“I’m ready to go in there and go to the mat on this with them.”
The tone of Dad’s voice makes me pause and lower the pen. He is looking me directly in the eyes. “I think they’re going about this the wrong way. They’re on a witch hunt here.”
I glance at Mom. She is watching intently from the door.
“I think they mean well, but, Aaron, if you say you didn’t drink, I believe you, and they should, too. Before I go in there and defend you, I’m going to ask you one last time: Did you drink at that party?”
There’s no proof. It’s my word against Tyler’s.
I try to imagine the meeting tomorrow. Dad and Mom and me and Tyler and Dr. Spicer and Mr. Friesen. I would maintain that there was only Diet Coke in my glass. Dad and Mom would stick by me, but Tyler would be telling the truth, and my parents would be sticking up for my lies.
I run my finger along the feathery edge of an announcement on the pile.
Torn.
I look up at my dad. I love him so much. He’s always been on the other side of this equation, calling in students and their parents when their kids have done something wrong. I don’t want him to be embarrassed.
The pile of graduation announcements under construction covers the table. At least thirty are complete: stuffed, sealed, stamped, addressed—ready to mail. It would be so much easier not to mail these than it would be to mail them, then have to call people and tell them not to come.
You can’t hide forever.
I decide to be exactly who I am, and to let Mom and Dad catch a glimpse of who that is. I take a deep breath, and look Dad in the eye. “Yes, I drank at the party.”
Saying what is actually true about this situation instead of what I wish were true causes something to break free inside me. Maybe sticking to my roots has given me wings. I steel myself for their response, something big and loud and dramatic. Instead, Dad only nods, then reaches across the table and places his hand on mine. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
When I look up, I see tears in Mom’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
She walks over and puts her arms around me.
“Me, too, honey” she whispers. “Me, too.”
In a flash, the version of myself so carefully constructed for Mom and Dad’s eyes crumbles all around me. I have let them see my truth. Not the son I pretend to be, or the son they thought I was, but the son I really am.
We all know what this means. There will be no first son’s high school graduation. There will be no open house. No one will have to iron the purple gown I will never wear. The invitations on this table will not be mailed.
There have been moments prior when I have disappointed Mom and Dad, and I can feel the crush of their disappointment now, but somehow their sadness is not the main thing I feel. It’s the things that are missing I’ll remember most about this moment.
There is no yelling.
There is no anger.
There is no praying.
There is only “thank you,” and “me, too,” and hugging—a pulling together, a tangle of arms, and tears, and hearts.
For this moment, there is only love.
Dad is wrapping up his message in chapel. He’s been preaching from Psalm 1, about being like a tree planted by the water that bears fruit instead of like the chaff that the wind drives away.
We’re supposed to take a lesson from this: We should want to be like trees, firmly rooted next to the living water, not like chaff, unstable, able to be blown about by the suggestion of others.
On most days, Kansas City feels like the middle of nowhere. Today, it feels like the center of everything. Dad has taken the morning off from teaching at the Bible college to speak in chapel at the school where his oldest son is being expelled. There are only two weeks of school left, and Principal Friesen has agreed to give me my diploma if I’ll apologize to the student body today. Dad could have let me do this on my own, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked if he could speak in chapel today. He asked to be here so he could stand by me on the hardest, most humiliating day of my life. He wanted to be here for me, to support me, to let me know how much he loves me. He wants to be here when I say, “I’m sorry.”
The thing is I’m not sorry. I only regret how much I’ve disappointed Dad.
When he’s done preaching, he’ll call me up to the microphone like he’s done so many times before, but this time, I won’t be up front to sing, or play the piano, or perform a dramatic scene. There will be no music or lyrics or lines to hide behind. I’ll inch past everyone sitting in this pew next to me, walk down the center aisle, step up to that mic in front of all one hundred thirty-seven students, and confess my sins. I’ll let them in on my secret: I haven’t been living like a tree. I’ve been chafflike, not Christ-like.
Or at least, that’s the plan.
Dad finishes his sermon. I hear him say my name. He tells the student body I’ll be coming to the mic next to share something with all of them.
“But first, let’s pray.”
One hundred thirty-seven heads bow. Two hundred seventy-four eyes close. My dad surveys the room, and sees me looking at him. His gaze lands on mine for maybe one one-hundredth of a second, but that’s enough. I can see it fifty pews away. I can feel it all at once: the love, and the grief, and everything he didn’t say in all the words he’s spoken today. My handsome, tall, smart, charming, charismatic, well-groomed dad is one more thing today:
Heartbroken.
He bows his head, and no one else but me hears the catch in his voice when he says, “Heavenly Father.” Suddenly, my eyes are full, and one stray drop leaps down onto my khakis.
No one else knows this is the hardest thing my dad has ever had to do. I want to spare him from the next twenty minutes. What I did in private has suddenly become about what he does in public. Now, everyone will know the guy who trains people how to teach their kids to do the right thing has a son who didn’t learn the lesson. Dad follows all the instructions he gives out with his own kids. Now, people will know it didn’t work. I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could run down the aisle, grab the mic, and tell everyone this isn’t his fault—that he did everything right. I wish I could protect him from this moment, from the shame of everyone knowing who I really am.
