Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [24]
Somehow Brady had begun on pitch, and now that he was into it, he just let loose. Air-picking the gleaming blue Stratocaster, he could see the spotlight dancing off his suit, gold lamé from head to toe.
During a piano interlude, Brady danced all over the stage to the squeals and cheers of the crowd, and the light followed him. No one was going to believe this hadn’t been choreographed and rehearsed. How could he ever thank the piano girl and the lighting guys?
When he finished, Brady took a sweeping bow and ran from the stage, holding up his pants with his free hand.
“Get back out here, Brady Darby!” Mr. Nabertowitz squealed. “Encore! Encore!”
Brady stopped, panting.
“Go back,” someone said. “Curtain call.”
Hands from everywhere pushed him back out. He visored his eyes with his hand but couldn’t see Mr. N. in the darkness.
“Kill the spot!” the teacher said, and the houselights came up. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Mr. Conrad Birdie!”
More cheering and clapping, but it was not lost on Brady that Alex North rose and stormed out.
Well, Alex was Nabertowitz’s problem. For now, Brady was Christmas-morning happy. He imagined himself on the cover of the program, but he also knew there would be a lot of hard work between now and opening night.
By the time he got back to the music room, Nabertowitz was there. “You are something special, my young friend!” he said. “You can sing. I hope you have a little range in your dancing, but we can work on that.”
“You gonna have trouble with North?”
“Of course.” The teacher leaned close. “Between you and me, I’m worried more about Mom and Dad, but I can handle it. You just worry about learning your part.”
Brady carefully reboxed the guitar, and this time he kept it with him when he returned to the bathroom. But his clothes were not hanging in the stall. Had he forgotten which one he’d changed in? As he moved from door to door, he noticed two sinks were full of water.
One also held his shirt.
The other his pants.
10
Thursday | Oldenburg Rural Chapel
Paul Pierce was away for more meetings with his sons, so Thomas Carey felt productive all morning, talking by phone with contacts at each of the other four churches in his circuit, getting a little studying and sermon preparation done, and even somewhat organizing the modest office. At the back of his mind was Grace, who had again been slow to rise and exhibited a strange bruise on one wrist. She attributed it to the heavy work around the house but couldn’t remember a specific injury.
The puzzle of Ravinia was always with him. What had he and Grace done wrong? How had they failed her? How would God bring her back? Thomas had always believed and taught that God wooed unbelievers but chastised His own when they strayed. He dreaded that for his daughter.
And then there was also the coming confrontation with Paul.
Thomas hated the word confrontation almost as much as he hated the activity itself. He imagined himself straightforward and firm when he knew he was right, but the truth was, Grace was better at these things. She was slow to anger and usually diplomatic, but she was not afraid to speak her mind when she felt it important. Thomas had good intentions, but he always seemed to think of a better way to have said something long after it might have been effective.
There was no getting around it though. If he didn’t start standing up to Paul, his life would quickly become miserable. Such long-term grief would be much worse than the sharp pain of a brief encounter where he stood his ground. Thomas jotted a few notes on what he wanted to say and how to say it. Paul was expected at 2 p.m.
Forest View High School
Brady Darby felt like a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s court. He had never read the Mark Twain novel, assigned in English the year before, but the title had amused him, and the class discussion had given him an idea what it was about. Now he could really identify. In a matter of forty-eight brief hours, he had become the talk of the drama department.
He still looked the same, smelled the same,