Rapture Practice

by Aaron Hartzler

  On the screen, Brandon’s foot slips on a rock during the hike, and suddenly he’s hanging on for dear life with one hand. Dylan rushes to help him and grabs his wrist. Their friendship hangs in the balance: life or death.

  “Yeah, I have to get Janice home,” says Tyler.

  Janice stands up again and gives me a small wave good-bye. Bradley walks them up the stairs to the front door again. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he jokes.

  “I won’t,” Tyler says firmly. “I won’t do most of the things you would do.” He’s not joking, and when the door closes, Bradley just stands there for a second.

  “Jeez. What was that all about?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. He’s changed.” Bradley walks back down the stairs to the couch. He tries to shrug it off with a smile, but there’s something sad in his eyes. “I think Tyler’s a really good guy, but I don’t get this holier-than-thou thing. He used to be so cool—like you.”

  I can’t help but smile. Bradley thinks I’m cool. As Dylan pulls Brandon to safety on the screen, I feel a surge of relief—not for Brandon Walsh, but for myself. I’m so glad I’m not as uncool as Tyler. I don’t think it’s so wrong to be happy that Bradley likes me. Just because I’m watching a TV show about teenagers drinking and having sex doesn’t mean I am going to drink or have sex. Besides, this show is really about the importance of being there for your friends—your best friends, and right at this moment, that’s all I want.

  Bradley settles onto the couch, and turns the volume back up. We hang out on the couch, surfing back and forth between MTV and VH1. Pop Up Video is running a marathon and it’s addictive. After a while, we are both yawning and head to bed.

  When we get into Bradley’s room, he grabs at the neck of his T-shirt and pulls it off forward over his head. He’s still tan from the summer and I can’t help but notice how muscular his chest is. No wonder the girls love him. I make a mental note to do more push-ups.

  Mrs. Westman appears at the door. “You boys have everything you need?” she asks with yawn.

  “Mom!” exclaims Bradley staring at his calves in the mirror. “Look how big my legs are getting.”

  She laughs and joins me behind Bradley at the mirror. He does have muscular calves.

  “Bradley!” says his mother in mock horror. “You’re so conceited!”

  “What? No!” Bradley protests. “I’ve been doing calf raises. They’re looking killer, right?”

  Mrs. Westman rolls her eyes, then reaches up and runs her hand through Bradley’s hair. “Yes, darling. You’re a real He-Man. Aaron, good luck fitting into the bed with this one. His head is liable to take up the whole room.”

  Bradley laughs and blows his mom a kiss good night, then reaches over and pulls back the comforter and crawls into bed. “You need extra pillows or anything?”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  I’m nervous in this weird way, like when I opened Mr. Westman’s beer earlier, but I don’t understand why. I notice the sheets on Bradley’s bed. The pattern is a light gray grid with red, blue, and yellow geometric shapes scattered sparingly. No floral prints here. Bradley’s room is cool and contemporary, like the rest of his house. I lift the corner of these stylish sheets and gingerly slide in next to him.

  The queen-size bed feels huge, so different from my twin bunk bed at home. There’s no danger of me brushing against Bradley, but I stay as close as I can to my edge of the bed. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to snuggle up or anything. He clicks off the lamp, then flips over on his stomach and hugs the pillow under his head.

  “Thanks for having me over,” I say.

  “Sure, man. I’m glad you came.”

  “Your parents are awesome.”

  “Yeah.” He laughs. “And they like you. You’ll have to come back next weekend.”

  I smile to myself in the darkness. “Sounds great.”

  Bradley’s breathing seems to even out, and after a moment, I’m pretty sure he’s fallen asleep. It startles me a little when he says one more thing.

  “And next week: girls.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Oh be careful, little eyes, what you see,

  Oh be careful, little eyes, what you see.

  For the Father up above is looking down in love,

  So be careful, little eyes, what you see.

  Mom has never been shy about singing Bible club songs in public venues, and the checkout line at the Hy-Vee grocery store is no exception. As she sings, she reaches up to flip over the Vanity Fair magazine she thinks I am looking at. This action, coupled with the song produces the desired effect. I quickly drop my gaze and swivel to face the candy display as if I’ve been caught.

