“Please,” I whisper. “Please, help.”
It’s the only prayer I can manage.
Then I practice the Brahms étude I’m supposed to have memorized for my lesson next week. Maybe God answers my prayer. Or maybe I don’t have any tears left to cry. At some point, I realize my eyes are dry, and I look at the clock. I head to my locker before the curtain call and make my way to the car before the whole student body floods the hallway. The fewer people I have to see, the better.
Nanny is waiting for me in the garage when I pull in. Mom called her three weeks ago to tell her I wasn’t going to be in the play after all, but she insisted on coming for the weekend anyway.
“You better put down that backpack and give your Nanny a hug.”
I obey, and suddenly I am crying again. Nanny kisses my cheek and holds me for what feels like a very long time.
“Darlin’, what’s wrong?” she whispers.
“You came all this way to see me in this stupid play.” I sob into her shoulder. “I disappointed everybody.”
“Hey. Hey, you look at me, young man.” She steps back and takes my face in both her hands. “Nothing you could do would ever disappoint me. Do you hear me? Nothing.”
I raise my eyes to meet hers shining back at me, bright even in the dim light of the garage. “I’m sorry you can’t be in this play,” she says, “but that’s a decision your daddy made. I’m here to celebrate you.”
She hugs me tight once more, and I remember the night she carried me into McLemore’s market, wrapped up in Papa’s crocheted afghan. Nanny always makes me feel safe.
“Now then,” she says, heading over to the trunk of Dad’s car, “will you be a gentleman, please, and help me carry up another tank of oxygen for Papa?”
Papa’s breathing has grown steadily worse. He wheels a little green tank of oxygen around with him wherever he goes now.
“How is he doing?” I ask.
“As well as you can do with emphysema,” Nanny says. “Your uncle Edward won’t quit smoking, and I’ve informed him he’d better have other plans for long-term care. Your papa is my last emphysema patient.”
I lift a green tank out of the trunk.
“ ’Course Papa is a stubborn man, darlin’. He may outlast us all,” she says. “I sat him down the other day and said if he didn’t stop being so ornery, we weren’t gonna have a funeral for him.”
“Nanny!”
She laughs and winks at me as she closes the trunk. “Told him he best start being sweet, or I’m gonna use his insurance money to put a swimming pool in the backyard. We’ll bury him under the diving board.”
The next night after dinner, instead of heading up to school so I can get into costume and perform, I sit at the table and wait as Dad takes out his Bible and leads family devotions. He reads a passage of scripture, then Josh reads from a little devotional book called The Daily Bread. Mom has Miriam pull a postcard out of the Missionary Prayer Box, and we all take turns praying for the missionary family whose picture is on the card.
This is supposed to be my big opening night. Instead, it’s like every other night—only Nanny is here with her coffee cup, Papa is here with his oxygen tank, and Dad has an announcement:
“I know we thought we were going to see a play at Blue Ridge tonight,” he says, “but because that didn’t work out, I thought we’d go see the musical at Tri-City tomorrow.”
“Tri-City?” I ask. The alarms are ringing in my head. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. “How’d you hear about the musical at Tri-City?” Something about this feels wrong. Very wrong.
“I went to speak in their chapel service last week, and the principal, Mr. Friesen, invited us all to come and see the show tomorrow night.”
“You spoke in chapel at Tri-City last week?” I ask.
“You know they’ve got this big new church auditorium, where they’re doing the play,” Dad says, “and they’re building a brand-new high school wing.”
“Aren’t they sort of crazy conservative?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says Josh. “I hear they don’t let boys and girls talk to each other between classes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dad laughs. “Besides, your friend Erica from camp goes to school there.”
It hits me like a ton of bricks out of the clear blue sky—right there in the kitchen while Nanny pours more coffee, and Mom loads the dishwasher, and Papa breathes air through a tube in his nose. A horrible certainty settles in the pit of my stomach:
Dad is going to make us go to Tri-City next year.
I can see how the whole weekend will unfold with perfect clarity before I even leave the dinner table. I can see us watching the musical, and Dad introducing me to the director. I can already hear his sales pitch about how great the music and theater and sports programs are. I can see right now how I will argue and bargain and beg, and ultimately it will not matter. God already knows who will get into heaven, and Dad already knows we’ll be changing schools.
Dad has decided, and that settles it. His decision started two summers ago when I bought a ticket to a movie he doesn’t know I saw—a movie that led to a soundtrack I loved, a lie I can never un-tell, and three words I can never take back.
Across the table, Nanny smiles and winks at me, unaware of what has just transpired.
You’d be surprised how one thing leads to another.
CHAPTER 11
A short, stout woman in her fifties with an enthusiastic wave and no waist swings open the door of the school office when she sees Dad and me striding down the empty corridor of lockers and classrooms. She’s the same size from her shoulders to her ankles, and I imagine her welcoming Santa Claus home on Christmas morning from a night dodging angels and delivering gifts.
“Oooooooooooh, Dr. Hartzler,” she squeals in a thick Southern drawl, “we are so excited that y’all are joinin’ us here at Tri-City this year.”
