That fall, I picked up again with drama and debate. My favorite high school memories center around our speech contests. Sometimes we would travel for competitions, and have to stay in dorm rooms or something similar overnight. We would pull all sorts of crazy antics when we were on the road.
Nick Baumgart, as always, kept us laughing. One time we were hanging out in our rooms during a competition. There were two beds in the room, and a couple of guys were jumping from one bed to the other, trying to do tricks in mid-air. Nick, not wanting to be outdone, got in on the action. “I'm going to do it,” he said, “and not only that, I'm going to do a somersault!”
So Nick took a flying leap and started spinning. Unfortunately for him, he was a little too enthusiastic, and he hit the ceiling. With his face. It was one of those stucco ceilings, with all of the little points and rough edges; this little shower of tiny stucco pieces came down, and so did Nick. His face looked kind of interesting for a while after that.
Debate competition was becoming better for me each year. My skills were improving, I liked the people I was working with, and by senior year, I was ready to make a run at Nationals. Seniors pair up with freshmen in the debate program each year, to mentor them; I mentored a new kid in the program named Daniel Mauser. He was a smart kid, and I liked him immediately, so I told him what I could.
In theatre, too, I felt at home. The first play of our senior year was Frankenstein, and I won the role of Frankenstein's monster. The play Frankenstein isn't anything like the old Boris Karloff movie, with the giant mumbling monster who lurches around with corks coming out of his neck. The stage version of Frankenstein is much more loyal to the book's theme of society fearing what it doesn't understand. Frankenstein's monster is a deep, troubled creature who was created by a scientist, then dismissed as an abomination. From there, he wanders alone, labeled as a “freak” by the rest of society and rejected by everyone who sees him. The cruelty eventually leads the monster to seek revenge.
I dove into that role with enthusiasm.
Dylan got himself onto the sound crew for Frankenstein. It was the first time I'd really spent any time with him since he'd pointed me toward Eric's Web pages. I had calmed down over the whole mess during the summer, but I still wasn't talking to Dylan until the first day of Frankenstein rehearsals in September.
That day, the ice between us broke. We didn't ever mention Eric's Web site; we just started talking again, as if we had silently accepted that the past was the past. That night we went out for coffee at the nearby Perkins.
There were a few things about Dylan that had changed. He'd grown his hair out a lot longer, and he had much more of a “grunge” look to his clothing. Beyond his physical appearance, though, he seemed like the same old Dylan.
He and I started hanging out again during those weeks of play rehearsal. It became a habit to grab a soda or a coffee somewhere and just sit down and talk about things. Sometimes we talked about school. Other times we talked about music. Dylan would tell me about how great Rammstein and KMFDM were, and I'd fire back with a spirited defense of Insane Clown Posse. Dylan was into very dark, fuck-the-world kinds of music. It wasn't my thing, but we had some great conversations regardless.
Dylan told me he was thinking about applying to the University of Arizona to study computer design. He sounded like he was making plans for his future. I encouraged him.
One time we spent the whole night reminiscing about the old video games we used to play. We laughed about the first time we'd played Mortal Kombat in front of our moms. Dylan recalled that Ninja Gaiden was the very first Nintendo game we'd ever played together back in grade school.
We loved talking about old times. We knew we would never again be as close as we'd been in those grade school days; he and I were different people now, with our own interests and groups of friends. Still, we had a long history with each other, and those nights after rehearsal—sitting at Perkins with a cigarette and a couple of Cokes, talking about the way things used to be—made for great times.
The seniors in our theatre troupe decided to produce a special video for Frankenstein. Not only was it a farewell project for the drama students, it was a farewell to Mrs. Caruthers, who had been one of our favorite teachers over the past four years.
For the first part of the tape, we did interviews with the cast and crew about their favorite memories of Mrs. Caruthers. We then added in footage from rehearsal, along with scenes from the movie Young Frankenstein.