  “Guard your eyes, sugar,” she whispers to me.

  Mom has told me to “guard my eyes” every time she sees a billboard or a TV commercial or rack of magazines since I was four years old. The stars on the magazine covers have changed, but her sweet Southern drawl and her admonition to “guard my eyes” has not. She smiles at me, and I smile back at her, relieved to pretend that I was indeed looking at the Vanity Fair she flipped over.

  Barbra Streisand was splayed across the cover in a knit beret, and while she was wearing a baggy cashmere sweater and fishnets the color of sin, she was not wearing pants. Nothing was seen, but everything was suggested.

  “She’s got such a beautiful voice.” Mom sighs. “It’s a shame they have to take pictures of her that are so immodest.”

  Mom and I came to get groceries for our new house while Dad directs unpacking efforts with Josh, Miriam, and Caleb. Our new place is on an acre of grassy property; a corner lot with a stream along the back in a subdivision across the street from a state park. It’s bigger than our old place, and I finally have my own bedroom.

  As Mom begins to unload the cart, I cautiously glance up at the magazine rack again. It’s hard not to look at the black-and-white photo of Jason Priestley, who is grinning down at me from the cover of Entertainment Weekly like the happiest guy in the world. He and I both know I wasn’t looking at Barbra Streisand’s fishnets. Shannen Doherty is giving him a little peck on the left side of his forehead. Luke Perry’s arms are draped around both of their shoulders. I wonder if this has something to do with why Jason is smiling more broadly than Brandon Walsh ever does on 90210? It feels good to have a friend you’re really close to. I’m starting to feel that close to Bradley.

  When I bend down to heft several two-liter bottles of Diet Coke onto the black conveyor belt, Mom snags my left hand and taps at the gold signet ring on my fourth finger.

  “Remember, sweetheart,” she whispers, “it’s temptation to see it. It’s only sin if you keep looking. When you see a picture that doesn’t please the savior, you can always choose to look down at this ring instead.”

  As Mom pays for the groceries, I spin my virginity ring around my finger with my thumb and study the cover of Entertainment Weekly. Yesterday, after ensemble practice, Bradley saw me tossing The Scarlet Letter into my backpack, and now he keeps telling me that the A on my ring stands for adultery.

  “You should have Bradley come over for dinner,” Mom says as she takes the receipt from the clerk and puts her wallet back into her purse.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

  I try to imagine Bradley sitting at our kitchen table holding hands and praying with everybody. It’s a terrifying thought. He’ll think it’s totally lame. Nobody will offer him a beer or a margarita, that’s for sure.

  “What are you guys going to do tomorrow night?” Mom asks.

  “I’m not sure,” I tell her, pulling my eyes from the magazines and pushing the cart toward the car. “Probably hang out at his place and work on our lines for the play some more.”

  It’s another lie of the “not-the-whole-truth variety.” We’re going to watch a marathon of 90210 episodes Bradley has recorded, and he’s invited a couple girls over. I feel guilty about lying to Mom, but if she knew what we had planned, she wouldn’t
let me go.

  What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

  I am standing in Bradley’s driveway, leaning against his car. Actually, I’m leaning against Ashley, the sophomore from geometry, who is leaning against Bradley’s car. The car is freshly waxed, making Ashley sort of slide around as I lean into her. Her lips are slick like the car, and I realize that her light pink lip gloss is probably all over my face.

  “You’re such a good kisser,” she says softly.

  “You are, too.” I whisper this into her ear, and feel her twist away from my breath involuntarily. She pulls me closer to her.

  Note to self: Breath on the ear seems to have a generally positive effect.

  “Mmmmm…” Ashley’s tongue is all the way in my mouth, and I kiss her back, strongly, almost forcefully. I’ve never French kissed anyone before. I feel relieved it’s finally happening. I know Mom and Dad would say what I’m doing is sin, but I try not to think about it. I’m already nervous about whether I’m doing this right or not. No need to bring my eternal soul into the mix.

