Rapture Practice (26 page)

“That’s great!” Deena seems really excited. Everybody
loves Dad’s preaching. He’s actually really good at it. He’s more of a teacher than a preacher, plus he’s funny, and has good, clear outlines. People always line up afterward to tell him how much his message touched their hearts.

“Son of a preacher man, eh?” Derrick smirks as he zips up his jacket. Deena covers a laugh with her hand.

“What…?” I ask.

“Oh it’s an old song,” Deena says with a smile and a wink at Derrick.

“What song?” I hate not knowing the songs everybody else knows. I always feel like I’m missing out.

“Dusty Springfield,” says Deena.

Derrick sings into an imaginary mic: “Only man who could ever reach me…”

Deena joins him: “Was the son of a preacher man….” They both dissolve into giggles. I smile, and feel myself blush. I’ve never heard this song.

I guess that means that preachers’ sons are… sexy?

Derrick sees the look on my face and punches me on the shoulder as he heads out of the skate office toward the parking lot.

“You are so
set
. This Megan doesn’t stand a chance.”

Megan is flying toward the ceiling of the gymnasium, high enough that I hold my breath a little.

Blastoff!

I smile as she lands in Heather’s and Angela’s arms, and the crowd at the homecoming game goes wild. It was a perfect basket toss.

“That’s Hartzler’s woman.” Bradley nudges his friend Jacob, a tall guy with dark red hair who graduated from Tri-City last year. He’s flown back from Stanford for the weekend to see his little brother play in the postseason basketball tournament. Turns out our younger brothers are in the same class. Bradley is watching their JV game with us before he plays with the varsity team.

“Wow. Little Megan is all grown up.” Jacob smiles at me. “Nice work. Funny how people change.”

I blush a little in spite of myself and smile.
What does
nice work
mean? I didn’t do anything….

“Awww. Look at Hartzler, all smitten and smiley.” He laughs. “Putty in her paws.”

Erica is wearing a gold-and-white-striped rugby shirt tucked into a long, straight purple skirt. She waves at Jacob and comes running up to say hi with Janice.

“Erica Norton,” Jacob says. “Way to sport the purple and gold.”

Erica smiles and points to me. “Aaron won class theme day. Our theme was ‘Take Me out to the Ball Game.’ ”

“You had the best baseball uniform?” Jacob asks.

“He came as a carton of popcorn!” squeals Janice. “With brown grocery sacks of real popcorn stapled inside. We ate out of him all day long!”

“Wow,” says Jacob. “That’s impressive.”

“Mom and I were up until two
AM
popping popcorn.” Late-night arts-and-crafts is one of Mom’s special skills. Since the Native American outfit covered with fringe we made when I was in fourth grade, Mom and I never have more fun than we do staying up late making costumes and class projects that win awards. Mom and I craft to
win
.

“See? That’s the kind of stuff that girls totally go for,” Bradley says. “Your mom helped you land Megan.”

When Erica hears this, she’s ready to move on. “Nice seeing you, Jacob,” she says. “C’mon, Janice. Let’s go get seats on the front bleacher so we don’t miss anything.”

Janice smiles and waves good-bye, oblivious to the reason they’re leaving. As they go, Bradley lets out a low whistle. “Wow. Hartzler, you’re killing me with this.”

Jacob frowns. “Wait. What just happened?”

“Love tri-an-gle.” Bradley emphasizes each syllable. The horn for the fourth quarter of the JV game sounds, and Bradley gets up. “Okay, boys. I gotta head to the locker room now for Coach’s pep-talk-slash-prayer-meeting.”

“I’ve seen your jump shot,” says Jacob. “It’s the other team that needs the prayer.”

Bradley smiles. “Hey, Jacob, try not to let Hartzler break any more hearts tonight, will ya?”

Jacob laughs as Bradley leaves. “Love that guy. Now, what’s going on with Erica Norton?”

I smile, grimly. “Nothing. And that’s sort of the problem.”

“Megan more your type?” he asks.

“Something like that.” I’m never sure how to answer questions like this one. Megan is beautiful, but so is Erica. There’s something about Megan. I see it when other guys look at her, too. Sometimes I think Megan looks even prettier to me because other guys find her so attractive, which makes me feel strange.
Am I dating her because
I
think she’s pretty, or because
they
think she’s pretty?

Jacob turns out to be a great guy. Smart, funny, well read. After the games, I meet his parents. Our moms are already acquainted from being at our brothers’ soccer games. This is perfect. He’ll be one more friend Mom and Dad approve of.

Jacob is flying back to Stanford tomorrow. He gives me his phone number. “I’ll be back this summer. Keep in touch.”

