This Gorgeous Game (8 page)

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” ASH IS LEANING AGAINST MY
locker when I arrive on our last day of school, arms crossed, her mouth gathered into a pout, but I can’t tell if she is angry for real.

“Paris, darling,” I drawl, trying to lighten the mood, and a tiny smile appears on Ash’s face. I drop my bag at her feet. “Move over,” I tell her. “I need to clean this out before the final bell.”

“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “Not until we have a serious discussion about your recent disappearances.”

“Disappearances?” My eyebrows arch with surprise but I already know what is coming. I’ve been waiting for it. Preparing.

“Jada,” Ash calls out. “Over here!”

“Come on, Ash, move over,” I plead.

“Sorry.” She lays her arms out against the lockers as if they need protection.

“Is that—could it be—
no
—I think it’s…it’s…Olivia Peters!” Jada says, approaching us, her hair pulled up in two high pigtails clasped with plastic rainbow disks that somehow make her both beautiful and cute. She squeezes in next to Ash against my locker and proclaims, “This is an intervention, sugar pie. Where have you been hiding?”

“An intervention? Why do I need an intervention?”

“You wouldn’t if you returned our texts and calls and IM’s,” Jada explains.

Here we go.

“I’ve been really busy—you know, wedding planning and…” I try to think of another excuse but come up short, forgetting all the ones I’d lined up for this very occasion. Though it’s true wedding plans take up almost all my non–Father Mark time now.

“Yeah. And? So?” Jada snaps the gum she is chewing. “We couldn’t tag along and help?”

“I’m the maid of honor,” I protest.

“Since when has spending time with your sister excluded spending time with us?” Ash demands.

“And since when is wedding planning a full-time job?”

All good questions.

“Still waiting for an answer.” Jada snaps her gum again.

“We’re worried about where you’ve been and why you keep ditching us.”

“Okay. Fine. If you want to know the truth—”

“We do,” Ash says, matter-of-fact.

“Aside from wedding stuff, I’ve been working on my story revisions, like all the time,” I explain, but leave the part about Father Mark’s presence out, though I’m not quite sure why since I usually tell Ash and Jada everything down to the last detail. “It’s going to be published so, you know…it’s really important I get it done.”

“Right.” Jada’s mouth is open, about to say something else, when Sister June appears out of nowhere, a tissue in her hand.

“Ms. Ling,” she says. “Spit it out now.”

“Sorry, Sister June.” Jada’s eyes widen with regret and her body slumps. “Does this mean I have detention?”

Sister June hides a smile, trying to maintain a strict demeanor. “No, Ms. Ling. I’m not without a heart you know,” she says, wrapping the tissue around Jada’s gum and handing it back to her. “I don’t give out detentions on the last day of school. Now go throw this out before I change my mind,” she adds, walking over to another group of girls who are squealing about something or other and telling them to lower their voices.

“Are you mad at us?” Jada asks.

“Is there something we did? Or didn’t do?” Ash wants to know.

“I am not mad at either of you. Just busy. Busier than usual.” Guilt hits me like a truck and I suddenly feel like a bad person for neglecting them. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve missed hanging out.”

“So you don’t hate us?”

“Of course not. Stop saying that,” I plead and my insides swim with guilt. “Can we start this conversation over? I promise to be a better friend from this moment forward.” I give them my best puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

“Well. Okay. I guess we can try and restart our morning,” Jada says, looking over at Ash for confirmation, and she nods her head yes.

Ash offers a suggestion: “I’d begin by asking Jada the following: Jada, are you and Sam in love?”

“That’s such an exaggeration.” Jada fidgets, pulling her hair out of her pigtails, letting it fall down to the middle of her back, parting it and then gathering it back up into the two clips. “It’s only been like a few weeks and we’ve only gone out, officially, twice. So far,” she adds.

“You went out? Like on a date,” I say, disbelieving that I’m that out of touch with my friends and missing out on major news.

“Dinner and a movie,” she says, triumphant. “And a picnic one afternoon in the park.”

“Tell me as many details as possible before the bell rings.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” Jada says, but her eyes fill with excitement and she looks like she might burst if she holds back any longer. “Though we’ve been talking every night on the phone and IM. And just so you know, Jamie—”

My ears perk up at the mention of Jamie’s name.