  Ashley slides her arms around my neck and lays her head back against the roof of the car. I know Bradley is inside with Angela, and my mind wanders to what he’s doing with her on the couch in front of his parents’ giant big-screen television.

  I imagine Bradley wrapping an arm around Angela’s low back and pulling her into him. I imagine what his face looks like while he kisses her. I imagine what his breath feels like as it breezes against her neck. I try to do exactly what I see him doing in my mind and, suddenly, I’m not nervous anymore. In fact, I am very noticeably not nervous. Ashley notices, too, and presses more closely against me.

  “Hey, big guy.” She giggles. “You feel good.”

  I don’t know what to say. My heart is racing, and my mind is barely keeping pace.

  “There’s more to me than my lips, you know,” she says softly. She grabs my hand and slips it under her sweater and onto her stomach.

  Her skin is soft and warm, and I can feel her body rise and fall with each breath. She slides her arms around my neck, then slowly weaves her legs with mine. I’ve never been pressed up against a girl this close before. I open my eyes and look down at her as our mouths melt into each other. She is lost in our kiss, holding on to me like I might float away.

  All at once, it feels like I’ve lost my place. A knot of panic forms in my stomach, and rolls up my spine: I’m not sure what to do next.

  I clamp my eyes closed again and try to imagine what Bradley would do now. I picture his legs tangled up with Angela’s on the couch, his hand under her shirt, resting on her stomach. I see him press into her gently, so I do that, too. Ashley moans softly.

  So far, so good.

  I pretend that I’m Bradley, and suddenly there is life in my hand. It’s not simply resting on Ashley’s stomach; it’s softly caressing the skin under her sweater. There’s a movie screen in my mind, and I can see Bradley calmly, surely, moving his hand up, up, up toward Angela’s chest. I do the same with Ashley, and as I do, my fingertips brush the cool satin of her bra.

  Ashley pulls her lips from mine, and her head rolls back, her eyes closed, and I kiss her chin, then her neck, as I watch Bradley do the same in my head. Ashley arches her back as my hand slides over her bra and I gently caress her breast, and I hear a soft, low moan escape her lips.

  Something about that sound is like a record scratch that cuts into the movie in my mind. I lose the picture of what Bradley would do next, like static blurring out the picture on an old TV set. All at once, I feel what is actually happening in the body beneath my brain. My face feels wet, almost sloppy, and my back is hot. My knees are weak, and I realize that my hand is touching Ashley’s right breast.

  I feel us breathing together as her body rises to meet me, but it’s like someone has thrown a switch. Suddenly, my hand is frozen on the cup of her bra, just sitting there. Hanging out, like an accessory—a breast-ccesory: Hey I’m Aaron’s hand, and I’m hanging out on your breast. We’ll see if he’s got any more moves… Hmm. Nope. Nope he doesn’t. So… I guess I’ll just sit here for a second.

  I realize that I am imagining my hand talking to me, and this feels ridiculous. I hear laughter, and to my horror, I realize it’s my own.

  Ashley’s head pops up, “What? What’s wrong? Did I tickle you?”

  “No! No… you’re… fine,” I say. Quick. Think of something. “I’m thinking this is not a very easy… position… for all of this. You can’t be comfortable pressed up against this car.”

  “Oh!” Ashley starts laughing. “Yeah, totally,” she says, and giggles. She lays her head against my chest. “God, you feel so good. I could kiss you all night.”

  “Well, if you stay leaned up against this car all night, you’re going to need a chiropractor,” I joke.

  “Or a condom,” she whispers.

  The words fall from her lips as if she’s said them a hundred times. She wraps both arms around my waist, then gently spins us so that my back is leaning against the car. She’s short enough that her head fits snugly beneath my chin.

  A condom? Is Ashley saying that she wants to have sex with me?

  None of the girls at Blue Ridge had ever hinted at having sex with me, but I didn’t really have a girlfriend at Blue Ridge. Erin from church decided she wanted to be “just friends” not long after the CD incident. Daphne was the girl I’d spent the most time with at school, but our relationship had never been romantic.

