I was seated at a small desk when the Klebolds came to speak with me. Because I’d never read a student work anything like Dylan’s, I recall vividly what I first said to them about it: “I have to tell you about a story Dylan wrote.”
I recall the word I used to describe the horror I felt when I read their son’s work: visceral. I told them about the content of the story, the alarming imagery of people being gunned down. I told them about the disturbing tone. I shared that I had made a copy and given it to Dylan’s guidance counselor, who was at conferences as well.
I recall being dismayed when Mr. Klebold immediately shifted the conversation to a cerebral, philosophical discussion of teenagers today. I remember being surprised that they did not ask me more. Because of the depth of my concern over Dylan’s work, and how adamant I was about it, I recall having the expectation that they would at least be talking to the counselor that night.