Rapture Practice (15 page)

“Oh, Dr. Hartzler, that’s so kind of you. I am thrilled that Aaron will be joining us here at Tri-City this year. He’s simply perfect for this role.”

Although he is firm about making me change schools my junior year, Dad also knows how upset I am about it. He wants me to want this. He wants me to be happy here. “Have a good rehearsal, son.” Dad’s smile is full of hope. “I’m going to go talk with Mr. Friesen, then I’ll be back in a couple hours to pick you up.”

Something in his eyes pleads with me as he heads off to
the principal’s office. Suddenly, I feel sorry for him. He’s the expert on teaching kids how to be Christ-like, and he’s had to move his kids to a new school because I wasn’t doing the right thing. It must be embarrassing. Even though I don’t like it, I realize I can’t change this anymore. I’m here now. This is real.

I want to make this work for him.

Being charming to the drama teacher is one thing, but I know I’ll have to really sell it if I’m going to reassure Dad and the principal’s wife I’m on board. Lynne stands at Dad’s elbow, and as they turn to leave, I fix her with a smile that threatens the structural integrity of my skull. “See you soon, Mama Friesen.”

“Oh, sugar! Welcome
home
!” This was the right answer. She flies back toward me, throwing her arms around me. Her hug is crushing, and spins me toward the two students who were running a scene when we stormed in. I can’t avoid looking at them any longer.

I instantly recognize the girl as the captain of the Crusader cheerleading squad. She has her head down, flipping through her script, but the guy stares straight into my eyes with a sort of bewildered disbelief. He’s the starting center with the curly hair from the basketball game last year. The right side of his mouth curls into the same half smile I saw in the gym at Blue Ridge. Before he turns away, I can tell from his expression he hasn’t forgotten that night.

Christy!
is a new musical based on the novel
Christy
by Catherine Marshall, adapted for the stage by Mrs. Hastings. The story is about a young schoolteacher who leaves a life of wealth and privilege to become a missionary teacher in the Appalachian Mountains, fighting the ignorance and backwoods superstitions of the local populace she came to educate and serve.

I have been cast as Christy’s chief hillbilly nemesis, Bird’s Eye Taylor. It isn’t a large role, but I know it will be memorable, mainly because the script calls for me to shoot a double-barreled shotgun at the character of David, the young, single preacher who is one of Christy’s two love interests.

Mrs. Hastings hands me a script as the door of the rehearsal room closes behind Dad and Mrs. Friesen. I can feel the heat of every gaze in the room on my face as I flip through the pages, looking for my character’s name but seeing nothing as I imagine what the rest of the cast must be thinking:

So, this is the new kid who didn’t audition, but somehow has a great role.

My stomach is a tile bathroom and it feels like someone has teed off a new golf ball inside me. I think I might throw up, and the permanent burrito funk that hangs in the air of the room isn’t helping.

Mrs. Hastings turns to address the rest of the cast. “Everyone, may I have your attention, please?” This is only an odd request because no one is talking. Everyone is silently looking at me.

“This is Aaron Hartzler, and he’s the newest addition to our cast. He’ll be playing the role of Bird’s Eye Taylor. Let’s take five and you can introduce yourselves. Then we’ll start right in.”

“Aaron!” I recognize the voice before I see her. Erica Norton, my friend from camp, generally sounds as cheerful and fresh-scrubbed as she looks. Her straight blonde hair is held perfectly in place by a headband and flips up right at her shoulders. As she approaches, I open my arms for a hug.

“Whoa!” she says, leaning away from me, then glancing side to side, embarrassed.

“What—?” I ask.

“Watch the random hugging around here,” she whispers earnestly. “It’s not camp.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Really,” she says. “They’re pretty strict about PC.”

“PC?”

“Physical contact,” she whispers. “C’mon, let me introduce you to some people.”

As I follow her across the room, I notice Erica is wearing a pair of culottes. In fact, all of the girls seem to be wearing culottes for rehearsal, and I remember Erica telling me about the dress code. Girls aren’t ever allowed to wears shorts or pants to school. If there’s a casual event, culottes are the only alternative to a skirt or a dress. I’ve seen older women in split skirts before, but I’ve never noticed how weird they look on girls my own age.

Erica introduces me to the girl playing Christy—the
captain of the cheerleading squad. “Heather, this is Aaron Hartzler.”

“Welcome to Tri-City,” she says brightly. “I feel like I’ve met you before.”

“I’ve seen you at basketball games at Blue Ridge.”

“Right!” she says, turning to her friend. “Megan, have you met Aaron yet?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Megan fixes me with a clandestine smile as if we share a dangerous, delicious secret. There’s something different about her, and I realize she’s the only girl in the room who isn’t wearing culottes. Megan is wearing a long, slim, skirt and a crisp, expensive-looking blouse.

