When navigating your way through the teenage years as a single mom with a son, do NOT read the book, Columbine. Flash picked it up out of curiosity at the dollar store (what better way to spend a buck?) and after he finished, I gave it a read.
Yeah. Bad idea.
As if I wasn't terrified enough about not getting this push-pull, be-involved-but-not-overly-involved, how many questions are enough but not too many, do I really know my kid relationship just right already. Then you pick up a book about two boys who plotted to blow up their high school and successfully killed 13 before killing themselves, and you find out how many similarities your own child has with the lead killer.
As I would read before bed each night, I would holler down to Flash, "Hey, you're not making pipe bombs in the basement, are you?" to try to laugh off how disturbing this book was.
"Nah. I've been making them in my closet." He'd reply.
"And the napalm?"
"I'm having the same problems that Eric had, but I think I have it mostly figured out now."
Ah, yes. The comforting banter of a teenager.
It's all funny until you realize the killer had similar conversations, dropping hints and flat out telling details of his plan but no one took him seriously.
Pardon me, but I think I'm going to go search Flash's closet. Anyone know what napalm looks like?