Rapture Practice

by Aaron Hartzler

  “It is pretty dissonant,” I agree. “Twentieth-century composers use lots of clashing tones to build tension—along with lots of random emphasis on the two/four beat.” I love teasing Dad about his rock music theories. I raise my eyebrows and smirk at him. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t let me quit taking lessons?”

  Dad laughs. “What I didn’t tell you back then is that when you turned seventeen, you’d have to start paying for your lessons yourself.”

  “Careful what you wish for, Dad. You wanted a son who played the piano in church. That’s what you got.”

  “Glory,” Dad exclaims in a farm-boy hick accent that he uses to joke around. “Can’t you practice some of those pretty hymn arrangements? I’m not sure how much more Russian tension I can take.”

  “I’m done for tonight.” I smile. “No more Russian music torture until tomorrow.”

  Mom calls Josh, Miriam, and Caleb to join us at the table for dinner. After we eat, Dad reaches for his Bible as Mom grabs the Missionary Prayer Box and pulls out a prayer card for a missionary family.

  I look around as Dad reads, and think about my family. As much homework as I have to do after dinner, something about this feels good. It’s nice to sit down together like this every night. Not many other kids in my class at school do this.

  My family is like the andante espressivo section in the middle of the toccata. Sometimes I feel like the melodies of my family are always in conflict—that I’m constantly hitting the wrong notes. Often our rhythms are set against one another, and we clash. Then there are moments like this, moments where I hear it all come together, and realize if we keep at it—keep practicing, keep searching for the right combinations—we always make an accidental harmony. Our individual notes come together in ways we never knew were possible, ways that surprise me.

  Maybe the searching is the music.

  After I finish my chemistry homework I call Daphne and tell her about Megan.

  “Do you like Megan?” she asks.

  “Well… yeah.”

  Daphne’s soft chuckle is the response. “That wasn’t a ringing endorsement.”

  “It seems like everyone expects me to ask Megan out, and I don’t want to hurt Erica’s feelings. I think Erica is really hoping I’ll ask her out.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  When Daphne says these words, I realize something: No one ever asks me that.

  “I want to hang out with Bradley and talk to him. Get his advice,” I say.

  “Sounds like a plan. You really like this Bradley, don’t you?”

  For some reason, the way she says it makes me blush. “Yeah.” I smile into the phone. “He’s the best.”

  “Well, I trust you’ll introduce me to Megan and Bradley this weekend. I’m coming to see your play on Saturday.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be the hillbilly with the beard and the shotgun.”

  Daphne laughs. “Naturally.”

  CHAPTER 18

  There’s a serial killer in my Bible class.

  Every day after geometry, seventh period is Bible class. Mr. Kroger teaches us evangelical theology, and we memorize entire passages of the Bible for a grade in our verse quiz each week. Bradley calls it “mandatory God.”

  Mr. Kroger also shows videos in class from time to time. Today’s video features Dr. James Dobson, a Christian psychologist and author who founded a a ministry based in Colorado Springs called Focus on the Family. My mom listens to his radio show every day.

  On the video, Dr. Dobson is interviewing Ted Bundy, a serial killer who was executed several years ago after systematically kidnapping, raping and killing many women over twenty years. No one really knows for sure how many. He confessed to around thirty killings, but experts estimate the true number may have been as high as one hundred. Dr. Dobson doesn’t really talk to Ted about that. He’s more focused on the big issue at hand: How does someone do this to so many people?

  I expect the answer might be mental illness. Maybe Ted was off his meds?

  But according to Dr. Dobson, it isn’t. The reason Ted Bundy says he did all of these things?

  Pornography.

  Dr. Dobson asks Ted if the pornography he looked at made him want to degrade women. Ted explains that it did. The message of the video is very clear: Pornography makes you want to hurt women and girls. If you look at enough porn, you might not be able to control your fantasies; you might start to act them out on unsuspecting women and girls. And then kill them.

