We asked if the administration might consider other consequences. The boys could donate extra time to maintain equipment, or clean out a storage room. The dean told us that the district superintendent was aware of the incident and wanted it to be handled with a high level of severity; we could speak with the computer teacher if we had additional questions. An administrator myself, I recognized the dean’s need to get the papers signed so she could move on to the next problem.
While we waited for the computer teacher, I got a moment alone with Dylan. I wanted him to understand the consequences of what he had done. He was fond of the teacher, and I told Dylan he could have gotten him fired, or caused the elimination of the program altogether. There was no defiance or cynicism on Dylan’s face, just sadness. I was satisfied to see he understood. The teacher, when he joined us, seemed shaken but kind, and primarily concerned about Dylan. There were apologies all around. What came next, however, was more painful for Dylan than the suspension: the teacher told Dylan he could no longer help with the school’s computers.
As we drove away from the school, Dylan seemed numb. I asked him if he thought he’d be okay; he told me he would. He was taking accelerated chemistry, trigonometry, world history, fourth-year French, computers, and composition—a fairly heavy workload of difficult classes, and I asked how he would keep up during his suspension. He said he could get the assignments from his friends. When Dylan asked what I was thinking, I told him the truth. “I don’t understand the decision, and I don’t agree with it, but I’m going to support it. This will be resolved quickly if we comply with the ruling, and I don’t want to make a bad situation worse by alienating you from the people running the school.” He nodded, to show he understood.
Tom was home with Dylan most of the time during the suspension. During one conversation, Dylan complained that the school’s administration favored athletes, making excuses for them while coming down hard on others for lesser offenses. In Dylan’s mind, school was a place where things were “not fair.” Yet he seemed to take the suspension in stride, and after the five days were up, all three of us smoothed our ruffled feathers and moved on.
In October, Dylan got his driver’s license. I was nervous about him driving around without an adult in the car, but he was relieved not to have to depend on us or on his friends for rides. Tom’s hobby was finding beat-up old cars at bargain prices. As soon as he felt Dylan could handle a car responsibly, he bought a black BMW for $400. It had a broken window and some interior damage, not to mention it was light-years away from being able to pass Colorado’s emissions tests, but the two of them weren’t daunted by the amount of work it needed, and they both got a kick out of the fact that the car was sixteen years old—exactly Dylan’s age. Dylan agreed to help pay for gas and insurance.
After Dylan got his license, I told my sister it was as if he’d grown wings. Most of his friends were still in the suburb we’d left behind when we’d moved out to the foothills. From a safety standpoint, we’d rather he stay overnight with them than drive home late on the canyon road, but I didn’t like feeling so separate. Tom reminded me I had to let him grow up.
He and Nate and Eric and Zack went bowling, played pool, or went to the movies. Occasionally there were supervised parties. Raising teenagers was not new to us, and Dylan faced the usual barrage of questions when leaving the house: “Where are you going? Who’s going to be there? Who’s driving? Will there be drinking? Will the parents be home? Leave us a phone number.” We checked often, and Dylan was always exactly where he said he’d be. The only time he ever came home late for curfew, he’d gone to the rescue of a friend stranded after a fender bender.
Tom and I did feel Dylan was withdrawing from us that year. He’d quit Blackjack Pizza so he could look for a job working with computers, but he hadn’t found one, and he wasn’t doing sound for any school productions that fall. It was nice to have him home at night, though I worried he had too much time on his hands, and thought he spent too much time on his computer. Withdrawal, of course, can be a sign of depression in adults and teens, but Tom and I didn’t identify Dylan’s desire for privacy as a red flag. When he was in his room, he was either talking to friends on the phone or interacting with them on the computer. He wasn’t withdrawing from others; if anything, his social life had taken off.
The unsettled feeling with which we’d begun the fall continued as the days grew cooler. One of my favorite teachers at the Art Students League died suddenly of a heart attack. My brother’s wife was hospitalized, and my sister, who had struggled for years with health problems, was unwell again. Tom’s health continued to deteriorate. In November he had surgery to fix the broken tendon in his arm, and he scheduled a shoulder surgery for January. He still couldn’t work much, and our financial concerns intensified.
A friend consoled me with the Winston Churchill chestnut: “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” But the bad news kept coming. We got a call from Byron in the emergency room; he needed stitches in three places after standing up to a racist ex-skinhead. That night, I finally allowed myself to acknowledge my despair over Byron’s situation. Of course, I was proud of him for standing up for his beliefs, but his decisions kept getting him into trouble, and nothing we did—therapy, support, tough love—seemed to help.
Thanksgiving was a rare bright spot in that dark season. Eight of my extended family members came to stay, a hectic change from the quiet life we usually led. My brother and my sister and I have always been close. We all talk too fast and laugh loudly; getting a word in is like merging onto the autobahn. Dylan found the chaos a little overwhelming, but I loved having my family around.
My dad owned neighborhood movie theaters—my first job was selling popcorn at a concession stand—and we’re passionate about old movies. We all love books and music, too. Not surprisingly, we like to play charades. Dylan usually preferred to play poker with the adults, but that year he gave in to the begging and joined us for a round or two of charades. I was so proud of how funny and clever he was, and delighted that his innate shyness hadn’t prevented him from joining in.
There was no way to know that, within a few short months, everything would fall apart, and Dylan would once again rise to the top of our family’s worries.
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In early January of 1998, Dylan told Tom about his frustration with a couple of kids at school who were “really asking for it.” The kids were freshmen, and Tom resisted the temptation to laugh: Dylan was six feet four inches tall, and a junior. Dylan told us he wanted to get some guys together to confront the boys. Tom and I told him not to give them the satisfaction of a response. I was worried someone would be hurt, and Tom was worried Dylan would embarrass himself by engaging with freshmen.
Dylan could not let it go. Without our knowledge, he and Eric rounded up some friends. They confronted the kids and told them to meet them at a spot away from school, but the younger boys never appeared. Tom and I found out about the planned rumble after the fact. Dylan believed he had handled the situation effectively, but we were upset and told him so. At least, I thought, no one had been hurt.