Before I can, he starts to pray.
“Heavenly Father, we thank you for the opportunity we have today to learn the principles from your word. We know, Lord, that we live in the end times, and that your Son Jesus is coming back at any moment—”
If only Jesus would come back right now. If only we’d hear a trumpet sound, and an archangel shout, and then everybody in the room would shoot out of their clothes and up through the four-story ceiling into the sky over Interstate 70, to meet Jesus in the air over the Independence Center shopping center across the highway. We could forget about the confession, and the cap and gown, and we would be in heaven where God would wipe away the tears from my father’s eyes like it says he will in the Bible. If Jesus came back right now, I wouldn’t have to tell the whole student body about what happened at Bradley’s party in December because it simply wouldn’t matter anymore.
Maybe it doesn’t matter now.
I look up at the cross over the choir loft, and it hits me: I’m not so sure Jesus is coming back anymore. I don’t know when it happened—it wasn’t any one specific moment. Somewhere along the way this year, that certainty and excitement I once had just drifted away. I’m not saying Jesus won’t come back; I’ve just decided I can’t keep hoping to be rescued from my life. Maybe it’s up to me to change things. It’s time to start saving myself.
I look back up at Dad. He’s still praying. Every head is bowed, every eye is closed. I wonder what would happen if I got up and walked into the hall? And then into the parking lot? And then got in my car, and drove away from here, from Kansas City, from everything?
Get up now. Walk away.
Dad is wrapping up his prayer. If I go right now, no one
will see me. No one will stop me.
“—and we thank you and praise you for all of this, and it’s in Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.”
One hundred thirty-seven heads are raised. Two hundred seventy-four eyes flutter open. I’m still sitting here in the pew near the back. I’ve waited too long. If I walk out now I’ll cause a scene. Miss Favian will look up from the papers she’s grading at the end of the row. She’ll follow me through the foyer in her powder blue cable-knit sweater with the collar that looks like a neck brace. She’ll ask me where I’m going.
I’m stuck.
“Aaron’s going to come say a few words now.” Dad steps back from the microphone, and every head in the room swivels back to look at me.
I guess saving myself starts here.
As I walk, down the aisle toward the front of this cavernous auditorium for the final time, I feel the three-by-five card in the pocket of my pants. It has a Bible verse written on it that I’m going to read when I make my apology speech. I practiced in my bedroom yesterday. I used my dresser as the podium and I stood at it and practiced my apology to the bedroom wall. No one was home. I don’t remember where everyone was.
I don’t remember writing down the Bible verse. I don’t remember who told the rest of the family. Did Dad tell my brothers and sister that I was getting kicked out of school? Did Mom?
I walk past Megan, then Erica, their faces full of questions. At least Bradley is away at college. I don’t know if I could have handled him watching this.
I’ve been in front of this crowd so many times in the last two years: every play, every musical, every choir performance, every skit, every piano solo, every song I’ve sung, every joke I’ve told, every spirit week, and costume day. This time is different. This is my final appearance on this stage, my command performance.
As long as I have to do this, I’m going to make it good.
When I reach the microphone, a silent hush falls over the room. It’s quieter than I’ve ever heard it, even during prayer. I look up at the empty balcony, then back down across the entire student body. I think about aiming both barrels at Bradley during the play last year and deafening the entire room with blanks. What I’m about to say will be more surprising than a blast from a shotgun.
I pull the card out of my pocket, and lean toward the mic.
“There’s a verse in Isaiah that says, ‘These people come near to me with their mouth and honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. Their worship of me is made up only of rules taught by men.’ ”
I can see Erica and Megan across the row from one another. Erica looks pale. Megan leans forward. I haven’t been able to call her since I confessed to Mom and Dad. She knows something is up.
“I’ve been one of those people,” I say. “I’ve stood on this stage and I’ve told you I am following the Lord. I’ve sung songs and played the piano, and I’ve said all of the right words with my lips, but my heart has been far from God.”
My voice cracks. I blink and a single tear slides down my right cheek.
“Today is my last day at Tri-City. I drank alcohol at a party over New Year’s, and I lied about it. I want to apologize to all of you, and ask your forgiveness. I’m sorry for drinking, and for lying, and for not being honest about who I am.”
Erica and Megan are both crying, now. The whole place is riveted. Dad is standing beside me now. I don’t remember him getting up. He is saying something about praying for me. He’s asking the students to pray for me, and for our family. Mr. Friesen is at the microphone now, as Dad pulls me over to the front pew. Mr. Friesen is dismissing the student body—everyone but the senior class.
One by one, they come up and hug me. Most of the guys are somber. A couple of them look terrified. I know they drink, too. They must be scared shitless I’m going to tell on them. I try to telegraph that I am not. Many of the girls are crying. There is a great deal of hugging, which none of the teachers try to stop, even though it technically violates the rules. There are whispers of forgiveness and the words, “We still love you.”
