Rapture Practice (18 page)

“Hartzler!” Bradley pops around the corner, making Erica jump at least a foot in the air. “What’s up? You ready to head out?”

“Sure,” I say. “Give me a second.”

“Cool—meet me down in the parking lot. We can leave your car here tonight, and I’ll bring you back for rehearsal tomorrow.”

“You’re going to Bradley’s house?” Erica asks, frowning.

“Yeah, we’re going to run lines tonight.”

“Oh… well… have fun,” she says. “Is anybody else going over there?”

Her question irks me for some reason. “I don’t really know what he’s got planned.”

Erica stands there, staring at me.

“What?” I ask, zipping my choir folder into my backpack. “I’m just getting to know Bradley.”

“But his parents aren’t…
married
… and they’re
living together
.”

“So?” I snap. I am annoyed with this conversation. I already have to finesse everything I want to do with my parents. I don’t need this from my friends, too.

“Well… I guess I didn’t think you’d be hanging out with people who…”

“Who
what
? Who asked me to come hang out my first
week at my new school?” Crap. That came out wrong. I feel guilty instantly. Erica’s been nothing but nice to me. She blushes, and looks at her shoes.

“I’m sorry,” I say, quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She turns to leave.

“Erica… wait.”

She stops as I close my locker and sling my backpack over my shoulder.

“You aren’t going to be my only friend here,” I say quietly. “But you were my
first
friend here. And that’s important.”

She looks at the floor, then down the hall past my shoulder and sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Don’t forget to bring the music Monday,” she says. Then she turns around and walks down the hall.

“You in a hurry?” Megan has materialized at my locker again. It’s strange how I never see her coming.

“Headed down to meet up with Bradley.”

“Bradley?” she asks. “That’s trouble.”

“Don’t worry, I already got the lecture from Erica.”

“Oh, jeez.” She laughs, and I can’t help joining her. She laughs with no reservations, daring anyone to hear her. “Do you have any idea how into you she is?”

I look up at her, a little surprised. I thought I was the only one who noticed.

“I don’t wanna know.”

“Let’s just say that the picture of you two at the Valentine’s banquet at Blue Ridge is still in her locker. From two years ago.”

“Please tell me it’s the wallet-size shot.”

“Five-by-seven, handsome.” Megan is enjoying this. “So, I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow?” she asks.

“Yeah. Bradley and I are running lines tonight.”

“That’s what I hear,” she says, breezily sweeping her curls behind her shoulder.

“From whom?” I ask. News travels fast around here.

“Angela was telling me at practice. One of the JV girls wanted all the details when your name came up. Ashley? She’s a sophomore—in your geometry class.” Megan says this like an indictment.

“Oh, yeah… Ashley.” I pretend I haven’t really given her much thought. She’s as curvy as Megan is lean and athletic. They couldn’t be more different. “She seems nice.”

“She
seems
about ten pounds too heavy for a basket toss.” Megan laughs. “Sturdy, that one. She’s a base until further notice.”

“She said she was the captain of the squad at her public school last year.”

“She says lots of things,” Megan replies a little too sweetly.

We walk down the stairs and out the back door to the parking lot. The late August sun shimmers off the sweltering blacktop like an unholy ghost. Angela is sitting in the front seat of Bradley’s car and jumps out as she sees us coming.

“Hi, Angela.” Megan smiles, then waves at Bradley. “You two going to cause some trouble tonight?” she asks.

“Gonna try,” Bradley says. “Maybe we’ll cruise Nolan. See what the public-school girls are up to.”

Megan laughs. “Angela, you better keep these two on a short leash.”

“Don’t worry,” says Angela, her hands on her hips. “The public-school girls will be up to nothing at all tonight,” she says pointedly. Then she smiles and says, “At least not for Bradley. Aaron, on the other hand…”

“Public-school girls terrify me,” I say. “Don’t they eat Christian schoolboys for dinner?”

“Why do you think we’re gonna cruise Nolan?” Bradley laughs.

I get into the passenger seat and buckle up.

“Have fun tonight,” Megan says.

Bradley backs out slowly as Megan and Angela head back inside to change for cheerleading practice.

“Shouldn’t you be peeling out or something?” I tease him. “There are girls to impress.”

