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.
I assume wrong.
And right away I know I’ve made a mistake. A grave error. Misread the situation. I am wrong to think that talking about this visitor—this intruder—is a good idea, a laugh-inducing, situation-fixing move.
Father Mark’s body stiffens, his mouth clamps shut, his face pales. I detect more than a trace of anger in his eyes before he can mask it, which tells me I’ve overstepped a boundary, some unmarked, invisible boundary, a half-buried mine that I should have known was there, about to explode. Yet I also have no way of knowing, because where are the boundaries between Father Mark and me?—other than the usual mentor-student ones, which so far seem to involve give, give, give on Father Mark’s part and take, take, take on mine, and this thought calls to mind the ever-growing pile between the couch and the windowsill in my room, the collection of mementos that is my proof, my evidence that I mean something to Father Mark, that I am his legacy like he always says.
Guilt thunders through me at the possibility that I have somehow violated this man’s generosity, profaned his charitable impulses by introducing something as base and vulgar as a crush. I feel like a child who has just walked into church wearing a bathing suit, dripping wet, flip-flopping down the center aisle, sand caked to my chubby kid ankles and legs and leaving a trail behind me.
Everything, me, suddenly, I am all wrong.
I should never have made the kind of comment I would make to Ash or Jada or Greenie to Father Mark, who I must remember—even though lately it is harder and harder to remember—is not a friend or sister like they are. He is a famous writer and a respected professor and a priest, for God’s sake. I can’t believe I’d be so dumb as to try and chat with him about a cute boy. No matter how talented he thinks I am I bet all he sees now is a silly high school student sitting beside him, her face burning with embarrassment.
I never find out what Father Mark is thinking, though, because after this moment of silence that falls like a hammer between us and feels like forever, he recovers and goes right back to discussing plotting as if nothing interrupted us. Nothing at all.
“You need to move the story forward at a faster pace here,” he says, leaning over, leaning toward me, pointing to a paragraph on the page he holds out. His forearm, exposed, the long-sleeved black shirt of a priest rolled up to his elbows, brushes my skin and I will myself to be still, not to move a muscle, not to flinch or shrink back. “You should cut all of this.” His other hand slices across the paper like a knife.
I pretend I’m paying attention, but my mind is stuck mucking around in the swamp of all this unease and I find myself wishing Father Mark would have just laughed it off, turned the situation into a joke, or even just answered the question and told me what he knew about Jamie, if anything, and moved on from there. That would have been less awkward. At least for me.
I am also wishing his skin, his priest’s arm, would stop touching mine.
“Olivia? Olivia!” Father Mark demands my attention. He realizes I’m not focused. My skin is on fire. I can almost hear it crackling.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, banishing all other thoughts as I lean toward Father Mark to look intently at the page between us, letting my arm push more forcefully against his, as if this will somehow diffuse the strangeness, as if my arm and his pressed together will help him forgive my trespasses, as if trespassing into his personal space is the answer to diffusing whatever has just transpired, though what it is, I do not know for sure. “You were saying…”
We eventually get back on track as we sit there together on his important couch in his important office, and soon he even praises something in the manuscript and I smile, grateful and relieved that he still thinks I am a good writer, a good girl, that I have potential, that we have recovered that rhythm, the rapport that’s been so easy, so obvious between us from the very first moment we met.
Almost. We almost get back to it.
“I’ll see you in class, Olivia,” Father Mark says when we’ve finished and I am on my way out, my hand already on the door, and I freeze.
“Yes,” I reply, feeling startled, hurt even, turning back one last time to look at him, both of us fully aware that in this short statement he’s declared a two-week break in what has become our daily interaction
as if it’s totally normal and not at all a big deal when it seems like a very big deal to me given everything, given the last month and a half and his near constant attention. But he is smiling so I return the smile, I force a smile when I add “I can’t wait” and “See you in a couple of weeks then,” before I walk through the door and turn down the shadowy hallway, my steps zigzagging this way and that because in truth I am thrown a little off-balance.
