Free Rapture Practice by Aaron Hartzler Page B

those things, too. To them, it’s simple: black and white. They’ve made these rules to protect me.
    As I lie on Jason’s top bunk, I wish it felt that simple to me. I wish I could protect Mom and Dad from who I’ve become. Ever since that day with the radio in the laundry room, I’ve been careful to show them the son they want me to be. I’m good at teaching kids, and singing songs, and playing the piano—I even enjoy all of those things. But I also enjoy Whitney Houston, and movies with Julia Roberts.
    And that’s what troubles me. I’m very good at pretending. Dad taught me how to act and I learned well. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, but how long can I keep hiding it from them? Mom and Dad might not ever find out I went to a movie tonight, but I know I won’t be able to protect my parents from who I am forever. Eventually, they will find out, no matter how careful I am.
    It could happen today.
    It could happen tomorrow.
    It’s only a matter of time.

CHAPTER 8
    A few seconds after the bell rings, I spot Daphne in her cheerleading uniform and slide into the desk she’s saved for me. Not that it matters. Mr. Gregg is late to history class again.
    “Welcome to the jungle,” Daphne says, raising her voice over the din of our unsupervised classroom. This is the period following lunch. Near-lethal doses of Hostess snack cakes and Coca-Cola are flowing through the veins of our classmates.
    “Thrilled to be here,” I say.
    Daphne is one of the few African American students in grades seven through twelve at Blue Ridge Christian School. We met on the first day of seventh grade, and over time she’s become my best friend. From my short-lived, four-game appearance as the first male on the junior high cheerleading squad in eighth grade, to her house burning down during our freshman year, Daphne and I have weathered a number of ordeals, which have run the physical and emotional gamut from ridiculous to life-threatening.
    “Where were you?” she asks.
    “Going over my scenes one last time.” Miss Tyler is holding auditions for the high school play this afternoon.
    “Are you nervous?” Daphne asks.
    “Butterflies.” I point at my stomach. “I could barely eat.”
    A shriek pierces the air from the far side of the room. Daphne jerks, whipping around in her seat as if stunned by a jolt of high voltage.
    “Is that
really
necessary?” she asks in the general direction of the tumult. Her question is ignored, and she turns back to me with a sigh.
    “Aaron, let’s describe the class.”
    Without hesitation I turn toward the mob scene in front of us and assume the dulcet tones of a pro-golf color commentator:
    “Welcome to Mr. Gregg’s fifth-period U.S. history class, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Aaron Hartzler and this is Daphne Walker. If you’re just joining us now, we’ll try to catch you up on the action already in progress. Dan Krantz seems to be experiencing a full demonic possession as he stands on his chair singing Jerry Lee Lewis’s ‘Great Balls of Fire’ in a special vocal style that can best be described as Helen Keller with a kidney stone.”
    Daphne laughs and continues narrating where I leave off.
    “Rick Street is passing a copy of his father’s
Playboy
magazine around the room in a Trapper Keeper folder as Stephanie Gutierrez practices a new cheer she’s just made up with the words of the Preamble to the United States Constitution.”
    We continue to crack each other up by quietly summarizing what is going on around us until our teacher arrives. Later, when Mr. Gregg asks Stephanie to name the country he is pointing to on the map, she responds, “Texas.” Daphne turns to me and raises her eyebrows while I gently knock my forehead against my notebook.
    This is why we’re best friends. There is an understanding between us. We
get it
. There’s a strange comfort in knowing another person bears witness to the absurd moments going on around you—the ones no one else seems to