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.
“House goes on the market next week. They’re looking not far from where you live.”
“Well, at least we’ll live closer together,” says Daphne. “That’ll make it easier to hang out on the weekend.”
We’re both silent for a moment. In the stillness, I try to look for the good in this—the plan. Mom keeps quoting this Bible verse to me, as if it will magically erase the sadness from my eyes, and put a smile back on my face: “All things work together for good….” I can’t see it. This doesn’t feel like the loving hand of a divine master plan. It feels like Dad is getting even.
After a minute, I remember the iron. “Guess I should go press my shirt before I burn down the laundry room.”
“Call me tomorrow and let me know how it goes?” Daphne says.
“Of course.”
CHAPTER 12
You can see the Tri-City Baptist Church and Christian School for miles. A white ski slope of roof races up four stories toward the three crosses that comprise the towering steeple, a massive edifice of smooth, white plaster, glass, and chrome—like the temple of an alien god from a Star Trek episode. You can see it for miles down Interstate 70, a sparkly spaceship for Jesus.
The first time I climbed the stairs to a school building was the day I started kindergarten. Mom waited in the station wagon by the curb to make sure I got into the building. As I reached the door at the top of the stairs, Josh called out to me through the open car window: “Aaron, be a good soldier for Jesus!”
As we walk up the front steps at Tri-City Christian, I can tell Josh is nervous. I can see it in the way his shoulders slump slightly under his book bag. This is his first day of ninth grade, and he’s not in a hurry. He’s got a small part in the play and has been to a few rehearsals in addition to his JV soccer practices, so he knows a few people, but this is the first time we’ve been tossed in with the entire student body, and suddenly I feel protective of him. We’re starting a new school today because of my actions—not his. He has to go through this upheaval because of me.
I want to make this better for him, easier somehow. I want us to be friends again. I want him not to be upset with me for lying about the CD, for buying it in the first place, for screaming “I hate you” at Mom and Dad. I want him to smile at me with the grin he used to have when we were kids building bike ramps in the driveway. I want to take his hand and tell him I’m sorry.
We reach the top of the stairs and I hold the door open for him. “Be a good soldier for Jesus,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Here goes nothin’.”
As we walk through the front door, I stop for a moment and stare. I feel like I’m four year
s old again, standing in the wings, covered in blood. I’m about to make my big entrance, only this time there’s no muscular guy to carry me on. I have to walk out into the light and make up my own lines.
No playing dead this time.
“Aaron! Josh!” I spot Erica’s blonde hair coming toward us down the hall. She is waving and smiling in a navy dress with a lacy collar and mauve roses swirling down the front. She looks like she’s been ambushed by a Laura Ashley bed-in-a-bag. Still, I am relieved to see a familiar face.
“Hey, guys!” She rushes up breathlessly. “C’mon! We all wait for classes to start in the gym.”
The gym smells like sweat and new varnish. The floors have been refinished, and the gloss of the hardwood catches the sun streaming through the high windows above the bleachers. Erica is engulfed in a circle of hugs by a group of giggling girls wearing bows, or flowers, or both. I spot Bradley sitting on the top bleacher. He sees me and Josh and waves us over.
“Hartzler!” he says. “And younger Hartzler.” He jerks his chin up at Josh. He does this thing with his chin where he flips it up at you, and it feels like you’re getting a hello from a movie star. It’s the coolest thing ever. I couldn’t pull it off if I practiced in the mirror for hours.
“So… you boys ready for your first discipleship group?” Bradley teases. “You’re going to love it.”
Discipleship groups are little student-run prayer meetings that take place once a week between second and third periods. Bradley is a senior, so he’s in charge of one.
“You’re both in my group,” he informs us, grinning.
“Really?” I ask. “How’d you make that happen?”
“I have my ways,” he says.
“I’ll bet.” Josh laughs, and when I see his smile, I know it’s going to be okay. It’s our very first day, and we’re already talking to one of the most popular seniors in school.
“So, I guess we owe you now?” I ask.
“Only Josh owes me.” Bradley winks at me and grabs at the collar of his shirt, pulling it down to reveal his clavicle while quoting Madonna. “Hey, Josh. Justify my love.”
“Get away from me,” Josh laughs and moves down a row on the bleachers.
“Don’t leave me, Josh,” Bradley pleads, faking a desperate grasp.
A bell rings and we all grab our stuff. “Our discipleship group meets in here on the stage,” Bradley says. “See you then.”
“If you’re lucky,” Josh says, smirking. My brother slings his backpack over his shoulder and disappears down the hall toward his first class. I watch him go and smile to myself. His shoulders aren’t slumped anymore.
Bradley and I walk toward our lockers.
“Thanks,” I say.
“For what?” he asks.
“Being nice to Josh.”
“No worries. I came here from a public school last year. It was a crazy change. I can’t imagine what it would be like transferring here from the biggest rival school.”
“Why did you switch from the public school?”
“The academics are a lot better here than at Lee’s Summit or Blue Springs.”
“So your parents don’t care where you go?”
Bradley sort of half laughs and then looks at me. “My parents don’t care about anything.”
When Bradley says this, a bell goes off, but not in the hallway—in my head. I suddenly feel hopeful. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that they aren’t really into the rules and the religion of all this,” Bradley explains. “They think it’s fine, but when my dad moved back in, he agreed to pay tuition here so I can get better test scores.”
“Your dad was living somewhere else?”
“Yeah. He and Mom got divorced a couple years ago, but then the fling he was having didn’t work out, so they got back together.”