ON FEELING WOUNDED
ON THE WAY HOME FROM FATHER MARK’S OFFICE I WORK away at my surprise about his sudden change in attitude until it’s almost gone, like cleaning out a cut and covering it with a Band-Aid so it doesn’t get infected. I text Jada and Ash to make plans for every night the rest of this week since my new plan is to squeeze as much girlfriend time as possible into what I imagine is a temporary suspension of Father Mark–Olivia time, turning it into something good. Making the best of a sad situation and all that. Within minutes we decide to go to the movies tomorrow night and maybe out for dinner on Thursday, and I am grateful that Jada and Ash are not the type to hold a grudge. Next I text Greenie about going wedding dress shopping this Saturday and soon she and I agree to meet on Newbury Street at 10 a.m. The memory of how I filled my evenings and weekends before Father Mark gets stronger, and after a few tentative pedals and some wobbles I am off and speeding steadily.
Then something exciting and unexpected happens and helps me make an almost full recovery. Ping goes my cell and it lights up with the name Jamie Grant. I have a text.
So I’m officially IN Father Mark’s class. You free later? Want to get coffee and celebrate?
I do my best to skip over the mention of Father Mark and text, Yes, I am free, in fact 2 day was our last day of school, back to Jamie with my heart doing a happy dance the entire time it takes me to punch in the message and until the very moment another ping sounds on my cell.
How’s 6pm? Trident Cafe on Newbury? Jamie wants to know.
I’ll be there. CU then, I respond and hurry home to change out of my uniform, running upstairs to my bedroom without pausing to say hi to Mom who is tucked away working in her study. Whenever she starts a new novel the rule in our house is that, barring emergencies like someone losing a limb and/or bleeding profusely, she’ll come to us when she’s ready and not the other way around.
Moving dress by dress through my closet, I search for the right outfit to wear for my maybe-date with Jamie—maybe because I am unsure about whether getting coffee counts officially as a date. When my eyes land on the baby blue shift dress I bought back in April at my favorite vintage haunt I yank it from the hanger and pull it over my head and know immediately it’s the right choice for a warm summer’s evening—pretty and casual yet not so casual that it says I don’t care. The delicate fabric feels smooth against my skin. I slip on a pair of platform sandals and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
It’ll do.
I complete the look with lipstick and grab my shoulder bag to head out because Trident Cafe is a bit of a walk and I don’t want to be late.
Mom stands by the front door, sorting the mail. She has emerged for the evening.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, and smile. “How’s the new novel coming?”
“Oh. You know. Hard to tell at this stage. Still working through the mystery part.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You always do.”
“You look so pretty, Olivia.” She sounds surprised.
“Thank you,” I say, turning to catch my reflection in the long mirror in the foyer.
“Is it me,” Mom begins, thoughtful. “Or has Greenie convinced you to go on some sort of fashion fast recently? I haven’t seen you dressed like this in weeks and, correct me if I’m wrong, but usually the second warm weather hits Boston you are out of your uniform and into a sundress and sandals after school as much as humanly possible.”
The eyes looking back at me in the mirror change from carefree to uncomfortable as I consider my mother’s observation. Hanging out with a priest on a regular basis doesn’t exactly inspire a girl to dress to impress, so lately I just…well…I haven’t been my typical, summer-obsessed self. But then, is there anything typical about life since the day I met Father Mark? And besides, wouldn’t it be weird if I was meeting up with him looking like I do now, like I am about to go on a date, or in something I would wear to hang out with Ash and Jada?
“I think you’re just imagining things, Mom” is my answer, and I reach for the door but find out she has yet another question before she’s going to let me go.
“Maybe. But, do I detect a special occasion behind this outfit? Is there a boy involved?”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“There is a boy.” Mom gets excited. “Where does he go to school? Have I met him before?”
“Um…he might go to HMU. But don’t worry, he’s really, really nice and Luke sort of introduced him to me.”
“Oh gosh, a college boy. I don’t know how I feel about that.”
“I’ll be in college soon, too, you know.”
“At least with your sister I always knew everything up front. Boys would barely say two words to her without asking permission.”
“I’m not Greenie, Mom,” I say, shifting my bag to my left shoulder.