  There is a big ad campaign around town right now, which is funded by a church group, about the dangers of pornography. There are billboards all over Kansas City with famous sports stars, mainly major-league baseball players. They’re all smiling and happy and very clean-cut looking, wearing spotless sports uniforms. The tagline reads REAL MEN DON’T USE PORN.

  Not far from our house in Lee’s Summit, there’s an adult bookstore. The billboard above the bookstore is a spoof of the ads about not looking at porn. It’s a picture of four guys in athletic uniforms from behind—presumably the same four guys in the billboards that read REAL MEN DON’T USE PORN. Only, in this picture, the point of view is the back of each of these guys, and we see each one has a Hustler or a Playboy rolled up in his back pocket. The tagline above their heads is in big, bold letters: REAL MEN DON’T NEED TO BE TOLD WHAT TO READ.

  A knock on the classroom the door jolts me back to reality. Mr. Kroger presses Pause on the remote, and one of the junior high girls who helps out in the office during study hall hands Mr. Kroger a note.

  “Aaron, Mr. Friesen needs to see you.”

  I knew it.

  I can feel every single eye in the room burning into me. I grab my books and head to the door. I walk down to Mr. Friesen’s office, my stomach flip-flopping the same way it does every time I’m “caught.” This is about the song I sang in chapel with Erica.

  When I reach his office, Mr. Friesen indicates a chair, and once I’m seated, he leans across his desk, and confirms my hunch. “Aaron, we need to talk about the song that you and Erica sang last week in chapel.”

  “Sure.” Open. Friendly. Warm. Not hiding anything. Play dumb.

  “You know, we’re really glad that your dad decided to bring you and your brothers and sister to Tri-City. One of the things he talked to me about when y’all came here was how he was concerned about your attitude, and your commitment to Christ.”

  I am silent. There’s no way to deny it. That’s why I’m here.

  “It’s come to my attention that you have been bragging to other students that you got away with singing a song by Sandi Patty in chapel. Is this true, Aaron?”

  I’m used to edging around the truth with my parents, but this is the first time I’ve done it with Mr. Friesen. My heart is pounding, and my palms get sweaty, but I maintain eye contact and try to speak casually so I don’t sound defensive. Stay cool.

  “The song came out of a book of duet arrangements. Erica and I sang it at camp last summer. Everybody loved the song so much we thought we’d sing it here, too.”

  Mr. Friesen peers at me through his bifocal glasses. He has salt-and-pepper hair and a tan. He probably used to be handsome when he was younger and thinner, back when he was in the military.

  He is silent. Inscrutable. A real man. I wonder if he ever looked at porn magazines in the army?

  “Aaron, Tyler Gullem told me that you were pretty proud of yourself for pulling one over on Mr. Green and singing a song that was recorded by a Christian singer we wouldn’t normally allow here.”

  Tyler Gullem, you have met your match.

  “I’m not sure where Tyler heard me saying that, Mr. Friesen. I think Janice asked me who sang the song, but I certainly wasn’t bragging about it—or pretending to pull one over on Mr. Green. I really respect Mr. Green. He’s one of my favorite teachers.”

  “You know, the song was a fine song, but it didn’t have much good theology in it. I don’t even think the song had the word God in it. It was…” He pauses, searchin
g for a phrase.

  “Beautiful,” I say quietly. “The song was beautiful.”

  Mr. Friesen looks at me hard. We lock eyes. I keep my smile plastered firmly in place.

  Real men don’t need to be told what to sing.

  “Mr. Friesen, the song is a song about God’s love. It never uses the word God, but that’s what the song is about. I’m sorry Tyler thought I was bragging about this. I wasn’t. If you’d like to call him in here, we can talk about it.”

  Mr. Friesen looks down at his desk, then back up at me.

  Home run.

  “Be careful of how you’re perceived here, Aaron. You seem to be a smart young man who can do great things for God. The other students here already look up to you. I’d hate to see you lose your testimony by being deceitful. I know that was one of the things your dad was concerned about when you came to school here.”

