Rapture Practice (39 page)

I’ve been in front of this crowd so many times in the last two years: every play, every musical, every choir performance, every skit, every piano solo, every song I’ve sung, every joke I’ve told, every spirit week, and costume day. This time is different. This is my final appearance on this stage, my command performance.

As long as I have to do this, I’m going to make it good.

When I reach the microphone, a silent hush falls over the room. It’s quieter than I’ve ever heard it, even during prayer. I look up at the empty balcony, then back down across the entire student body. I think about aiming both barrels at Bradley during the play last year and deafening the entire room with blanks. What I’m about to say will be more surprising than a blast from a shotgun.

I pull the card out of my pocket, and lean toward the mic.

“There’s a verse in Isaiah that says, ‘These people come near to me with their mouth and honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. Their worship of me is made up only of rules taught by men.’ ”

I can see Erica and Megan across the row from one another. Erica looks pale. Megan leans forward. I haven’t been able to call her since I confessed to Mom and Dad. She knows something is up.

“I’ve been one of those people,” I say. “I’ve stood on this stage and I’ve told you I am following the Lord. I’ve sung songs and played the piano, and I’ve said all of the right words with my lips, but my heart has been far from God.”

My voice cracks. I blink and a single tear slides down my right cheek.

“Today is my last day at Tri-City. I drank alcohol at a party over New Year’s, and I lied about it. I want to apologize to all of you, and ask your forgiveness. I’m sorry for drinking, and for lying, and for not being honest about who I am.”

Erica and Megan are both crying, now. The whole place
is riveted. Dad is standing beside me now. I don’t remember him getting up. He is saying something about praying for me. He’s asking the students to pray for me, and for our family. Mr. Friesen is at the microphone now, as Dad pulls me over to the front pew. Mr. Friesen is dismissing the student body—everyone but the senior class.

One by one, they come up and hug me. Most of the guys are somber. A couple of them look terrified. I know they drink, too. They must be scared shitless I’m going to tell on them. I try to telegraph that I am not. Many of the girls are crying. There is a great deal of hugging, which none of the teachers try to stop, even though it technically violates the rules. There are whispers of forgiveness and the words, “We still love you.”

Then there is Erica, weeping, her face blotchy and red. This is not a pretty cry. She smiles ruefully at me, and shakes her head.

“I asked God to convict your heart, Aaron. I asked God to bring you back to Him. I guess that you had to make Him do it the hard way. I hope you’ve learned your lesson now.”

She tries to hug me, but it is awkward and strange. I am relieved when she turns and leaves the auditorium.

Megan hangs back toward the end of the line. She doesn’t care about the rules. She doesn’t care about the scene. She is bold and daring, wrapping her arms around me, pressing her body close to mine. To my surprise, no one moves to stop her. After a while she stands on her tiptoes, and kisses my cheek. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispers. “Call me.”

Then she is gone. They are all gone.

I sit on the front pew with Dad in the giant church auditorium. We are silent for a moment, then I feel his arm around my shoulders.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

The tears explode out of me. The anger and frustration, the fear and relief pour down my face in a torrent.

“For what?” I ask.

“For doing the right thing,” he says. “For telling the truth.”

The right thing seems all wrong now.

I am standing on Bradley’s front porch, pressing the doorbell. My parents are standing behind me, waiting. This is the final stop on my post–high school apology tour.

Last week after I apologized to the student body, Dad brought me home, and he and Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table. They started asking me questions. I told them the truth about everything: the drinking, the movies, sneaking out. Dad made a list of everyone I’d attended a movie with since Jason back at camp two years ago.

Almost everything. I haven’t told them about Kent Harris. I can’t be
that
honest with them. Not yet. I want to make them smile again so I don’t have to walk around feeling like I’ve killed someone. The rest feels too big to think about right now.

Dad made a list at the kitchen table, and over the past week, he listened while I called every single person on the list
and apologized to them. First it was Jason, and Megan, and Daphne for going to movies. Then it was Carla and Deena from the ice rink for drinking. I’ve made so many phone calls over the past few days, I don’t remember them all. They all go the same way:

I need to tell you that I’m sorry for
[drinking, going to a movie with you, etc.].
It was wrong of me because I was being rebellious, and not honoring my parents. I put what I wanted ahead of obeying my parents, and I wasn’t a good example of what a Christian is supposed to be. Will you forgive me?

Now it’s Bradley’s turn.

Mrs. Westman opens the door. Her kind eyes land on me, and she smiles, then swings the door wide, and looks up at my dad.

“Please, come in.”

She leads the way up the stairs to the living room. I see Bradley at the top of the stairs. He called when he got back from college last week, but I had to tell him we couldn’t hang out. I haven’t seen him since he was home for spring break.

“Hey, man.” He smiles cautiously. “How are you?”

I don’t know how to answer him.

Mrs. Westman calls for Drake, who comes up the stairs from his office off the family room. There are handshakes, tense smiles, beverage refusals. I can only imagine what my father must think when Mrs. Westman asks him if he’d like a drink.

Finally, we’re all sitting in the living room. Waiting.

“The reason we’re here today is because Aaron has something he’d like to say to you all.”

Bradley looks from my dad to me. My stomach leaps into my throat. I have to force myself to take a breath. I can’t hold his gaze. What I’m about to say is so humiliating. Will he ever be able to understand why I’m saying it?

I look away from Bradley, and my eyes land on Mrs. Westman. She is sitting on the couch, her elbows resting on her knees directly across from me. She’s not worried. She looking directly into my eyes, and she’s got a quiet smile, and a steady gaze, and I see the look in her gaze—the one she had that first night I met her.

