This Gorgeous Game

by Donna Freitas

  WHEN I ARRIVE AT SCHOOL THE FOLLOWING MONDAY A package is waiting for me in the office. I tear open the brown paper, right there at the counter, and gasp. Inside are two books, slim volumes. One is Hannah, by Mark D. Brendan, a first edition with the inscription To Olivia Peters, I look forward to reading your first novel and wanted you to have a special copy of mine, Yours, Mark, on the title page. The other is A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories, by Flannery O’Connor, signed by the author. I pick them up, turn them around, look at them from every angle. I feel like I should handle them with gloves. The O’Connor must be worth a fortune.

  “That’s quite a gift,” Sister June says over my shoulder. “May I have a look?”

  “Of course,” I say, making room for her at the counter.

  She opens each one and then reads the dedication inside Hannah, and for some reason my cheeks begin to burn. “You’ve made quite an impression on Father Mark.” There is kindness in her eyes, but something else, too, something I can’t quite put my finger on. She hands the books back. “Take good care of these,” she says, and walks into her office, shutting the door behind her.

  A note slips out from between the pages of the O’Connor.

  Dear Olivia,

  I came across A Good Man Is Hard to Find at a rare books shop over the weekend and thought of you. I couldn’t resist. Your youthful energy and enthusiasm is infectious. I am getting more pleasure out of spending time with you than I ever would have dreamed. Consider this a small thank-you and I hope I am not presumptuous giving you my first novel in the hope that it might inspire you.

  He’s thanking me? This strikes me as incredible. And this gift is not small at all.

  The note is signed:

  Until next time,

  Mark

  By now I know that next time means soon, maybe even today, and so when Father Mark is waiting outside the school entrance after the final bell, wanting to see if I like the books—yes, of course I do, I tell him—and asking do I also want to go for coffee? I am not that surprised by the invitation or his presence and say yes. And then, there is not only this next time for coffee but another next time for dinner later in the week and another next time for lunch the following weekend. Soon there are too many next times to count and each new day has me waking up wondering, What else will he bring me, give me, ask me to do now? A letter tucked inside my locker, a card slipped under our front door, an envelope filled with poems by Stephen Dunn—Do you know him? Father Mark’s note inquires—left at the school reception desk and my name called over the intercom, “Olivia Peters, would you please come to the office? You have another package.”

  Another package.

  By the beginning of June I’ve learned to walk to the rhythm Father Mark sets without too much thought. I just follow along, the harmony to his melody. He is a warm weather Secret Santa who showers me with possibilities, commentary, invitations, literature. When, before I can blink, the school year is almost at an end and his attention still shows no sign of abating, I don’t know what to make of it, what to think of it, so I don’t think at all.

  I just do, do, do.

  One day I return home to find my mother drinking her afternoon chamomile tea in the living room, like always, but then, not at all like always because she is drinking her tea and chatting with Father Mark and not Father MacKinley.

  Another impromptu visit to our house, not that I am keeping count.

  “Olivia!” she says, smiling, when she sees me hovering in the hall, trying to get over my surprise at seeing her and Father Mark talking like old friends. “I told Father you’d be home soon.”

  “Hello,” Father Mark says, leaning forward, his teacup clinking against the saucer, his eyes sparkling.

  “Hey,” I say, and walk over to the couch, sitting down on the opposite end from my mother.

  “Would you like some tea?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I respond because I figure, why not? Why not have afternoon tea with Father Mark and my mother in our living room as if it is something we do together every day?

  “Father Mark and I were just discussing his seminar,” Mom says, seeming pleased by this. She gets up to grab another cup and saucer from the china cabinet and pours me some tea and another cup for herself.

  “I can’t wait for the class to start,” I say, and Father Mark nods, smiles, because it is his class that I am referring to again as the class as if there is no other. “The end of June feels so far away, though. I still have to get through my last week of school.”

  “You’ll make it.” My mother sinks back onto the couch, getting comfortable, and the three of us spend the next hour chatting about this and that, Greenie’s wedding, my story, Mom’s novels—Father Mark presses her to reveal her pseudonym—she doesn’t, but is clearly flattered by his interest and even engages him in a discussion about building suspense when writing a mystery.

  Eventually we say our goodbyes—“See you soon, Olivia,” he says, like always, before leaving, and I nod yes, like always, because we have a pattern now, after so many exchanges—then go upstairs, my mind racing, working overtime, thinking about how I never say no to Father Mark. I go to everything he invites me to, do everything he asks of me, read everything he recommends, as if it’s my new full-time occupation, becoming all mentored and improved and approved by him, so much so that lately I almost can’t find time to do anything else, see anyone else. I tear around my bedroom, gathering everything tangible—the notes, the books, the articles torn from magazines and the newspaper, the ticket stubs, manuscript drafts—and pile them together on my coffee table, the spoils of so much obedience. I am tempted to count everything, wishing that I could add the phone calls, the e-mails, and the texts to the pile, too—who knew that priests sent text messages?—as if somehow everything before me can quantify my worth, my potential, all that he sees in me. Instead I sift through the remnants of the last six weeks to remind myself that it is real.

  I glow and bask and shine. So much I might burst.

  Sitting cross-legged on my couch, I open my laptop and let my fingers fly. I am inspired. My thoughts are flickers of fire that become words on the screen and a new story and I type, type, type until I have emptied all the words streaming through my mind, until there are none left, and then set the screen to Sleep.

  I call the story “Lucky.”

  I will show “Lucky” to Father Mark tomorrow.

  I hope he likes it.

  Then my thoughts flicker to Jamie. If only Jamie would be in touch like he promised then life would be perfect. Jada says to be patient, but it’s been ages since that day we exchanged info. I close my laptop and set it down next to me and sigh, telling myself I really have nothing to complain about.

  Piece by piece, I move the pile on the coffee table to the corner of my room, between the couch and the window, with letters and notes in one neat, tall stack, articles in another, again feeling pleased to have such a wealth of keepsakes, to be made so rich by someone who, I have to admit, I’ve noticed barely gives others the time of day. Well, unless they are somehow related to me.

  Later that night, after I shut off the light and get into bed, I thank God for sending me yet another Father, the best, most interesting, supportive one a girl could ask for. The gratitude, the grace I feel from having Father Mark in my life stays with me, comforts me, as I drift off to sleep and dreams.

  II

  And now I fear that a chain of events has started that cannot be stopped.

  —THOMAS MERTON

  ON DISAPPEARANCES

  “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 f
rom 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.

  ON CRUSHES

  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.