  Assure him there’s nothing to worry about.

  “I wanted to sing a beautiful song, Mr. Friesen. I’m sorry that all of this got misconstrued. I really love it here at Tri-City. I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.”

  My stomach feels better. Mr. Friesen doesn’t know we used Wite-Out on the music. Tyler missed that part.

  Mr. Friesen smiles and pats me on the back as he walks me to his office door. “Remember, Aaron, I’m not the only one watching. You might be able to fool me, but you’ll never be able to fool Almighty God. Make sure you keep your attitude and your heart right before him.”

  I turn to him with a serious nod. “I will, Mr. Friesen.”

  Back down the hall in Bible class, Ted Bundy is telling James Dobson about how pornography finally pushed him over the edge to murder.

  “Would it be accurate to call that a sexual frenzy?” Dr. Dobson asks.

  “That’s one way to describe it,” says Bundy. His eyes are clear. He has dark hair. There’s something handsome about this serial killer. “Another fact I haven’t mentioned is the use of alcohol. In conjunction with my exposure to pornography, alcohol reduced my inhibitions and pornography eroded them further.”

  I look around at the guys in my class. If I’ve been reading Penthouse at Bradley’s house, I know somebody else has been reading it. Surely I’m not the only one.

  Is this how Ted Bundy started?

  About a week ago, I went to the adult bookstore with Bradley one night after rehearsal for the play. It was dark, and we parked behind the building in case anybody drove by who might recognize our cars.

  My heart raced as we got to the door. I wasn’t sure if they’d stop me and ask for my ID. I wasn’t eighteen yet, but the guy behind the counter was watching a football game and barely glanced over at us. I followed Bradley, who headed straight for the magazines at the back.

  “This place is wild,” he whispered as we walked past a row of sex toys. One shelf held different devices demonstrated by a muscular, naked guy on the front of the box. He was handsome and his eyes were closed, his head back, and he was very noticeably aroused from using this device.

  For some reason, that’s the only image from the store I really remember.

  It’s weird.

  I know we looked at other stuff. I know Bradley showed me some pictures in magazines and pointed out girls he thought were really hot, but I can’t picture any of them now. All I can picture is the naked guy on that one box. That certainly doesn’t seem to make me want to hurt any girls. I guess I’m not in danger of becoming a serial killer.

  I don’t want to hurt anyone at all.

  Dr. Dobson wraps up his interview with Ted Bundy by talking about Jesus, and the Twenty-Third Psalm, and walking through the “valley of the shadow of death.” Ted will be put to death in the electric chair for his crimes a few hours after this taping, but he’s accepted the wondrous grace of God’s forgiveness. He’s accepted Jesus Christ as his savior, and there’ll be a place for him in heaven when he is executed.

  “Do you draw strength from that as you approach these final hours?” Dr. Dobson asks.

  I can’t even hear what Ted Bundy says in reply. A needle scratches across the record in my brain.

  Ted Bundy is going to be in heaven?

  Everything I’ve ever believed about the importance of mission work explodes in my brain. I teach Good News Club with Mom because kids who know the difference between right and wrong but don’t believe in Jesus will die and go to hell for all eternity. But apparently, Ted Bundy will be in heaven because he asked Jesus into his heart after he raped and killed thirty women—at least.

  I look around our Bible class. Does anyone else think this is weird? Is this the God my parents believe in?

  Is this the God I believe in?

  When the bell rings, Erica follows me to my locker. “What did Mr. Friesen want to talk to you about?”

  “The evils of Sandi Patty,” I say grimly. I toss my notebook into my locker and grab my brown paper lunch sack.

  “I was afraid of that.” She sighs. “Why didn’t he call me in, too?”

  “Tyler Gullum doesn’t have it in for you.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “Nope. Just tired of this game we’re all playing.”

  “What game?” she asks, blinking, bewildered.

  A slow sigh escapes me. “The game where kids in the jungle go to hell, and serial killers go to heaven,” I say quietly.