  Of course, just because no one had ever made it clear she wanted to have sex with me personally didn’t mean sex wasn’t happening at Blue Ridge. There were definitely rumors about people having sex—rumors that had been confirmed last spring when George and Ginny Karaft had come to the school for Spiritual Emphasis Week. We’d had chapel every day for a week, led by my dad’s friend George, a tall guy with a mustache from the seventies, and his wife, Ginny, a petite woman with a pointy nose and poodle-tight curls, who strummed an Autoharp as she sang scripture songs she’d written from Bible verses in Proverbs.

  George and Ginny ran a camp for teenagers in Oregon during the summer. At the end of the week, there was a bonfire ceremony to induct campers into the “Council of the Rising Son”—“Son” referring to Jesus, the Son of God. During this ceremony, you could take a symbolic stick off the pile and throw it on the fire. The stick represented your life, being burned up in the service of Jesus. George and Ginny traveled the country as evangelists the rest of the year, challenging teenagers to “sell out to Jesus Christ.”

  George’s energy was infectious, and on the last day of Spiritual Emphasis Week, he finished his message and then encouraged students to come and share what God had done in their lives that week.

  “I know that we don’t have a bonfire here in the auditorium,” he said, “but we don’t need sticks and fire to talk about how the Lord Jesus has set your heart ablaze for him!”

  A line formed at the side of the auditorium, and student after student got up and talked about what they had learned that week. George had encouraged us not to hold anything back from the light of God’s love.

  “What part of yourself have you been unwilling to give God?” he asked us. “Give it to him now, in the quietness of your heart, then stand up and be counted in front of your friends.”

  Some students said that they had never really committed their lives to Jesus, and that they had prayed for salvation. A junior named Jimmy apologized for being disrespectful to our study hall supervisor in front of everyone, and promised to let the Lord control his heart and his actions in study hall from now on.

  Then Marjorie Shackley stepped to the front of the line. Marjorie was gorgeous—one of the prettiest girls in the school. She had perfect auburn hair that blazed red in the sun when she ran track. She was petite and energetic, with a perfect figure and fiery blue eyes. When she reached the microphone, there were already tears running down her cheeks.

  “I have to be honest,” she said, and sobbed. “I haven’t lived
for Jesus.”

  She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then leaned forward into the mic. “I lost my virginity,” she cried. “No! No, I didn’t lose it. I gave it away,” she said, choking. “I gave it away on the hood of a car.”

  The silence that descended over us was complete. No one moved. No one breathed. Finally, Marjorie choked out a few more sentences asking for our forgiveness and God’s, then stumbled back to her seat.

  I turned to Daphne and whispered, “Did that just happen?” She responded by digging her fingers into my leg and shaking her head in disbelief.

  Making out with Ashley leaning up against this car makes me think of Marjorie Shackley and losing her virginity on the hood of another car. And my hand on Ashley’s breast, and thinking about what Bradley would do, and sex in general, and how important it all feels, suddenly seems very important. It feels like any decision at all could be fatal—like the next move I make could be my last.

  I try to calm down. Maybe it’s not that big of a deal.

  If I’m really honest with myself, having sex with a girl has never seemed like a huge temptation. After all the sermons and instructions about how having premarital sex with a girl will ruin my testimony for Christ and my ability to have a healthy marriage, I’m sort of fine with not doing it. I understand that having sex as a teenager does come with more high-risk consequences than, say, listening to rock music or sneaking out to movies. Where sex is concerned, I’ve been told I should stay as far away from girls as possible. It’s all about saving, and waiting, and not putting yourself in a position where you can’t stop yourself.

  “If you don’t want the truck to go over the cliff, you don’t park it right on the edge,” Dad likes to say. “You keep a healthy distance.” And Dad practices what he preaches. He has a window cut in the door of any new office he moves to at the Bible college. That way, if he’s alone in a meeting with a female student or professor, others can’t accuse him of questionable behavior. They can see what’s going on for themselves, right through the door.