BoyWithABomb

     I met a really cool kid the other day. His name is Kyle, and he’s the epitome of an all-American boy. Bowl-cut brown hair, intelligent blue eyes, mischievous smile; Quicksilver shirt. Socially he’s advanced for a twelve year-old, approaching me with a confident smirk and telling me he hears I’m good at basketball. When I try to be humble, deflecting his compliments, he shakes his head and says, “Dude, being a sports stud is a GOOD thing. It’s not like you should be ashamed of it.”
     Kyle excels as an athlete. He can smash a perfect volleyball serve, catch dizzying flyballs, nail a three-pointer, and throw a perfect spiral. So why then do I get a strange feeling around him? He was admitted to the psychiatric center for oppositional defiant disorder, Tourette’s syndrome, and attention deficit hyper-activity disorder. All self-diagnosed by his overbearing, domineering mother. I never saw any hints of ODD; he’s always been extremely cooperative. Which in itself can be troubling. Many kids get to the psych center and become angels, either because they’re adept at fooling strangers or because they simply enjoy being in a structured environment and have no need to act out. Kyle’s mom says he challenges her at every opportunity, even becoming physically aggressive at times. Kyle’s dad is a pushover. He doesn’t discipline, and simply believes Kyle’s behavior is “typical boy stuff.” The Tourette’s diagnosis is legitimate--sometimes when Kyle gets stressed, his face scrunches up into a feral sneer and he starts grunting and snorting, as if he’s possessed by a demonic pig.
     One night I was tossing the football with Kyle. Every time I made a catch, he’d say, “nice grab”, or “sweet reflexes!” But something bothered me, and I decided to let it play out.
     Seven year-old Suzie was crouching near the latency unit patio door, playing with her dolls. Kyle’s throws kept pushing me toward her, and I had to yell, “Be careful.” He acted like he didn’t hear me. Quickly he hurled the ball toward the opposite end of the playground, so I have to run after it in the bushes. When I fling it back, he snatches it out of the air and pretends to “overthrow” so the football thumps Suzie’s head. She clutches her skull with a shocked expression, then starts wailing.
     I put Kyle on time-out. He acted contrite, but I don’t think he cared. His action was cruel and calculated. Later, a psych nurse told me that Kyle said, “____ likes me so much I can fool him whenever I want.” I was amused by this, but also a bit angry. I confronted him, saying, “So you can fool me, eh Kyle? That’s fine. But the question is, why would you want to?”
     I sat down with him that night and we had a talk. He asked me what I do on weekends. I explained that I liked movies and eating out. He talked about how he spent the weekends with his friend Josh, who liked to build pipe bombs. Kyle could list every ingredient that went into a pipe bomb, and even how to increase collateral damage by stuffing ball bearings into the metal cylinder. I asked if they had ever hurt anyone with a bomb, and Kyle smiled.
     “Not yet. No one’s pissed me off enough.”
     “Why are you spending time making bombs, Kyle? You’re an incredible athlete. You could get a scholarship with your talent. I would be using all my free time to practice sports.”
     He nodded, trying to placate me. I told him to speak his mind.
     “You know the feeling you get when you make a shot over someone? Like an adrenaline rush? It’s the same when you plant a bomb somewhere, only ten times stronger.” Kyle was finally being honest with me, and it was frightening. “Seeing someone bleed is more exciting than seeing them sweat.”
     I simply stared at him. He got up, elbowed me in the ribs, and said, “Gotcha, dude. See, I can fool you big time.”
     But I knew the truth. He had let me glimpse a tiny dark sliver of his soul, and it had snagged in my brain, remaining there for days, inflaming the tissue and causing damage that would never heal.