This Gorgeous Game

by Donna Freitas

  With each signature I am more excited, feeling like anything and everything is possible. The world at my fingertips. After initialing the last line, I return the pen and form to Dr. Schaeffer.

  “You’re all set, Ms. Peters.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Enjoy the rest of this beautiful day and we’ll see you in June.”

  “You will.” I smile wide. There is a spring in my step as I leave the office and head back down the corridor. When I reach the part with the cathedral ceiling I can’t help but pause, this time taking in the gargoyles and other mythical creatures that guard the upper reaches—when I hear my name.

  “Olivia? What a surprise!”

  Oh-liv-ee-aah.

  Father Mark stands not two feet away. In one hand is a briefcase and clasped across his chest a manuscript, or maybe just a stack of papers. He’s dressed exactly the same as yesterday—black pants, long-sleeved black shirt, white collar—but this churchlike space seems a more appropriate setting for someone like him than the cramped front office at Sacred Heart.

  “Hi, Father. I just registered for the class.” The class.

  “I’ll take that to mean you are looking forward to it.”

  “I am. Really.” I beam. “By the way, yesterday I was in such shock, you know, about winning, that I don’t know if I expressed how grateful I am. That you picked me. I mean, for picking my story. You know, I didn’t say thank you and all that.”

  “No need, Olivia.” Father Mark is matter-of-fact. “You deserve the honor. I didn’t pick a winner out of kindness.” He tilts his head, looks at me in a way I don’t know how to describe. “You are quite something, aren’t you?” His voice is soft, faraway, when he says this and I don’t know how to respond. Then, as if suddenly remembering where he was headed, he snaps back to attention and says, all business, “I’m on my way to a meeting with the provost. I’ll be in touch again before you know it—I meant what I said yesterday. It’s wonderful to run into you. Just wonderful.”

  Before I can smile and say, “Bye, Father,” he is off, down the corridor in the other direction, so I continue on my way, feeling elated that Father Mark was nice to me for the second time. Which means yesterday wasn’t a total fluke.

  I feel positively shined upon by fate.

  When I reach the door I push my way outside into the blinding sun and shield my eyes with one hand, looking for Greenie, Luke, my friends—I search for Jamie, too, but he is gone. So is Sam. But I feel sure that Greenie is right: I’ll have other chances to see Jamie and this possibility puts a smile on my face. Ash, Jada, my sister, and Luke stand talking, waiting for me by the stairs along the edge of the quad. I hesitate a moment, out on the courtyard, not quite ready to leave. Deep inside my soul I can feel things happening, stirring, big things, good things. Energy and excitement pulse through me. Father Mark’s comment about seeing me as a wonderful surprise repeats in my mind. That’s when I call out to everyone, letting them know that I’m back. That I’m ready.

  “Let’s go,” I shout, and take off in a run.

  ON INVITATIONS

  IN THE EARLY QUIET OF THE SCHOOL DAY I TIPTOE THROUGH the corridor on the balls of my feet. The windows to the courtyard are open wide, calling the breeze inside, and it swirls around my arms and legs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Stand still for I don’t know how long. Ever since hearing the news about the contest, I veer between abandonment to utter joy and moments when I move as if I must not disturb anything, not even make a wrinkle in the air, as if the slightest stir might sink this buoy of goodness, this gift that seems not quite true or real.

  Nearing my locker, I inhale, sharp. A white rectangle sticks to the chipped red surface, a tiny paper raft floating in a long rusty river. Forgetting the slow hesitancy my body has adopted this morning, I rush forward to see what’s there, bend down to read the envelope taped just above the lock.

  Olivia Peters it says, handwritten in jagged, harsh cursive.

  I peel it away from the metal, noticing the tiny red flecks of paint stuck to the Scotch tape. I slide my finger under the flap. Inside is a note, the same spiky handwriting dashed in a few short lines across steel gray paper.

  Dear Olivia,

  It was wonderful to run into you yesterday. Providential. Today, if you are free—I am guessing you are free?—I’ll meet you after school at Eastern Standard, 4 p.m. We can have a drink and begin to go over the edits on your story. In case you need to reach me, my cell is 617-555-7787.