Then there is Erica, weeping, her face blotchy and red. This is not a pretty cry. She smiles ruefully at me, and shakes her head.
“I asked God to convict your heart, Aaron. I asked God to bring you back to Him. I guess that you had to make Him do it the hard way. I hope you’ve learned your lesson now.”
She tries to hug me, but it is awkward and strange. I am relieved when she turns and leaves the auditorium.
Megan hangs back toward the end of the line. She doesn’t care about the rules. She doesn’t care about the scene. She is bold and daring, wrapping her arms around me, pressing her body close to mine. To my surprise, no one moves to stop her. After a while she stands on her tiptoes, and kisses my cheek. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispers. “Call me.”
Then she is gone. They are all gone.
I sit on the front pew with Dad in the giant church auditorium. We are silent for a moment, then I feel his arm around my shoulders.
“I’m proud of you, son.”
The tears explode out of me. The anger and frustration, the fear and relief pour down my face in a torrent.
“For what?” I ask.
“For doing the right thing,” he says. “For telling the truth.”
CHAPTER 28
The right thing seems all wrong now.
I am standing on Bradley’s front porch, pressing the doorbell. My parents are standing behind me, waiting. This is the final stop on my post–high school apology tour.
Last week after I apologized to the student body, Dad brought me home, and he and Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table. They started asking me questions. I told them the truth about everything: the drinking, the movies, sneaking out. Dad made a list of everyone I’d attended a movie with since Jason back at camp two years ago.
Almost everything. I haven’t told them about Kent Harris. I can’t be that honest with them. Not yet. I want to make them smile again so I don’t have to walk around feeling like I’ve killed someone. The rest feels too big to think about right now.
Dad made a list at the kitchen table, and over the past week, he listened while I called every single person on the list and apologized to them. First it was Jason, and Megan, and Daphne for going to movies. Then it was Carla and Deena from the ice rink for drinking. I’ve made so many phone calls over the past few days, I don’t remember them all. They all go the same way:
I need to tell you that I’m sorry for [drinking, going to a movie with you, etc.]. It was wrong of me because I was being rebellious, and not honoring my parents. I put what I wanted ahead of obeying my parents, and I wasn’t a good example of what a Christian is supposed to be. Will you forgive me?
Now it’s Bradley’s turn.
Mrs. Westman opens the door. Her kind eyes land on me, and she smiles, then swings the door wide, and looks up at my dad.
“Please, come in.”
She leads the way up the stairs to the living room. I see Bradley at the top of the stairs. He called when he got back from college last week, but I had to tell him we couldn’t hang out. I haven’t seen him since he was home for spring break.
“Hey, man.” He smiles cautiously. “How are you?”
I don’t know how to answer him.
Mrs. Westman calls for Drake, who comes up the stairs from his office off the family room. There are handshakes, tense smiles, beverage refusals. I can only imagine what my father must think when Mrs. Westman asks him if he’d like a drink.
Finally, we’re all sitting in the living room. Waiting.
“The reason we’re here today is because Aaron has something he’d like to say to you all.”
Bradley looks from my dad to me. My stomach leaps into my throat. I have to force myself to take a breath. I can’t hold his gaze. What I’m about to say is so humiliating. Will he ever be able to understand why I’m saying it?
I look away from Bradley, and my eyes land on Mrs. Westman. She is sitting on the couch
, her elbows resting on her knees directly across from me. She’s not worried. She looking directly into my eyes, and she’s got a quiet smile, and a steady gaze, and I see the look in her gaze—the one she had that first night I met her.
“I’m here to apologize,” I say.
Dad had carefully gone over with me what I was supposed to say. We worked on it in the living room before we drove over. One more time he was coaching me on what to say, how to play dead.
“I’m sorry for drinking at your house. I’m underage, so not only was I breaking the laws of our state, but I was breaking God’s law. I’m commanded to honor my parents in the Bible, and by doing something that I knew they would not want me to do, I was being rebellious and following my own way. I’m here to apologize to you for not being a better example of a Christian, and to ask you to forgive me for doing the wrong thing.”
When I finish, everyone is quiet for a moment. Mr. Westman is staring at my dad with a quizzical expression, like there is a lot he’d like to say, but has thought better of it. Mrs. Westman smiles at me, then turns her gaze to my dad who is talking now, saying something that I can’t quite make out through the roar in my ears.
I look over at Bradley, who glances up at me with a look in his eyes that I will never forget. It’s pity, and sadness, and exasperation with my parents for me, and he’s looking for a sign from me that this is going to be okay; that I’ll be okay.
But I’m not okay. Something is breaking apart inside me.
This is the last time I’ll sit in this living room with you.
Before I know it, we’re all standing up to leave. Our parents are shaking hands. My mom and dad are heading down the stairs. Suddenly, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here. I want to go upstairs to Bradley’s room and listen to his new CDs and go out back and sit in the hot tub and stay up too late watching MTV. I want to stay here with these people I barely know—people who don’t care if I have a drink at a party, or a kiss in the driveway. People who don’t need me to be a missionary, or a Christian schoolteacher, or anyone I’m not.
Rapture Practice Page 27