“What was it like when they got remarried?” I ask.
“Oh, they didn’t get remarried,” says Bradley. “He just moved back in. They’re gonna see how it goes. So far, it’s been pretty cool. You should come meet ’em. They’re fun.”
“Sounds great,” I say. I am trying not to seem too excited.
“Cool,” Bradley says. “Let’s figure out a time this weekend.”
My mind floods with questions: What is it like when your parents don’t live together? What does it mean that your parents are divorced and living together? How are they ‘fun’? My parents can be fun, but for some reason, I get the feeling that the way Bradley is using the word is not the same way I would use the word. I feel certain our lexicons differ.
We close our lockers and walk toward the stairs.
“Buckle up,” Bradley says.
Then he tosses me a chin and heads down the hall.
Josh has JV soccer practice after school, and since I’m his ride, I’m going to practice the piano until he’s finished. I load up an armful of music: Brahms, Hanon and Czerny, Khachaturian, and Bach.
As I swing my locker door closed, Megan appears, like magic. She must’ve been standing behind it. She is wearing her cheerleading uniform and a smirk. “Did I scare you?”
“No—yes—I mean—” What is it about this girl that catches me off guard?
“Whatcha doing?”
I hold up the music. “I have some ivories to tickle.”
“Walk me to cheerleading practice first?” There’s something in the way she arches her eyebrow. It’s not so much a question as a dare.
“Sure.”
She smiles. I smile. We walk.
The athletic fields are across the street from the church and school, a rolling expanse of well-manicured green. A baseball diamond is sandwiched by two soccer fields. The cheerleaders practice outside while it’s still warm. A light breeze catches Megan’s curls and whips them into her face. When she tosses her head, I can smell her perfume.
“You smell good,” I say. Wow, that was lame.
She laughs, “Thanks. It’s called Trésor by Lancôme. My favorite.”
The other girls haven’t arrived yet, so Megan drops to the grass and starts stretching. We watch the soccer team running lines and drills on the field.
“Why didn’t you go out for soccer?” she asks.
“Not my thing,” I say. “More of a music-and-acting guy. I like to run, but you guys don’t have a track team.”
“Yeah, we’re big on the sports you can cheer for.”
“Not so wild for the team sports,” I say.
She cocks her chin and eyes me with a smirk. “More into one-on-one?”
I’m blushing. Girls at Blue Ridge never talked to me this way. Why am I having trouble with a snappy comeback?
“Are you already harassing the new guy?” It’s Heather, aka “Christy”—the captain of the squad.
“Trying,” says Megan.
“Run while you can, Aaron,” says Heather. “This one is dangerous.”
I smile at Heather “I can hold my own.”
Bradley’s light blue Geo Storm is so new and shiny it catches the late-afternoon sun and almost blinds me as it zooms up next to the soccer field. He pulls up near where we are sitting. A short, blonde senior named Angela jumps out, and when she does, Bradley calls to me across the seat. “Hey, Hartzler—what are you doing?”
I stand up and dust the grass off my chinos. “Headed back to the choir room to practice the piano.”
“Nuts. I was gonna see if you wanted to run lines.”
“Can’t tonight, but you can give me a ride back to the parking lot if you want,” I say.
The rest of the cheerleading squad is arriving. Heather is going over names on a clipboard and sorting through a big box of uniforms. Megan waves at Bradley.
“Hey, Bradley.” She smiles at him, then turns to me. “See you tomorrow?”
“If I survive this ride to the parking lot.”
She laughs. “I’ll say a prayer.”
When I get into his car, Bradley turns up the stereo, and tight vocal harmonies cascade over a bea
t that pours out under a lyric I’ve never heard before: Baby, you send me…
“Who is this?” I ask.
Bradley blinks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “P.M. Dawn? The most incredible hip-hop single of the year?”
“Yeah… I don’t get to listen to secular music at my house.” It feels like a confession.
Bradley frowns. “Dang. That’s harsh. No music at all?”
“Only the beautiful, sacred music of KLJC,” I say, parroting the station’s tagline.
“Wait—isn’t that the Christian radio station at that Bible college in Belton?”
“Yeah. My dad teaches there.” I look down at my hands. This is where he realizes I’m too weird to hang out with.
Bradley laughs. “There’s a lot of great music in the world, and as far as I can tell, there is not a high percentage of it on KLJC. We’ve got to get you to my house soon so I can give you an education.”
I exhale with relief. “Name the day.”
“You should crash at my place Friday night. You can meet my parents. I’ll play you the Bradley Westman Essential Collection, and we can run lines before we go to rehearsal Saturday morning.”
My palms are sweaty against the seat. My stomach rolls, but not in a nervous I-have-to-play-the-piano-solo-while-they-pass-the-offering-plate-in-church sort of way; it’s more of a thrilling first drop on the Orient Express roller coaster at Worlds of Fun.
“Sounds good.” I try to keep my voice level. Don’t want to act like I’m too excited. Bradley puts the car in gear and eases back toward my little brown Toyota Tercel in the parking lot.
I glance at the cheerleaders as we drive away. “What about Angela? Do you guys have plans that night?”
“Not really,” he says. “She’ll probably stop by and hang out for a little while. You should see if Megan wants to come by, too.”
“What?”
“Don’t play stupid. She can’t wait to jump all over you.”
“I dunno,” I say. “She’s friends with Erica Norton.”
“Oh, yeah.” Bradley nods. “I heard about that. You guys know each other from camp or something, right?”
“Yeah. And I took her to the Valentine’s banquet at Blue Ridge in ninth grade.”
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