  Yours, Mark

  God knows how long I stand there, staring, rereading the note in my hands, wondering when he left it. Just moments before I arrived? My lips mouth the words—drink, notes, yours, Mark.

  “What’s up with Olivia?” Ash’s voice is near, but I don’t look up.

  “Maybe it’s a love letter?” Jada says, closer now.

  Their faces appear in my line of sight, ducked down and staring. “Olivia?” Ash and Jada inquire, jolting me from my trance. Ashley’s huge eyes blink at me, and Jada’s long black hair falls across the paper.

  “What is that?” Ash snatches my precious invitation and I let out a yelp. “Dear Olivia,” she says under her breath, mumbling her way through, raising her voice only when she gets to the end, shouting, “Yours, Mark? What are you, best buds, after like, what, a few days?”

  Jada grabs it from Ash, holding it so close to her face I worry her shiny red lipstick is going to rub off on the stationery.

  “Watch it,” I warn. “Don’t kiss my note.”

  “Ooooh, Olivia’s got a da-ate.”

  “Eww, gross.” I grab at the paper, but Jada holds it high and away between the tips of her dark purple, manicured nails. My face colors at the insinuation. “He’s a priest, Jada.”

  “Calm down. Just kidding.” Jada lowers her arm and hands the note back.

  “Father Mark is older than my mom.”

  “Yeah, but like every other man, he’s still got eyes,” Ash says, laughing.

  “And you’re beautiful.” Jada swings her locker open so I can see my face in the mirror she’s hung inside the door. “I doubt a little vow is going to affect whether he notices this particular detail about you.”

  “Or the fact that he’s older,” Ash adds.

  I know they’re only kidding but this doesn’t stop my cheeks from flushing with embarrassment and maybe even a dash of anger.

  “Hey. We’re just playing around, Livvy.” Ash only calls me “Livvy” when she thinks she’s overstepped. “We didn’t mean to offend you about something you should be, like, over the moon about.” She gestures at the invitation.

  “Seriously.” Jada agrees. “Only good intentions. Swear. Cross our hearts. All that stuff.”

  “Okay,” I say after a long silence.

  Ash smiles, leans against her locker with something like relief. “Let’s get back to the important business: you get to spend the afternoon with your literary idol!” Her enthusiasm is forced, but I appreciate the effort.

  “Before you guys made things seem potentially weird”—I stop, a little hesitant to continue—“I was pretty excited.”

  “As you should be. It’s great you get to be all writerly and dream-come-true and everything. Really.” The expression in Jada’s eyes is genuine.

  “I think Father Mark is just being nice. He’s so…I don’t know…” I try to find the words to describe our encounter at HMU, conjure Father Mark’s image, standing there, looking at me like he saw something there, something special or intriguing that no one else has ever noticed, that has nothing to do with my looks which is what everyone else always seems to see first and then never move beyond. “He doesn’t talk down to me and he acts like he’s just a normal person and not someone famous. But he’s probably just paying a lot of attention to the first winner.”

  “Well, lucky you.”

  “I second Jada.” A smile plays on Ash’s lips. “Especially after hanging out at HMU…” Her voice trails off, eyes dreamy.
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  “I wish I was taking a summer class there,” Jada says, sounding wistful.

  “I’m sure,” I say, knowing full well that Jada would rather be boy-watching than sweating through a seminar. “Turn around and let me braid your hair,” I offer, tucking the note from Father Mark into the pocket of my bag. Jada swivels so her back is to me and I gather her long, thick hair into my hands. “Stop bouncing,” I direct as I part it into threes and begin crisscrossing the locks into a loose braid down her back. “Did Sam get in touch yet?”

  “No,” she says with a big sigh.

  “Don’t worry. He will,” Ash reassures.

  “I agree,” I say. “Besides, it’s only been a couple of days.”

  “I thought we really connected.”

  “You certainly looked like you did,” Ash says.

  “So what’s on the agenda after school today?” Jada wants to know, changing the topic.