“You’ll be home by eleven?” Mom asks. I’m shoring up plans for the Carriage Club Ice Show party tomorrow night.

“Yes, ma’am,” I assure her.

“Remember we have church the next morning.”

Mom hasn’t said so, but the look on her face and the struggle to score this “yes” makes me certain that she’s letting me attend this party against her better judgment. She doesn’t want me around people who are drinking in a bar, even if I’m sitting at a table across the room.

A few months after the drunk driver hit our car when I was in sixth grade, my teacher gave us a blank sheet of paper with random lines drawn across it at different angles. The places where the lines crossed created little spaces, random angled windows all over the page. Our teacher asked us to draw a different pattern or picture in each one. I loved this assignment, and in a window toward the very center, I drew a waiter from his bow tie, to his cummerbund. On the silver tray in his white-gloved hands rested a martini.

At the time, I wasn’t sure exactly what a martini was. I only knew it came in a strange triangular glass, and there was usually an olive floating in it. Something about it seemed exciting and grown-up. Drinking martinis was something rich, interesting people did in exotic places around the world—places very different from Kansas City.

I’m not sure how I knew this. I had never actually seen anyone drink a martini in real life. Maybe I’d seen it in an old episode of Perry Mason or a movie on TV at Nanny’s house.

When Mom saw this art project, she zeroed in on the cocktail. “Aaron, what’s in that glass the waiter has?”

I looked up from the page. “A martini.”

“That’s an alcoholic beverage,” Mom said. “Why would you draw someone serving alcohol?”

I looked back down at the paper. It just seemed glamorous at the time—something a man in a tuxedo would be serving on a silver tray.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Where have you seen people drinking martinis?” she asked.

“I haven’t,” I said.

“Drinking alcohol isn’t pleasing to the Lord, Aaron. What do you think Jesus would want you to draw in that space?”

“But, Mom! I’m almost done with it. It looks so good!”

“Why don’t you turn the martini into a milk shake?”

I didn’t want to, but I obeyed. I extended the sides of the martini glass up into a parfait glass and was able to nearly mask the line of the martini glass by drawing whipped cream and putting a cherry on top. Still, it wasn’t the same drawing anymore. For some reason, it didn’t look as cool.

As I take the car keys off the hook in the kitchen, Mom has the same look on her face as she did when she saw the martini glass on my sixth-grade art project.

“Remember, Aaron: The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the good and the evil.”

“Got it, Mom.” I give her a peck on the cheek and head toward the garage.

“Need anything?” Derrick is heading to the bar.

Everybody from the Carriage Club was already there when I arrived. We ordered food, and Deena raised her glass to congratulate everybody on a great season at the ice rink.
There are about fifteen of us in all at several tables pushed together on the restaurant side of Fuzzy’s.

I look down at my full glass of Diet Coke. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

Derrick smiles, and jerks his head toward the bar. “Come with me,” he says, and winks.

I look down at Deena. She’s laughing and talking with the other ice pros. She blows me a kiss and shouts over the music and ruckus, “You were great last night in the ice show!”

I smile back at her, then get up and follow Derrick around to the front of the bar. Derrick is shorter than I am, but I notice how much space his muscular shoulders clear in the crush of people watching basketball on the monitors. Several women turn to watch us as he maneuvers through the crowd. He stops in front of a cute blonde girl who is pouring drinks.

“What can I get you, sugar?” she asks.

I’m keeping my eyes on the screen over the bar. I’m terrified she’s going to ask to see my ID.
Is it okay for me to even be standing here? Is it against the law?

I can’t hear what Derrick orders, but I glance down as he puts a crisp twenty dollar bill on the bar, then leans back toward me. “Hey, man.” He grins. “Wanna Bud?”

My stomach drops, and I can’t tell if I’m excited or scared. Or both.

I smile back at him, and glance around. I really want to try it. I really don’t want to get caught.

“Drink it here, before we go back to the table,” he says, reading my mind. “Nobody will know.”

Don’t think about it.

I know if I don’t do it quickly, I won’t do it. And I want to do it. Bradley drinks, and it doesn’t hurt him. I want to see what the fuss is about.

“Sure,” I say. I reach for my wallet. “Let me give you some cash.”

Derrick laughs and shakes his head. “It’s on me.”

He leans back toward the bartender and I see him hold up two fingers, doubling his order. When he turns back around he’s holding an extra-tall pilsner glass that’s so cold it’s fogging up on the outside. There’s about an inch of white foam on the top.

“Cheers, bro.” He hands me the glass, and clinks the rim of his against it. “Bottoms up.”

I lift the glass to my lips.