“I’m here to apologize,” I say.

Dad had carefully gone over with me what I was supposed to say. We worked on it in the living room before we drove over. One more time he was coaching me on what to say, how to play dead.

“I’m sorry for drinking at your house. I’m underage, so not only was I breaking the laws of our state, but I was breaking God’s law. I’m commanded to honor my parents in the Bible, and by doing something that I knew they would not want me to do, I was being rebellious and following my own way. I’m here to apologize to you for not being a better example of a Christian, and to ask you to forgive me for doing the wrong thing.”

When I finish, everyone is quiet for a moment. Mr. Westman is staring at my dad with a quizzical expression, like
there is a lot he’d like to say, but has thought better of it. Mrs. Westman smiles at me, then turns her gaze to my dad who is talking now, saying something that I can’t quite make out through the roar in my ears.

I look over at Bradley, who glances up at me with a look in his eyes that I will never forget. It’s pity, and sadness, and exasperation with my parents for me, and he’s looking for a sign from me that this is going to be okay; that I’ll be okay.

But I’m not okay. Something is breaking apart inside me.

This is the last time I’ll sit in this living room with you.

Before I know it, we’re all standing up to leave. Our parents are shaking hands. My mom and dad are heading down the stairs. Suddenly, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here. I want to go upstairs to Bradley’s room and listen to his new CDs and go out back and sit in the hot tub and stay up too late watching MTV. I want to stay here with these people I barely know—people who don’t care if I have a drink at a party, or a kiss in the driveway. People who don’t need me to be a missionary, or a Christian schoolteacher, or anyone I’m not.

“Hang in there, bud.” Mr. Westman shakes my hand and heads into the kitchen.

Mrs. Westman throws both arms around me. “This is all going to be okay,” she whispers in my ear. “You’ll see.”

She takes my face in both her hands and stares directly into my eyes. Her look tells me that she’s sure this is the truth, and I desperately want to believe her.

I walk down the stairs to the front door. Bradley follows
me out onto the front porch as my parents get into the car. We stand there, looking at each other. My hands are shoved in my jeans pockets. He punches my shoulder lightly.

“Oh man,” he whispers. “You must be in hell.”

If I say anything, I’m afraid I will cry. What’s worse, I’m afraid there isn’t anything to say. My parents will never let me come back here. I look at him, swallow the lump in my throat, and nod.

He holds out a hand. When I take it, he pulls me in for a hug. “Call me when the heat dies down?”

“Sure thing,” I whisper. “It’ll probably be when I get back from Brazil.”

“Cool,” he says.

And then there’s the moment when there’s too much to say to try to say anything at all. So, I shrug. It’s the best I can do. My dad starts the car. I look at Bradley one more time.

“Thanks for everything,” I say softly.

“You bet,” he says, and smiles.

I climb into the backseat and close my eyes. I can’t watch when we pull away. Since our friendship began, I never imagined it ending. I never imagined driving away from his house and not knowing when I would see him again. I never once imagined my life without him, or that it would hurt like this.

“You did an excellent job in there,” Dad says from the front seat. I turn my face toward the window so he can’t see the tears streaming down my cheeks. When I don’t respond, I hear him say my name.

“Aaron, are you okay?”

I’m getting used to telling him the truth, and I do it again. The honest answer slips from my lips in a single syllable:

“No.”

Megan’s hand grips my arm as I escort her to junior/senior banquet through the long corridors of the Ritz-Carlton on the Plaza. Her long chestnut curls are pulled back and slightly up. She is statuesque in a form-fitting gown of navy silk. The dress is simple and gorgeous, with a straight skirt—none of the poufy bows or garish colors that tend to make the average prom dress a tragedy.

“You look amazing,” I say as we wait for the elevator.

She does a slight turn from me so her leg slips out of the slit up the back of the gown. There are tiny seams whispering up the back of her stockings. Her heels are high, and she handles them expertly. I drop my jaw in response, and she turns back into my arm with a little laugh. “Had my mom stitch up the slit in the back about six inches before I brought it in for dress check.”

All girls have to take their dresses in to school to be approved for modesty by Mrs. Friesen or another teacher in a dress check before they can be worn to junior/senior. No strapless, no off-the-shoulder, all straps must be two inches wide, all skirts must cover the knee…. The requirements go on and on. Our combined armed forces have less stringent regulations for uniforms than the girls who must haul their
dresses into the school in hanging bags to be modeled for a female teacher or Mrs. Friesen. Straps, hems and necklines are checked with a measuring tape to ensure compliance.

I lean back and steal another peek at the slit in Megan’s dress. “That’s a pretty big split.”

“Cut out the stitches after they approved it.” Megan smirks. “I figure I’ll be sitting on it most of the time we’re here. It’s not like we’ll be dancing or anything.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for Mrs. Friesen sneaking up with a tape measure.”

Megan laughs like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
, and leans into my arm. It feels like none of the rest of this ever happened. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror between the elevators. My black tux is crisp and classic. I am seized by the urge to take Megan by the hand and lead her out of the hotel and into the Country Club Plaza; to get away from the room full of our friends waiting for us downstairs. I’m not sure I’m ready to face the whole senior class.

The limo was a few minutes late leaving her house because there were so many people to cram into the long black car. We all split the cost of the car, and there were so many pictures taken I still have purple splotches floating across my eyes from the endless series of flashes. I hadn’t seen anyone since the chapel service, so it was a big reunion of sorts. Megan and I hung back to make arrangements with the driver to pick us up after the banquet while everyone else went inside.