  “How quickly we forget. Dear Olivia is meeting her new literary mentor at a bar.” Ash inspects her nails, lacquered a pearly white that shines bright against her dark skin.

  “It’s not a bar,” I protest.

  “It is too a bar,” Ash confirms.

  “It’s a restaurant. And can we not do this again? The insinuations of weirdness?”

  “You misunderstand—this is just how it starts. You hang out with artsy people in artsy places like bars—”

  “—and cafés,” Jada continues.

  “—where everyone smokes cigarettes all day, guzzling whiskey or drinking espresso from tiny cups—”

  “—and pretty soon it’s just Ash and me IM’ing every night. Only a distant memory from your past.” Jada sighs.

  “Whatever.” I dismiss them and take a gray sparkly elastic from Ash to secure the end of Jada’s braid. I turn her around so she is facing me, surveying my work. “It’s just one meeting.”

  “Sure, sure. You say that now.”

  “Jada.”

  “We’re just kidding around,” Ash assures me.

  “Yeah. You know we’re happy for you,” Jada says, and her glossy lips stretch into a grin.

  “Truer words have not been spoken.”

  Before I can respond, Ash puts an arm around my shoulders and Jada slides one around my waist and the two of them tug me down the hall toward our first class as the bell rings.

  I smile through the day—French, American history, PE, then lunch with Jada and Ash followed by physics, calculus, and finally English lit with Ms. Gonzalez. She still can’t stop talking about the contest, which makes me red and embarrassed but happy, too. In between the chatting with Ash and Jada and the note-taking and the raising of hands and talking in class about this historical era and that scientific experiment, I reread the invitation and daydream—about this afternoon and how life can change so quickly, in a single moment and in so many ways. I decide to welcome all of it, the possibilities, the opportunities, with open arms, heart, body, soul, because why wouldn’t I?

  ON GIRLS IN BARS

  I FEEL SHY AS I SIT, LEGS CROSSED, DANGLING, AND THINK how childish my short socks and school shoes must look, one foot twitching in a nervous rhythm. Father Mark carries the conversation.

  Turns out Ash and Jada are right. It is a bar. It’s totally a bar.

  I. Am. At. A. Bar.

  Father Mark is waiting when I arrive at Eastern Standard, but I don’t see him. Not at first. Goose bumps freckle my arms and legs as I search the sea of dark walnut tables and chairs. Men in suits are everywhere, men who look like bankers and lawyers, men clutching squat wide glasses that clink with ice or who balance clear liquid threatening to spill over the wide rim of martini glasses, men who glance up at me and make me feel self-conscious, like a girl dressed in a high school uniform in a bar because that is what I am: a schoolgirl in a bar. A few women are scattered here and there, also in suits, presumably doing business, too, clutching cocktails like the men. This is clearly a man’s establishment and I am out of place.

  Just when I begin to panic, worry that we were supposed to meet somewhere else or that he is going to stand me up, I see Father Mark sitting on one of the tall, red-leather-backed chairs at the far end of the bar, his left hand gripping one of those squat glasses with the clinking ice and coppery liquid—he later tells me it’s scotch, that he always drinks scotch. A book lies open in front of him but his attention is on the bartender and they are chatting.

  I breathe deep, smooth my hands across my uniform, shake my long hair out of habit, and press forward with as much confidence as I can muster.

  “Here she is!” Father Mark smiles, looks away from the bartender as I approach, as if he can sense me coming, and I laugh a little, feeling timid. “How nice to see you, Olivia. I’ve been looking forward to starting our sessions.”

  Sessions plural? It’s my turn to smile.

  “Have a seat,” he says.

  I hop up on the barstool Father Mark pats next to him like an obedient puppy. I do my best to sit up straight.

  “What would you like?” Father Mark wants to know, and without thinking out pops, “Do you have any hot chocolate?” because the air in this place is chilled to accommodate men in hot suits on warm spring days and not girls in short sleeves and skirts with no stockings and I am shivering.

  The bartender and Father Mark laugh when they hear my order and I realize that not only do I look like a kid but I order like one, too.