“—is planning on—”

Just then, my cell rings, interrupting Jada.

Damn.

“You’re going to answer it, aren’t you?” Jada’s disappointment is plain. “Is that going to be Greenie about more wedding stuff?”

“Oh, it’s probably Father Mark.” Ash looks annoyed and I am startled by her good guess.

“Come on. Cut me a break.” Feeling self-conscious and embarrassed, I dig out my phone, looking around to make sure there aren’t any teachers nearby, and flip it open.

“Hi, Olivia, it’s Mark,” says the voice on the other end.

“Hi, Father Mark.”

Jada and Ash groan, mouthing, “Told you,” to each other.

“Hang on,” I tell him. “I need to take this,” I say to Ash and Jada, but a frost has already settled again between us. “I thought you guys liked him. This is important. Please be understanding.
Please.
”

“What else do you think we’ve been lately, Olivia?” Ash says, and she and Jada stalk off.

I feel deflated. Tired. Reluctant. “Hello,” I say into the receiver.

“Olivia? Did you hear me? It’s Mark.”

“I know. How are you?” I still can’t bring myself to call him Mark even though that’s how he always refers to himself. It seems wrong, like calling my friends’ parents by their first names. But it seems especially wrong to leave off “Father” with a priest.

I just wasn’t raised that way.

“Why don’t you come by my office hours after school,” he suggests, though it’s not really a suggestion. By now he assumes that whatever he asks of me, I’ll do, because, well, I always do what he wants.

“Um…” I hesitate. For the first time I feel the urge to say no, not only because Ash and Jada will be disappointed, more so than they are already, but because we always celebrate the last day of school together and I don’t want to miss out. Giving this afternoon to Father Mark instead of my friends seems not quite right. Seventeen-year-old girls like me should be hanging out, gossiping about boys with their two best friends, and not spending all their time with priests.

“Olivia,” he presses, and I hear an impatient sigh.

“Well…”

All you need to do is say no,
I tell myself. Just say it:
No
.
I have other plans, Father Mark. I’ll see you another time.

“Olivia.”

But maybe he won’t be fine. What if he isn’t? What if he gets mad?

“Okay,” I agree, after a long silence. “I’ll be there at three-thirty.” I guess I won’t be mending fences with Ash and Jada today after all.

“Great, Olivia,” he says with a trace of relief. “See you soon then.”

“Bye, Father Mark,” I say, and press the End button.

I look around the hall, but Jada and Ash are long gone, so I head to the cafeteria for my free period. The place is empty, with everyone in class or the library or wherever else people hide during study hall on the last day of school. My fingers work the clasp of my messenger bag and I flip it open, pulling out my laptop, setting it on a table. If I am going to be alone, if I am going to be all writerly like Father Mark says I am, then I might as well act the part. I put my fingers on the keyboard and wait. I wait and wait, but for the first time in ages nothing happens. Nothing comes. I feel stuck, stuck thinking about Ash and Jada’s frustration with me, stuck ruminating on why I haven’t yet heard from Jamie and why, for that matter, I hear from Father Mark so much. No words flow into my hands and this makes me feel not just alone but lonely and I wonder if this is the beginning of the isolation Father Mark so often talks about. As the minutes tick by I feel worse and more than ever like a bad friend. But if Ash and Jada are real friends, they’ll get over it eventually, they’ll see that I’m only doing what’s best, taking advantage of opportunities while I still have the chance, since I’m sure, I’m
positive
, that this can’t last forever.

THE AFTERNOON IS BEAUTIFUL AND BRIGHT, AND AS I
stroll down the hall toward Father Mark’s office I wonder again why I am about to spend the first few official hours of summer laboring over story edits instead of enjoying the weather and freedom. For a short moment, this contest and all it has brought feels like a chain around my neck, a leash keeping me tied somewhere inside Father Mark’s orbit, which seems just short of everyone else’s. These thoughts dissipate, though, when I knock on his door, which stands ajar because he is expecting me, and when he calls out “Enter,” I walk in like I own the place, sitting down on the smooth leather couch like I am well accustomed to being here, because I am.