“I’m very aware of that.”
“We’re just meeting for coffee.”
“For the first time? Or is this what you’ve been doing after school every day? Have you been seeing a boyfriend secretly?” Her voice hushes and she sounds excited about this possibility rather than angry that I might be hiding something from her. Which I’m not. Not really.
“It’s the first time we’re going out, Mom. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Can you at least tell me his name?”
“Jamie,” I answer, and glance at the clock.
“I can’t help being curious, Olivia. I’m a mother and mothers want to know things. It’s our job.”
“It’s coffee, not marriage.”
“Well, I’ve been a little concerned about you lately, to be honest, honey. You’re never home. Where have you been then, if not with a boyfriend?—and don’t tell me with Ash and Jada because they haven’t been over here in ages.”
“Oh. You know. Working hard on my story revisions. Father Mark is quite the taskmaster,” I add.
“You’ve been with Father Mark?” She sounds genuinely surprised. “All these afternoons?”
I nod.
“He’s being very generous with his time. You must have really impressed him with your writing, Olivia.”
This time, I shrug. “Can I go now, please? I’ll tell you more about Jamie later if I have anything significant to share. And if I don’t leave soon I’m going to be late.”
“Okay, go. Go.” She moves aside and opens the door. “Have fun,” she calls out as I run down the steps.
“Bye,” I yell, turning down the sidewalk. I haven’t even walked a block when my cell pings with a new text and I think, Oh no, it’s Jamie canceling, please don’t let it be Jamie telling me he can’t make it. I take a deep breath, sit down on the bottom step of a neighbor’s front stoop, and dig the cell from my bag, closing my eyes, preparing myself for the worst, and then look at the message that’s popped up on the screen.
“Oh,” I say out loud, when I see who it’s from, my brow furrowing.
I can’t believe I forgot that today was your last day of school, Olivia! Why don’t we celebrate by going back to Eastern Standard? I’ll see you at 7.
It’s Father Mark.
I sit there, rereading the message and thinking for a long time, stuck in a loop of confusion about Father Mark’s strange behavior earlier in his office, how he said he’d see me on the first day of class which isn’t for two weeks, wondering whether he changed his mind or maybe he was just kidding, or he was even trying to punish me for knowing Jamie or something. But then, why would he do that? And now this, this invitation to see him barely two hours after his declaration about not seeing each other.<
br />
Is he just playing around? Testing me?
A faint pulse of anger travels through my veins.
Can’t. Got plans, I punch in and hit Send. Then I turn the ringer to silent.
Tonight is about Jamie.
The mere thought of him acts like an instant pep talk, and one that gets me back up off the stoop and heading on my way, quickly now or I’ll be late. Jamie, Jamie, I think in step with the click of my heels against the sidewalk, a steady, Jamie rhythm that eventually gives way to a growing excitement as I get closer to my destination, to our maybe-date, a feeling of anticipation that pushes aside the uncomfortable, awkward, painful moments of today. At least for now.
ON COLLEGE BOYS
BLINK. I CAN’T BELIEVE MY EYES. BLINK. JAMIE IS SITTING next to me, close enough to touch. Like it’s no big deal. Like we hang out together all the time. One iced, low-fat vanilla latte, half-gone, sits in a giant plastic cup with a straw next to me and one cappuccino extra-shot, no sugar, with a few sips left next to him. I fight the urge to pinch myself. Jamie’s left arm rests on the table barely an inch from mine, a wide leather cuff around his wrist. Electricity darts back and forth between us. I imagine I see sparks. Little lightning bolts. If I move my pinky just a tiny bit—
“Your turn,” he says to me, and rests his hand along the side of his beautiful face.
“What’s your major?” We are playing a little game of back and forth. He asks me something then I ask him.
“Philosophy,” he answers. “I declared it this spring. I decided to do a lot of brooding during my college years.”
“You don’t seem like someone who wallows,” I observe. Feel my heart race.
“Yeah, well, you’ve only been hanging around me for…let’s see…” He looks up at the clock on the wall. “A little over two hours.”
This Gorgeous Game Page 7