Dylan, Zach Heckler and I were the three people who did “commentary” for the tape.
The three of us sat down in the front row of the Columbine auditorium and set the camera down on the stage. Our job was to review all of the people in the Frankenstein program and offer both compliments and “inside jokes” that only those involved in the department would understand. Later we would intercut this footage with scenes from Young Frankenstein and show the finished version to other people in the drama club.
It was a lot of fun to make, and the camera caught a few moments of Dylan coming out of his quiet shell. We went backwards through the program, reading each name and offering a few observations. The first name Zach read off was Principal DeAngelis.
Dylan leaned in toward the camera. “Ha ha ha,” he said.
The three of us roasted each other as much as we could. Dylan, who had sat quietly through some of the early jokes, happily came out of his shell for some ribbing on me.
Dylan gave special mention to the makeup crew. “Damn good job,” he said. “Brooks, you were ugly as shit. And that's hard to beat, with the way you look normally.”
“I was uglier than I even am usually,” I agreed.
“Don't get fire within twenty feet of the pants,” Dylan warned, referring to my “Frankenstein monster” costume. “There were about thirty different chemicals put into that.” (This was true, actually. Dylan and I made the pants using an old pair of jeans that we soaked in gasoline and paint thinner to make them look as horrible as possible. After the final performance, we took them out to a field and flicked a cigarette at them. They immediately burst into flames.)
“Zach, how did this guy do on sound?” I asked, referring to Dylan.
“Oh, he sucked,” Zach replied.
Dylan threw his hands up. “Thank you!”
“And everybody was crying about it, because it was late,” Zach added. Dylan hadn't finished preparing the sound cues by Mrs. C's original deadline.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dylan said. “I'd like to bring forth attention to this, actually—for three years now, I've been doing this job. Just a guess here, but I think I know what I'm doing—”
“Okay, shut up,” I said. We all laughed.
That was how the video went. We picked out names, made a few good-natured jokes, then complimented the person and moved on. We had especially kind words for Mrs. Caruthers, whom all three of us were going to miss.
“You're losing your entire sound and light crew,” I said to the camera. “This will be the last play we get to do with you.”
The three of us asked for bribes in exchange for passing along our knowledge to the next crop of students. “Hey, Mrs. C, next Saturday—big ol' party,” Dylan said. “Heineken, Miller . . . We need you.” It was a running joke for theatre students to try and get Mrs. Caruthers to buy booze for us, because we knew she never would.
We offered our thanks to Mrs. Caruthers for her inspiration. “From the people who have been working with you the longest, we want to say, very beautiful job with all the plays,” I said.
“Very well done,” Dylan added. “All of these kids over the years—I don't know how, but. you put the whole thing together.”
“You've taught us how to work on our own,” I said. “We really did this play on our own, and it was fantastic. And we owe it to you, Mrs. C.”
After the final performance that night, everyone from the show watched the video. My mom took pictures. There was Dylan, laughing and having a good time. Just like everyone else.
>
Throughout all of this, I was still avoiding Eric Harris. And Eric was avoiding me.
It was hard for Dylan. He didn't talk much about it, but you could tell. Nobody wants to be in the position of being friends with two people who hate each other.
I figured it wouldn't be for much longer, though. By December, we were signing up for spring term of senior year. Only one more semester to go; then Dylan would be off to college, and I would be off to do whatever the heck I decided to do, and we would be free of Columbine forever. Worries about Eric Harris were the farthest thing from my mind.
10
friendship renewed
IN OUR FINAL SEMESTER AT COLUMBINE HIGH SCHOOL, I STARTED talking to Eric Harris again.
It was the first day of spring term. First period, I had gym. In second period, I would be working as a student assistant to Mrs. Caruthers, grading tests and assisting with miscellaneous projects. The first two hours of the day were pretty uneventful; just your standard first-day-of-school orientation kind of thing. Then I walked into third-hour philosophy.