“Probably,” he says, “but that sort of shit makes me crazy. I always want to roll down my window at the guys who do that and shout, ‘Sorry about your tiny penis.’ ”

I laugh, and Bradley cranks the stereo. The car almost shakes with the sounds of a hip-hop beat. A voice blasts the words “You’re unbelievable” over a syncopated bass line.

“This is EMF, my friend,” Bradley shouts over the speakers, smiling as he answers my unspoken question, and pulls out of his parking space.

“It’s great!” I yell back, but I see Bradley’s eyes go wide, and he quickly reaches down and turns off the music.

“Shit,” he says, and sighs, and I follow his gaze to Coach
Hauser, holding up his hand to Bradley, signaling him to stop the car and roll down the window. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

He presses the button, and his window drops to reveal Coach Hauser in aviator sunglasses, looking like a cop in a polo shirt. To my surprise, Coach smiles.

“Hello, gentlemen.”

“Hey, Coach,” says Bradley.

“Have a good first week, Mr. Hartzler?” he asks me.

“Yes, sir, I have,” I reply, church smile firmly in place.

“Great to hear.” He smiles back. “What’s not so great to hear, Mr. Westman, is your stereo blasting music that I can only describe as ‘questionable’ while you are still in the parking lot.”

My heart is racing, but I keep smiling into Coach Hauser’s black lenses.

“That’s truly puzzling, Coach,” says Bradley. I shift my focus to his face as the words come out of his mouth. Bradley is totally cool. “Are you sure it was this car?”

“I’m in a great first-week-of-school mood today, Bradley.” Coach’s smile is still present, but no longer pleasant. “You know, after you leave this parking lot, I can’t hear what is coming through your speakers anymore, but God can.”

“Yes, sir,” says Bradley.

“I hope you’re having a good influence on our new student from Blue Ridge?” Coach says.

“Sure trying to,” says Bradley.

“We’re clear, then?” he asks both of us.

“Crystal,” I say.

“See you next week,” says Coach. He stands, pushes his glasses back up on his nose, and walks toward the building without looking back.

Bradley rolls up the window.

“Welcome to Tri-City,” he says shaking his head.

“No worries. I’m used to it,” I say. “My dad would’ve made me turn it up and tell him what I was listening to.”

As we drive away from the school, Bradley starts laughing.

“What,” I ask.

“Did you quote
The Breakfast Club
to Coach Hauser?” he asks.

I smile. “Maybe,” I say sheepishly. “Did it come through loud and clear?”

“Crystal,” Bradley says.

He cranks up the music and merges onto the highway. A few minutes later, we ease down a long exit ramp. The tall, blond summer grass whips around in the landscaping of the freeway median, and I catch a glimpse of a subdivision down the road: large lots, sprawling houses, perfect lawns.

“Wow. Is the grass in your yard always that green?” I ask.

“All summer long,” Bradley says. “Big trucks spray fertilizer every week from March to September. Dad is convinced we’ll all die of brain tumors, but it’s pretty.”

Before I can stop myself, I’m imitating Mom: “Green reminds us of new life in Christ.”

Bradley laughs, “Yeah, something like that.”

Bradley turns into the QuikTrip convenience store near the entrance of his neighborhood and pulls up to a gas pump.

“What do you want to drink? Dad’s gas card is buying.”

We get fountain drinks and Twix bars, then drive through the streets of Bradley’s neighborhood. I feel like a blank slate—and it feels hopeful. Everything is new and at the beginning. Every impression is a first. I have no history here. I can be anyone I want.

As we turn into Bradley’s driveway, I realize that I don’t have to put on an act, or pretend to be anyone I’m not. I can be exactly who I really am around Bradley. I don’t have to hide anything, or put on a show. The thought is exhilarating. It’s the same feeling in my chest that I had when I went to the movies in Nebraska.

It’s the feeling of freedom.

Bradley’s dad is in the garage unloading cases of Budweiser from the trunk of his Cadillac. “Hey, guys.” He smiles and runs a hand through his longish hair.

“Hey, Dad,” says Bradley, eyeing the stack of Budweiser cases. “We having a party?”

“Stocking up. You guys help yourselves. Who’s your friend here?”

“I’m Aaron,” I say, extending my hand.
Did Bradley’s dad offer me a beer before he asked my name?

“You keeping this joker in line?” He nods at Bradley as he shakes my hand.