She extends her hand. “Hi. I’m Megan.” Her voice is warm and full, like a thick sweater sliding over my shoulders, so textured it feels like I’m sinking into it—almost raspy but somehow soft, not rough.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“We’ve heard a lot about you.” She glances at Erica with an eyebrow raised. Is this a challenge? An invitation? Both?

“All bad, I assume?” I smile.

Megan drops her blue eyes to my toes, then draws them up to my chin. “Yes,” she says grimly. “Reports have been
dreadful
.”

For a moment, she looks at me with a dark stare, and then she laughs. Head back, chestnut spirals spilling over her shoulders and down her back like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
. Her laughter makes everyone smile.

Everyone but Erica.

“I’m going to run to the ladies’ room before we get started
again,” Erica says, then spins toward the door in a swirl of blonde hair and heads into the hallway.

An awkward silence settles over Megan and Heather as I watch Erica leave. I turn back and see them both looking at me, waiting, curious to see what my reaction will be.

“I’m going to look over my script,” I say. “It was nice to meet you both.”

I walk across the room to a row of chairs against the wall and open my script.

“Wow. You’ve been here for, like, thirty seconds, and they’re already fighting over you.”

I look up and see the basketball player smirking down at me. This is the moment I’ve been dreading all day.
Is he putting me down or joking?
I can’t tell, until he smiles.

“Bradley,” he says. “I play David, the preacher.”

“Aaron,” I say, shaking his hand and smiling with relief. “I play the hillbilly who shoots at you.”

Bradley sits down in the chair next to me. “So. Blue Ridge, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, scrunching my eyes closed and wrinkling my forehead. “Hope you won’t hold that against me?”

“Hold it against you? Just sorry that you wound up here,” he says. “I love playing Blue Ridge. You guys always look like you’re having so much fun. I wish they’d let us have a pep band. Or see our cheerleaders’ knees.”

“You know the seductive power of the kneecap,” I say.

“Are you… joking?” Bradley asks.

“No,” I whisper earnestly. “All these girls in culottes are giving me a boner.”

Bradley laughs a little too loudly, and once again every eye in the room turns my way. “Thank God for some fresh blood around here.”

“Is it that bad?” I ask.

“You have no idea.”

When Mrs. Hastings calls us back, we block my first scene, then run it. I go all out with an accent like the one Nanny’s sister from Virginia has—Southern, but with a hard
R
that makes me sound like a hick from the mountains. Bradley and Heather crack up when I start talking, and we have to hold for a second so they can compose themselves. By the time we’re finished rehearsing the scene, I’m a star.

Megan is still laughing when I sit down at the table next to her. Apparently unconcerned about the PC issue, she reaches over and squeezes my leg. “You’re hilarious,” she says. “You’re going to steal the show.”

“Thanks.” I smile. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why aren’t you wearing culottes?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Besides the fact that they’re hideous?” she whispers.

“Thought it was just me.”

“If the choice is between a skirt and looking like a moron, I’ll go with the skirt, thank you very much.”

Megan grabs her script when the next scene is announced, and walks across the room. As she waits for Mrs. Hasting to give everyone his or her blocking, she turns back to the table, catches me watching, and winks.

Erica sighs, and I realize she has seen this entire exchange. She looks at me as if she can’t remember who I am, then rolls her eyes and opens her script.

A careful reading of the dress code in the Tri-City
Student Handbook
proves enlightening. No jeans for boys, only chinos and slacks. No pants for girls, only dresses or skirts that cover the knee. Only shirts with collars are allowed, and no shirts with writing. When I finish familiarizing myself with the rules, I go downstairs to the laundry room, plug in the iron, and turn the dial all the way to the cotton/linen setting.

As I wait for the iron to heat up, I wander over to Dad’s desk in the family room and dial Daphne’s number.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Planning my outfit for tomorrow.”

“Your decision?”

“Going with something classic,” I say. “Blue-and-white-striped oxford. Navy chinos. Penny loafers.”

“The Polo oxford?”

“Yeah.” Daphne and I have a penchant for discount name brands, but Dad’s Bible college professor salary doesn’t really allow for brand-new Ralph Lauren shirts. However, thanks to a few shopping trips with Nanny in Memphis, excursions to the outlets and consignment shops with Mom, and selected hand-me-downs from church friends and cousins, I’ve been able to put together several looks from a
GQ
magazine spread I saw in the fall fashion issue Jason had in his dorm room. He gave me a few of his old issues, and I keep a secret stash under some bins in the back of my closet.

“Very preppy,” says Daphne. “Good way to start.”

“Well, I’m not allowed to wear jeans of any kind, so it’s going to be pretty preppy all the time.”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah.” The butterflies in my stomach had kicked into high gear on the way home from church this morning.

“No one ever knows when you’re nervous, Aaron.”

“I do.”

“At least you know some people from the play already, right?”

I smile. This is what Daphne does; she looks for the good in everything, every time. Usually, she finds it.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Are your parents still talking about moving closer to Tri-City?” she asks. Daphne lives only a few minutes from my new school.