wrong,” she said. “Freddie’s really depressed, you guys.”

       “Tough titty,” Jory said. “That guy needs to get a life. School’s all he knows, the loser.”

        Freddie’s father and a former alum, now a bartender at a tavern in town, did all the cooking. They kept three grills going at the same time with hot dogs, burgers, and his famous flank steaks, which he was known to serve to friends and neighbors from time to time right from the grill on the balcony of his high-rise condo. The savory aroma of barbecued meat jostled and mixed with the heady smell of marijuana the moment they arrived at the gathering.

        Besides the contraband liquor and beer kegs everyone knew were located on tables hidden behind the last concrete slab, Shawn had enjoyed several “steak flambeau” by that point, skipping among them with a flaming steak at the end of his fork. Every time he disappeared and returned, he had a beer can in his fist and another steak on a paper plate.

       “I’m taking about six of these home for my dog,” he said.

       “What dog, liar?” Maddie said. “Those are for you.”

       “Tastes great hot or cold, yum-yum,”

        Maddy suddenly noticed Mina and Freddie engaged in an intense conversation.

        “Hey, guys, what’s up with Mina and Freddie?”

       Mina left him abruptly, came trotting over. She said, “Freddie told me something strange . . . not to eat the meat.”

       “Not to eat the meat, he said?” Jory exclaimed. “What the fuck’s that mean?”

       “What’s wrong with the meat?” Shawn asked. He looked worried.

       “I don’t know exactly,” Mina said, the wrinkled brow returning. “Freddie’s miserable. He said his dad went nutso when he caught his girlfriend cheating on him.”

       “Cheating on him?” Jory said.

       “Stop clucking, dumbass,” Shawn said. “Mina, explain yourself. Am I eating poisoned meat?”

       “No . . . I don’t . . . think so.”

        “Jesus ever-lovin’ fuckin’ Christ!” Shawn boomed, spitting out a wad of chewed meat and tossing the remainder of his steak onto the ground. Being raised by devout parents did nothing to quash their son’s profane vocabulary. “I’m going to find out what the fuck’s going on.”

Shawn never played sports, yet jocks never messed with him. He had a temper and was known as a streetfighter. He almost took out a kid’s eye with his thumb when he got into a nasty brawl with  boys from a rival school in his sophomore year.

       They watched him head toward Freddie, still in the same spot, nervously fidgeting with his hands, looking on at the clusters of classmates who’d never greeted him in four years. The three had amused looks on their faces.

       Shawn leaned in toward Freddie, who staggered backward as though slapped. Shawn’s animated gestures were obvious from a distance. At one point, he had Freddie by the shirt front and was shaking him like a terrier with a muskrat. Suddenly, he released him. Shawn stepped back as though Freddie had slapped him. His face drained of color.

       Shawn came back to his friends. Instead of stopping to talk, he strode past with a faraway look in his eyes.

       “What the hell, bro,” Jory called out, chasing him and grabbing his arm to stop him. Shawn shook him off and trotted away, his gait an awkward zigzag across the empty lot.

        Jory came back to them, his face showing his confusion.

        “He looked like a zombie,” Maddy said. “What’s wrong, Jory?”

        “I dunno,” he said. “He just told me the number of eating disorders was about to skyrocket in this town.”

        “What’s that supposed to mean?” Maddy said, looking around.

        The party wasn’t the same, although gossip said it went on until dawn. Shawn’s abrupt leave-taking left a stench in the air. The friends went home early. The texted one another but no one had heard back from Shawn.

* * *

         When the Herald-Tribune sent a reporter to the address of the Siefert condo, news vans with whip aerials and station call letters on the vans were already speeding east on Interstate 90 and north on I-71 out of Columbus. They crowded the space in front of Freddie’s condo. He refused to come outside to be interviewed. They stood on his lawn and did “live” segments until the SWAT commander grew impatient with the “circus” and led his men inside.

         Reporters and hordes of onlookers stood behind the crime-scene tape watching the condo and waiting with ghoulish tension for sounds of gun fire, but nothing happened. SWAT left, then detectives entered with their team of forensic specialists. It seemed to take a long time. Curiosity among the crowd was building. People aimed their smart phones at the house and checked the internet for gossip. Journalists tried to get background cover on the family, sticking a microphone in anyone’s face willing to say something.

        A pair of SWAT cops escorted Fred Siefert out of the house. When he resisted, they put him down on the front lawn, cuffed him, and put him in the back of a cruiser. He was babbling incoherently, screaming at the crowd, laughing hysterically, and saying he had “plenty of steak flambeau for everyone!”

Freddie watched his father staring at the plexiglass divider, grinning from ear to ear, his mouth moving in more crazy talk.

           If it weren’t for a rookie cop stumbling out of the condo to vomit off the front stoop, it would have seemed unworthy of all the news attention.  Men were hauled off to jail every day in Northtown for offenses and bench warrants.

           The news reports were variations of one another the following day when the secret tip that brought the news vans flying up the interstates broke. The Tribune’s, being the first on scene, wasn’t even the most salacious: “Father Kills, Skins, and Cooks Live-in Girlfriend for Son’s Graduation Barbecue.”

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       Robb White lives in Northeastern Ohio. A Derringer-nominated author of genre fiction, he has three series detectives. The Russian Heist (2019) was selected Best Novel in Thriller Magazine’s competition. Betray Me Not was selected for distinction by the Independent Fiction Alliance in 2022. His recent publications include a collection of noir tales: Fade to Black: Noir Stories of Grifters, Drifters, and Unlovable Losers (2024), a suspense thriller, Jersey Girl (2025), and a crime novella, Easy Money (2025). 

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Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.