At first, everything seemed great. I was really excited about that class. Mr. Kritzer was one of my favorite teachers, and this was the first time that a philosophy class would be offered at Columbine. The first person I saw when I walked in the room was Becca Heins, who I knew was an absolute riot to be around. I was sitting next to her, so we started talking as the rest of the students filed in.
Then I looked over my shoulder. Eric was sitting behind me.
That was a shock, to say the least. In all four years at Columbine, I don't think Eric and I had ever shared a class. Yet here he was. We hadn't spoken since the windshield incident nearly a year ago, and the moment I saw him, I felt all that old tension returning. It was very uneasy for both of us. We went through third period not saying a word to each other.
After the period was over, I headed for fourth-hour Creative Writing class. Lo and behold, there was Eric again—and this time, Dylan was there, too. So this was going to be even more interesting. Becca was in this class, too, and so was Nate Dykeman. They all sat together, but I sat on the other side of the room, kind of cursing to myself.
Three and a half years of no classes with Eric Harris, and now, when I know the guy hates me, we have two classes in a row. Unbelievable. I spent that night thinking it over. I knew there was no way I could go through four months of this.
I decided, “Fuck this. I'm not going to have someone sitting behind me where I'm worried that he's going to be stabbing me in the back or giving me shit. I'm not going to sit in fourth hour and ignore all my friends because Eric's with them. I have to make up with him.”
Obviously, I was still angry about what had happened the year before. But a lot of time had passed, and that initial rage had dulled. Besides, my mind was weighing the benefits of making peace against the difficulty of the next four months if I didn't.
The next morning, I had a cigarette before class, to prepare. Then I walked into third hour just before the bell rang. Eric was already there.
I told Eric I wanted to bury the hatchet. I said we'd been pissed off at each other for long enough. I told him that I had changed a lot since last year, that I knew I had been a piece of shit in a lot of ways, and that I hoped he felt the same way about himself. “We were both immature,” I said. “I just want to move on.”
Eric seemed surprised. I don't think he ever expected that I would extend an olive branch, much less admit I had been a jerk. He shrugged and said, “Cool.”
It was strange. By the time class started, we were joking about what stupid little kids we had both been. Eric said there were probably two sophomores out there doing the same sort of thing right now, and that they wouldn't be talking again until senior year, either. It was funny. We laughed.
If someone had told me the year before that I would ever share a laugh with Eric Harris again, I would have called him or her insane. Yet here we were. And once fourth hour rolled around, I moved over and sat next to him, Dylan, and Becca.
Dylan was stunned at the turn of events. He and I went out for a cigarette that day, and Eric was with us. We told Dylan that things were cool between us. To be honest, I think Dylan was one reason why Eric and I patched things up so easily. Both of us knew the strain our rift had put on him; nobody likes to play the go-between.
Several people have suggested to me that Eric found excuses to hate me back in junior year because he felt I was threatening his friendship with Dylan. After all, he had pushed away their other friends one by one. The theory makes sense. When you're younger, and you live in a society like Columbine, you get the feeling that friendship is finite and can be tossed away easily, that starting a friendship with one person means losing friendships with others. Yet you learn through experience that friendship can be infinite.
Eric came from a background of constantly moving around with his family; who knows how many friendships were cut off for him each time? In Dylan, he saw a best friend, and he feared anything that could take that away. From there, he found excuses to make me a target.
I was hoping all of that would be behind us now.
I know it seems strange that I would make peace with someone who had threatened to kill me, vandalized my parents' house, and refused to speak to me for the past year. However, it just made sense to create peace. I wasn't looking to become Eric's best friend, but I wanted to be able to hang out with Dylan without it being an issue. I wanted to be able to go to class and not worry about Eric. When he and I had mutual friends and shared classes, it just made sense.
People do have the potential to change. It had been over a year since we'd had our problems. I figured that if Eric turned out to be as big a prick as he'd been before, I would stop talking to him. However, if he had grown up, then why not give him the chance to prove it?
