“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.
CHAPTER 14
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.
Beer cans are cooler than regular cans.
My hands shake a little as I pop the tab, and a bit of fizz bubbles up at the top of the can.
Calm down. You’re just opening it. You’re not going to drink it. You’re not doing anything wrong. This is how normal people live.
I pass the can across the island to Drake, who is gathering a plate and utensils for the burgers.
“Thanks, Aaron.” I watch as Mr. Westman downs a long swallow of beer, then juggles the plate, the burgers, and the beer can out the back door toward the grill. Drinking is so casual for them. Bradley didn’t even blink twice, but my heart is racing. You were just holding a cold beer. I try not to imagine what Mom and Dad would say about this.
Bradley is laughing at something his dad says on the deck. He comes over and pokes his head in the door.
“Whatcha doing, man? C’mon—I wanna show you the hot tub.”
I follow Bradley outside and up the steps to the Jacuzzi.
“You say Tyler is coming over tonight?” Drake asks.
“Dad, be nice.”
“Why? That kid is such a putz.”
“Dad! He was one of my best friends.”
“Wait—Tyler Gullem?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says Bradley.
“Oh, god.” Drake grimaces. “You have the misfortune of knowing him, too, huh?”
“He’s in our vocal ensemble,” I say. “You don’t like him?”
Drake takes a swig from his beer. “Think he’s a little uppity is all.”
Bradley rolls his eyes. “Tyler used to be over here all the time—especially last summer. He and Dad used to watch golf together.”
“Golf?” I ask.
“I don’t get it, either,” Bradley says. “We have the biggest TV screen in the Western Hemisphere, and you still can’t see the ball. It’s like watching a camera pan around a landscape painting.”
“We used to watch golf and have a few beers is all.” Drake flips the burgers with short, jerky movements. “Then he went and got brainwashed.”
“He’s not brainwashed, Dad—he’s really into Janice.” Bradley turns and fills me in. “Tyler ‘rededicated his life to Christ’ last year, so he doesn’t hang out much anymore.”
Drake scoffs and finishes his beer. “He’s really into Jesus to hear him tell it.”
All at once, I’m worried: Does Drake think Tyler is brainwashed because he’s into Jesus or because he doesn’t drink anymore? I wonder if Drake will think I’m brainwashed, too, if I don’t drink.
The kitchen door slides open and a woman with a sweet smile and designer jeans steps out onto the deck, holding a glass of white wine. “Hey, boys. How goes the hunting and gathering?”
“Hi, Mom,” Bradley scrambles down the stairs from the Jacuzzi and kisses her on the cheek. “This is Aaron.”
“You’re one tall drink of water, young man.” She winks, and I feel myself blush.
“Nice to meet you.”
Drake hands me the tongs and gives an empty platter to Bradley. “Two more minutes, gentlemen, then pull off the burgers. I’m going inside with this hot mama to mix up some margaritas.”
Mrs. Westman giggles as Drake pinches her on the behind, and pulls her into the kitchen.
“Get a room, you two!” Bradley calls after them. “Jeez,” he says, laughing. “They’ve been horny as hell since he moved back in.”
“When was that?”
“After Christmas last year.”
“How long had he been gone?”
“About two years.” Bradley opens the grill and squints down at the burgers. “Yeah, I was in ninth grade when he moved out.”
“Where’d he go?”
“I dunno, exactly. Stayed with some girl from his office, I think.”
“Wow. So they got a divorce?”
“Yep. They got a divorce, and then this chick turned out to be a nightmare. Coke fiend, the whole thing.”
“So… he came back?”
“Well, not quite that easily. Mom was done with him.”
“How’d he convince her?” I ask.
“He changed,” Bradley says, with a quiet smile. “Let’s pull these off.”
I grab the tongs and put the burgers on the platter Bradley is holding.
“He wooed her,” Bradley explains. “Sent flowers, bought jewelry, made promises he actually kept. Came to every one of my basketball games, even though he hates the school.”
“Think they’ll get married again?”
“Oh, no.” Bradley smiled. “Mom’s smarter than that. She missed him. I knew she did. But that was something she’s never giving up again.”
I close the grill as Bradley covers the platter with a piece of aluminum foil, and we walk toward the kitchen door. As Bradley reaches for the door, he pauses and smiles.
“It’s weird, but they’re happier now than they ever were when they were married, I think. At least from what I remember.”
As we walk into the kitchen, Bradley’s parents are locked at the lips, pressed up against the sink going at it.
“God! Would you two stop it already?” Bradley cries out in mock horror, but he’s smiling as he places the burgers on the counter and grabs a handful of the potato chips Mrs. Westman has put out. The smile stays on his face the entire time we eat.
I’m amazed at how Bradley’s parents treat him like an adult. It’s like they’re old friends who get together for dinner at night. It’s bizarre. No one prays before we eat; no one reads the Bible afterward. When we’re through eating, Drake lights a cigarette out on the deck and refills their margarita glasses. There’s something about it that makes me feel excited—like I’m doing something dangerous.
Maybe I am.
Mom and Dad believe that people who engage in worldly behaviors like drinking, swearing, smoking, and dancing aren’t exhibiting the “fruit of the Spirit” in their lives. I’ve never thought of Mom and Dad as judgmental, but they would definitely question whether the Westmans are Christians.
If Jesus came back right now, would the Westmans be left behind? If they died, would they go to hell?
It feels strange to even think that, because the Westmans are so loving: to each other, to Bradley, to me. They’re kind, and funny, and downright sweet. They may not be married anymore, but they o
bviously love each other.
Dad says God’s plan for romance is marriage: “One man with one woman for life.” The Westmans have followed a different plan, but it seems to suit them. It doesn’t seem they love each other any less because they aren’t married.
After we finish eating, Bradley and I run lines for an hour, then start watching the episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 Bradley has recorded. In one, the whole gang goes on a camping trip, and Dylan storms out after a fight with Brenda. Brandon goes after him and right as they head off on a hike by themselves, there is a knock on Bradley’s front door.
Bradley hits Pause and opens the door for Tyler and Janice.
“Hey, man!” says Bradley. “Good to see you.” He and Tyler do an awkward handshake.
“Hi, Janice.” I wave from the couch as she walks down the three stairs from the front door and peers at the screen. “Have you seen this episode?” I hit Play, and Brandon and Dylan jump to life again.
“Oh, yes!” Janice runs around the couch and plops down next to me. “This is the one where they go camping, right? We watched this one together, Tyler.”
“Yeah, I don’t watch that anymore.” Tyler doesn’t smile when he says this.
“Really?” Bradley asks.
“Yeah, the kids on that show are always drinking and talking about premarital sex. It’s not what we should be thinking about.”
“It’s only a TV show,” says Bradley.
“Yeah, but it’s a TV show about kids being immoral. It’s not pleasing to the Lord.”
There’s an awkward silence. Janice looks at the floor. This is exactly what my dad would want me to do in this situation. He’d want me to hang out with Tyler, not with Bradley. As we all wait for whatever will happen next, I realize I’ve never been good at doing the unpopular thing in front of a crowd. When I was a kid, it was my brother Josh who used to tell older neighborhood boys not to use bad words, never me. It wasn’t that I didn’t love God; I just wanted them to think I was cool.
Is Dad right about me? Maybe I am too worried about what other people think of me.
Finally, Tyler clears his throat. “Well, we just wanted to come by and say hi.”
“Are you sure you can’t stay for a second?” Bradley asks.
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