“Gave up,” I say without smiling. “It’s hard work, and I need a break.”

Mr. Westman sizes me up, and then he cracks and chuckles. “Got a live one here, Brad. He’s gonna give you a run for your money with the public-school girls.”

“Why do you think we’re hanging out?” says Bradley. “I’ve got overflow. Need a wingman.”

I smile.
Wingman.
The word conjures up someone cool and close and… then I see an angel in my mind’s eye—Bradley with wings—and that makes me feel ridiculous. Why does almost everything make me think of something Bible-related?

“Will you two help me get these into the kitchen?” Bradley’s dad points to the cases of beer left in the trunk. “I’m gonna fire up the grill.”

“Sure,” Bradley says, and grabs a couple of cases. He heads up the stairs as Mr. Westman grabs the charcoal and lighter fluid and walks out of the garage toward the back deck.

I stand there, staring at the beer. Mom and Dad would not want me to do this. Is it
wrong
for me to haul them upstairs?
Is this where it starts?

“You get lost?” Bradley is back. He grabs the last two cases out of the trunk and hands one to me.

“Sorry.” I take the case of cans and follow him up the stairs to the kitchen.

I feel like I’ve time traveled to a different country—maybe a different planet. I’ve never held a case of beer before. I’ve never been in a home where there are cases of beer to be held. The cardboard case feels alive with energy, somehow pulsing in my hands.

Bradley slides one case into the fridge, then opens a tall cabinet and stacks the other cases on the lowest shelf. Other shelves are stocked with bottles of liquor. I stare at green bottles of gin and clear bottles of amber whiskey and scotch. One shelf holds Absolut vodka in glossy bottles with shiny silver caps, and I wonder why they’ve left the
e
off of the end of the
brand name. There is something incredibly cool and modern about Absolut bottles—something that makes me feel like an adult simply by looking at them. Above the Absolut, on the very top shelf, is a collection of glasses and stemware.

The stemware stored with Mom’s wedding china at home in our dining room buffet is etched with a capital
H
for Hartzler, but I’ve never seen those glasses filled with anything other than iced tea during Thanksgiving dinner.

At my house, nobody drinks alcohol at Thanksgiving.

Or at Christmas.

Or any other time.

I’ve noticed people drink beer and wine in restaurants and from plastic cups when Dad takes us to Royals games, but we all stick with Diet Coke and creamy chocolate malts. Trying to picture my mother sipping a glass of chardonnay is like trying to imagine her wearing a bikini: It’s something that will never happen.

When drinking has come up at home, Dad always quotes Ephesians 5:18: “Be not drunk with wine… but be filled with the Spirit.” Dad says it’s not necessarily a sin to drink, but it’s something that can ruin your Christian testimony, so it’s something we shouldn’t do. “If you’re under the influence of alcohol, you’re not allowing the Holy Spirit to control your actions,” he explains. He also tells us the wine Jesus drank in the Bible was more like grape juice, not fermented like wine is today.

Drinking has always been something we consider dangerous, a fact clearly underlined on my first day of sixth grade. It was a half day of school, and Mom was driving us to the
neighborhood pool we belonged to at the time for one last afternoon in the sun, when a drunk driver ran a red light and slammed into our station wagon. Mom’s jaw was dislocated by the impact, and five years later, she still can’t chew solid food without pain.

Stay away.
A neon warning sign flashes in my head, and my heart beats a little faster as I close the Westmans’ liquor cabinet. I guess I’ve always known there are people who mix cocktails at home. I just didn’t realize I’d meet some tonight.

Bradley’s dad finishes lighting the grill on the deck and comes through the sliding door to wash the charcoal off his hands at the kitchen sink. “Hey, Wingman,” he says with a jerk of his chin that looks exactly like Bradley’s, “grab me a Bud? And Bradley, get the burgers and some tongs, will ya?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Westman,” I hear myself say.
Are you actually going to
touch
a beer
?

“Mr. Westman is my father,” he growls. “Call me Drake.”

“Sure thing, Drake,” says Bradley.

“Smartass.” Drake snaps a dish towel at Bradley who yelps as he pulls a tray of ground beef patties out of the fridge and heads toward the grill. I’m up next at the refrigerator and see the Budweiser cans lined up in perfect rows on the third shelf down. I grab one and notice it’s taller and more slender than a Diet Coke can.