The first thing I noticed about Eric was that he didn't get angry nearly as easily anymore. Things that used to set off his temper would just make him chuckle now. He seemed calm, composed. As strange as this sounds today, he seemed a lot less prone to violence.
This was especially impressive since, as always, the jocks were still targeting him and Dylan. Soon after we'd made peace, I was smoking cigarettes with them when a bunch of football players drove by, yelled something, and threw a glass bottle that shattered near Dylan's feet. I was pissed, but Eric and Dylan didn't even flinch. “Don't worry about it, man,” Dylan said. “It happens all the time.”
Another time, Eric and Dylan were searched for drugs after someone in school “reported them” as a way to harass them. Eric and Dylan were removed from class and searched. Their lockers and their cars were searched as well. No drugs were turned up, but the two of them had been humiliated nonetheless.
They shrugged it off.
Eric didn't seem to be as quiet in front of people as he'd once been. At one point in Creative Writing, we had to do a “personification essay,” describing what it would feel like to be a certain inanimate object. For example, you could write about what it feels like to be a desk, or a chair.
The assignment seemed ludicrous, and no one wanted to do it. So Eric decided to get crazy with it, by writing an essay about a shotgun and a shotgun shell getting married. The story ended with the two of them going off and having a bunch of little “pellet babies.” It was one of the funniest damned things in the world, and when Eric read it in front of the class, everyone was cracking up.
I couldn't imagine anything like that happening in sophomore year. I couldn't imagine Eric getting up in front of the entire class and not only reading his work, but putting on such a “performance” that people would be rolling on the floor.
It seemed like Eric had found a new voice with his writing. We were assigned to write poetry, essays, and short stories, some fiction and some nonfiction. I saw a new side of Eric emerge through his writing on more than one occasion.
Eric wrote an essay about his childhood, in which he described playing “war” with his brother and a neigh
borhood girl at his old place in Michigan. He wrote about the joy and innocence of those early days, playing cops and robbers in the fields or hiding in the forest behind his house.
The teacher asked Eric to read it out loud in front of the class. He declined, but when I offered to read it for him, he said, “Sure,” and handed it to me. I was glad to do it. It was a simple, pleasant story, authored by someone who seemed to have worked through many of his issues.
New sides of Dylan's personality came out in Mrs. Kelly's class, too. At one point we were given a “collaborative story” writing exercise. The idea was that one person would write the first paragraph of a story, then hand the paper to someone else, who would read it and then add on. I wound up collaborating with Dylan.
Earlier, we had been assigned to read a book called A Prayer For Owen Meany, by John Irving. It's supposed to be loaded with symbolism, but my friends and I didn't get into it. We disliked Owen Meany, who was supposed to be the hero. We also objected to the religious themes of the book, and resented the fact that we were being forced to read it for class.
I was in a sarcastic mood that day, so for the story's first paragraph, I wrote:
There is a fiery inferno surrounding you. Satan is sitting on his throne, pointing and laughing at you. A copy of A Prayer For Owen Meany sits in front of you, next to a box full of the book. A sign has been placed next to the book that says, “Read all of these.”
Dylan could see where I was going, so when it came his turn to write, he added:
Just then, the god of coolness came down upon Satan. “Satan, this punishment is too cruel for any soul. What happened to fire and brimstone?” “Owen Meany is far worse, ha ha ha,” replied Satan. Then the coolness god perished all copies of the book, saying that no soul deserved to read the tortuous, morbid, evil book. Then Hell was a happy place, and Satan started a chain of day-care centers.
Eric and Dylan were both making me laugh. They were fun to be around in those final months. We were friends just like before—only this time, the anger that had hung over them in junior year seemed to have dissipated and been replaced with wisecracks and an eagerness to finish up with school so they could move on with life. It was a welcome change—or so I felt.
No Easy Answers Page 10