Dad smiles. “We’re glad to be here, Lynne. This is Aaron.”
I am instantly engulfed in a bear hug. Lynne is wearing denim from head to toe, and her straight skirt clings to her thighs like a sausage casing. This woman is a blue-jean hot dog.
“I’m Principal Friesen’s wife, Lynne, but you can call me Mama Friesen.” She turns to Dad. “Larry is in a meeting, but he’ll be done in a sec, so let’s get Aaron down to play practice.”
I cringe. Everyone who knows anything about theater knows the word is rehearsal, but I keep my best smile plastered firmly in place as I follow her and Dad down the hallway. I’ve been here for roughly fifty-seven seconds, and I already know I have zero intention of referring to this woman as “Mama.”
After weeks of pleading with Dad to not make us change schools, the deed is done. Classes start at the end of the month, and we’ll be driving thirty minutes across town to attend until we find a house closer to the school. Dad has worked a deal with Principal Friesen and the drama teacher, and somehow I’ve been assigned a part in the school play, which was cast last spring. I got a call from a Mrs. Hastings two weeks ago informing me I’d been given a small but memorable role—no audition required.
Dad has been trying really hard to reach out to me over the past few weeks especially. There were surprise tickets to a Royals game, a trip to Worlds of Fun, and a hundred hopeful glances in the hallway. He’s been very vocal about how beautiful my piano playing is when I’m practicing, and the other night he turned on the lamp next to the chair where I was reading in the living room, and stood there waiting until I looked up at him.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he says. “I just love you so much, Aaron.”
When the part in the play came through, his relief was palpable, like this would fix everything. “See?” Dad said with a hopeful smile when I hung up the phone. “The Lord is working everything out for you, son. ‘God delights to give his best to those who leave the choice with him.’ ”
Of course, I have had no choice about this at all. If it were my choice, I wo
uldn’t be here for the first day of rehearsal for the play at Tri-City. For weeks Dad has been trying to make this better somehow—brokering a role in the play, telling me over and over again how this is what he and Mom “have peace about,” explaining how much they prayed about making this decision.
They spent a lot of time asking God if they should put us in a new school. I wish they’d spent time asking me about it. I’m the one who has to go to class here every day. They care more about what God thinks of where they send me to school than they do about what I think, that’s for certain. Dad said it best the other day:
“Aaron, I have to answer to God one day for the decisions I make as a parent. I want to send you to a school where the students are going to exert positive peer pressure on you to serve the Lord.”
As we walk down the hall toward the rehearsal, I feel my stomach turn. At least if I have to go to school here, I’ll get to be in the play, but even this makes me nervous. I’m simply being given a role. How does that look? Did someone else lose this part because I got it?
Dad and Mrs. Friesen are chatting like old friends. “Larry was so happy this all worked out,” she says. “And, Aaron, you’ll just love Mrs. Hastings, the drama teacher. She’s done such a wonderful thing with our plays and musicals. I know she’s looking forward to having you here.”
I see Dad’s eyes glance over at me, watching for my reaction. He wants so badly for this to work.
“Yes, we saw the musical this past spring,” I say cheerfully. “It was terrific.” My face already hurts from smiling, but I can tell Lynne Friesen thinks I’m the bee’s knees.
“Aaron’s the best actor I’ve ever directed,” Dad says. “I directed him in a play when he was four years old. He stole the show then, and he’s been a natural ever since.” I realize he’s right. Even now, Mrs. Friesen has no idea how much I don’t want to be here. Maybe this is going to be easier than I thought.
We reach the door of a large multipurpose room. Through a thin window I can see the backs of two other students holding scripts and reading lines while a woman with red hair a shade I’m certain was not created by God scribbles notes on a clipboard. The rest of the cast watches the rehearsal from large round tables off to the side.
“This is where y’all will practice until school starts,” Mrs. Friesen says, “then we move into the church auditorium. Ready?”
Without waiting for an answer, she turns the handle and swings the door wide, plowing a course for center stage directly through the scene, already in progress.
The drama teacher, looks up, startled, as Mrs. Friesen marches into the room, but when Mrs. Hastings sees me standing next to my dad, she lets loose a warm smile, her lips a hypnotizing shade of pink.
“Aaron!” She floats over and extends one hand to me, the other folded across her chest as she turns her head to the side in the sort of demure curtsy one might expect of a lady-in-waiting to Queen Victoria.
This is it. It’s up to me how this goes from here. I make a split-second decision and turn on the charm.
“Mrs. Hastings.” I take her extended hand in both of mine and grasp it as if being welcomed by royalty. She pulls herself close to me in a cloud of gardenia perfume and whispers, “We’re so pleased to have a true thespian of your caliber in our midst.”
“Good to see you again, Margaret.” Dad is smiling at Mrs. Hastings, who smiles at Mrs. Friesen, who is smiling at me as I smile back at all three of them. Smiles all around. We’re a smiley bunch of Baptists.
“We really enjoyed the musical this spring,” says Dad. “Thank you for making room for Aaron in your new production.”
“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 t
elling 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.
Rapture Practice Page 10