  “Whatever you’d like, sweetheart.” The bartender chuckles, and pushes through a short door that must lead to some kind of pantry.

  I guess they don’t keep the makings for hot chocolate up front with the liquor.

  “It’s cold in here,” I try to explain.

  “Well, they don’t set the temperature for girls dressed like you,” Father Mark says and I nod my head, agreeing—it’s as if he’s just read my thoughts—but at the same time feeling even more self-conscious.

  “What are you reading?” I lean a little toward him, trying to decipher the title along the top of the page in his open book, wanting to change the subject, wishing I’d been given a manual for this situation, something like How to strike up conversations with people you admire.

  Before Father Mark can answer, the bartender returns with a steaming mug of what looks like chocolate powder not quite mixed with hot water. “A Swiss Miss for the young lady!”

  Swiss Miss? Young lady? I might die of embarrassment. “What are you reading?” I repeat, peering closer, trying to shift attention away from my drink and the bartender, who is smirking.

  “Borges. Ficciones.” Father Mark holds up the book, turning it around so I can see the title.

  “Which story?” I ask, awed by the coincidence.

  “The Library of Babel,” he says, the ends of his mouth creeping upward.

  “That’s my favorite,” I manage after an excited gasp.

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Your essay,” he states, simple, obvious.

  “Oh. Right. The personal statement for the contest.”

  “Yes.” Father Mark slides a red bookmark into the crease on the page. The leather strip is stamped with gold lettering and it shines for a moment in the lamplight overhead. He shuts the book and pushes it toward me, an invitation to say or do something but I don’t know what. “I need to be familiar with my subject if I am going to comment effectively on your work.”

  Wow, I think, feeling surprised that he would be so invested that he would take time to read books by people I read, to familiarize himself with me. I am too overcome to say anything so I smile and remain silent.

  “Tell me: what do you like about Borges?”

  And the quiz begins.

  “Well…his stories are wonderful…” I stop, wanting to choose my words with care, hoping to erode the girlish impression I’ve given so far. “I love the style of the Latin American writers—you know, magic realism and all that. But I love the Americans, too. The classics, like Fitzgerald, but especially Percy an
d Flannery. Flannery O’Connor I mean. In our house we call her by her first name as if she’s a family friend,” I add as if this explains everything.

  “You don’t look the type.” Father Mark’s eyes narrow.

  “What type?” I twirl a lock of hair around my fingers out of habit, or maybe out of nerves.

  “Bookish. Writerly.” Father Mark’s stare is unwavering, like he’s searching for something.

  “Oh,” I say, disappointed, and turn away.

  “Look at me,” Father Mark says, so I turn back. “As a career writer, I spend much of my time trying to read people, their characters, who they are behind the face and appearance. I’m always looking for interesting material. I can’t help myself. After all these years I do it automatically, though I probably shouldn’t. I suppose it’s a bit invasive.” He raises his glass to his lips, taking a small sip, holding it there. “When you walked into the school office—to get the news about your award—frankly, I was stunned.”

  “What…what do you mean?”

  “I probably shouldn’t say this, but the moment I first saw you, I wondered to myself: how did so much talent, such insight and imagination, come from a girl so young, and with such startling beauty? What a beauty! I thought. God must have extraordinary plans for such a creation as this.”

  “Oh. Um. Oh.” I am embarrassed that he, too, this writer, this priest, would go there. “Well, you know…people always make the same assumptions, because…because of the way I look…people don’t think I could be smart. They, um, they always act surprised like somehow it’s weird or shocking which is so stupid. I hate it.” As soon as the words are out I wish I could stuff them back in my mouth. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to be rude or to insinuate…anything…I just…I must sound conceited…but…”

  “Stop apologizing.” Father Mark shakes his glass and the ice clinks. His elbow rests on the bar, so casual, so self-assured, the glass suspended in his hand, dangling there. The scotch is the same golden brown as his eyes. “It’s classic, really. The curse of the pretty girl: everyone loves to look at her without trying to see what’s inside. Perpetually underestimated. Am I right?”