“How are you today, Olivia?” Father Mark looks up from his desk.

“A little tired,” I admit, watching as he finishes up whatever he is doing on the computer and comes over to sit down next to me. As usual, the manuscript is already set out on the coffee table and he picks it up, looking at me.

“Am I working you too hard?”

“No, no. Not at all.” I smile to reassure him.

“Ready?”

“Sure,” I say, reminding myself what a privilege it is to be here.

His office—the first time I saw it I gasped—stands out like a prize alongside those of his colleagues in the HMU English department. It shouts, “I am important! I have done great things to deserve a place like this!” With its tall bay window overlooking the Charles River and a mammoth desk, it’s a regular palace. Paintings hang on every available wall space not taken up by bookshelves—he has more books than anyone I know, even my mother. A fireplace—unlit now, of course—is built into one side of the room, with a couch and matching chairs arranged like a sitting area in front of it.

Sunlight streams in and falls across everything. Over Father Mark and me.

We sit side by side, leaning forward over the coffee table, slightly tilted toward each other, both of us poring over my manuscript. I am listening intently to Father Mark’s tips on plotting the short story when someone else walks in. There is barely time to register the eyes, the hair, the perfect-fitting jeans, the way he moves, before the name
Jamie Grant
flashes in my mind alongside the thought
You are beautiful
, and it takes everything in my power to resist asking him,
Why haven’t you been in touch? You said you would be.

He doesn’t notice me at first, but when he does I can tell he is surprised and that he wants to smile, in fact, his eyes are smiling and he blinks them in this way that says,
Hello, how nice to run into you again
, which sparks joy to run right across my face. I can’t hold it back. He is close enough that I can hear his breath come in quick, short bursts, see the dark center of his eyes, notice his long eyelashes, take in the musculature of his hands, fingers that grasp a single sheet of paper.

That’s when I know why he’s here.

Jamie waits for Father Mark to acknowledge him, breaking the hold his eyes have on mine, glancing out the windows and then, nervously, back at Father Mark, who hasn’t yet said a word, whose eyes are focused on me even though my attention keeps flickering away to Jamie because I can’t help myself and because I begin thinking,
Father Mark is being rude.
As this thought flashes through my mind I realize somehow that to Father Mark, Jamie is not a visitor but an intruder.

And next…next I wonder whether I have some bit of power to fix this awkward situation, that maybe if I acknowledge Jamie, then Father Mark will, too, and the hostile feeling emanating from him will disappear because Father Mark listens to me—he pays attention to what I think as if it’s the most important thing he has ever heard in his life.

I clear my throat, shift my eyes from Jamie to Father Mark and back.

“Hi,” I say to Jamie.

“Hi, Olivia,” Jamie responds, polite, but looking away, as if he intuits somehow not to pursue any further conversation with me at this particular moment, as if it would upset Father Mark and then he would have to leave without the precious signature for which he came.

I wait for Father Mark to say hello back, to break the silence that has fallen over the room, but this does not happen. Father Mark says nothing. Instead we are left in a strange, tense triangle—Father Mark’s unwavering eyes on me, on my face. Jamie’s eyes, here, there, everywhere—awkward, nervous. My eyes on Jamie’s, unabashed, focused, riveted.

“Do you need something?” Father Mark barks, angry, twisting away from me toward Jamie like the sharp snap of a tree branch. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Sorry,” he mutters. He holds the paper out.

There is another long pause before Father Mark grabs it, signs the form without even reading it, and hands it back, and before I can blink Jamie is gone. Poof. Out the door and out of my sight yet again with no other sign or encouraging word that tells me whether or not he’ll ever be in touch like he said.

Before Father Mark returns to whatever wisdom he was about to offer me, his ever-willing supplicant, on the plotting of the short story, I blurt, “So do you know Jamie Grant?” I do nothing to hide the enthusiasm and interest in my voice because I assume Father Mark will get a kick out of the fact that I have a crush and because I am also imagining that this revelation might break the ice, that I can be the schoolgirl with a crush and suddenly Father Mark will laugh an appropriately fatherly laugh and give me advice about college boys like I am his daughter, feeling protective and expressing concern about the fickle boys who attend his university, like any other father who is not also a Father would.