  Alarm wrinkles Erica’s forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aaron.”

  “Exactly.”

  I turn and head down the hall to the lunchroom, leaving Erica staring after me, clutching her notebook to her chest.

  Megan appears at my elbow. “Principal’s office by the fifth week of school. I knew you were trouble.”

  “Yep. Me and Satan-worshipping Sandi Patty. Wait until I sing an Amy Grant song in the cafeteria.”

  Megan shakes her head and laughs. “Good Lord. This place.”

  The general noise of the lunchroom is a welcome reprieve to the din in my head. We snag chairs in a back corner and eat in silence for a minute.

  “You know, people are going to start talking if we keep having lunch together like this,” Megan says.

  I am tired of games. “So let’s have dinner.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “You’ll have to meet my parents first,” I say. “It’ll be easier to get a ‘yes’ to go out with you if they know you first.”

  “I’m great with parents.”

  Megan is telling the truth. I’m great with parents, too. Takes one to know one.

  “They’ll be at the play this weekend. I’ll introduce you afterward. Then maybe we can do something on Saturday.”

  “What did you have in mind?” she asks.

  “Let’s start casual,” I say. “Burgers? A movie?”

  “Your parents will let you take me to a movie?”

  “Of course not. We’ll tell them we’re going to watch something at your place.”

  Megan smirks at me, amused. “Christian rock. Sneaking out to movies. I better be careful. You’re probably going to try to get to second base on our first date.”

  “I can assure you, I am a perfect gentleman.”

  She eyes me as she gathers up her lunch bag and purse, then flips her curls over her shoulder. “That’s not what I’ve heard,” she whispers.

  She winks at me, then walks out of the lunchroom without looking back.

  “Aaron, I can’t get over how excellent you were in the play.”

  Christy! the musical closed last night and on the way to church this morning Dad is still beaming about my performance as the jigging, rifle-toting hillbilly.

  “Yes, honey!” Mom chimes in. “You stole the show, and it was so nice to meet Megan afterward. She seems like a real sweetheart. Did you say she’s a cheerleader?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was thinking maybe I’d take Megan out for dinner next Saturday night. I have the afternoon shift at the ice rink. Would that be okay?”

  “I don’t see
why not,” says Dad. He looks over at Mom.

  “Fine with me.” Mom smiles. “She seems to have a really sweet spirit.”

  “Aaron’s got a girlfriend,” Caleb pipes up from the way back.

  Dad laughs. “Let him go on a first date, will you? Who knows?” he jokes, “Maybe she won’t like him at all.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot,” I say, laughing.

  “I can’t believe it’s already time for the ice rink to open again,” says Mom.

  I’ve worked for her friend Deena at a seasonal outdoor rink in Kansas City for the past two years. From October to March, the Carriage Club in Kansas City opens for figure skating, hockey leagues, and late-night broomball games. I’m a rink guard, and every now and then I help teach ice-skating basics to the toddler classes. Deena and the rink manager, Carla, came to the play last night, too.

  Deena skated competitively and then in the Ice Capades. Now, she and three former pro friends run the skating school at the Carriage Club.

  “Deena says everyone is welcome next weekend if you want to come skate while I’m working.”

  “That’ll be fun.” Mom smiles. “I’ll get details from her if I see her after the service.”

  Our pastor recently heard the call of God to go be the pastor of a different church, so Dad is filling in until they can find somebody else. Before he starts preaching, I play the piano for Mom to sing a song called “It Will Be Worth It All,” about how all of our trials and tribulations on earth will melt away in the bliss of seeing Jesus when he comes back, or when we die—whichever happens first.

  Dad’s sermon is about God’s grace. He explains how God demonstrated grace by sending Jesus to pay the price for our sins. This was an elegant act of mercy that saves us from an eternity in hell if we allow it to.

  “For by grace are ye saved, through faith,” Dad quotes from Ephesians. “It’s God’s grace that allows us the chance at eternal life through Jesus Christ.”

  All I have to do is believe.