“Serious? What do you mean, serious?” I interrupt, but something inside me clicks and I realize that serious is the right word for how Father Mark acts toward me, that he’s serious about having a role in my life, that he’s taken my winning this contest very seriously. Maybe a little too seriously.
“You are so lucky,” Greenie responds. “You realize that, right?”
“Yes,” I say, because it’s true and I do know. I know this all too well. “It’s not that big a deal—” I try to add, but immediately Greenie is shushing me, believing that I am trying to be modest.
“Just enjoy it,” she advises, and I can’t help but think that enjoy is no longer the right word to describe this attention from Father Mark, but I am not quite sure when enjoyable turned into something more akin to obligation that might even be approaching desperation on his end these last few days. When we leave the bridal store and Greenie leads me down the street and into a chocolate shop I am reminded of the first time Father Mark and I got together and the pathetic, powdery hot chocolate I tried to force down because I’d ordered it and didn’t want to be rude and how silly and childish I felt. The memory sends an unpleasant shiver up my spine, my body prickling, and I can’t help thinking, So much has changed since then.
But then Greenie shifts the subject to Jamie. She wants to know all about our coffee date and how he walked me home and how I am going to church with him tomorrow—How romantic, she says. This pulls me out of my funk, my weird Father Mark funk, and I roll my eyes at my sister and remind her, “Greenie, I’m not you,” because we may both be Catholic but I am not in the same league as she and Luke on that front. “Though I know you mean well,” I add, because I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but then it’s Greenie’s turn to roll her eyes and inform me that she is not as sensitive as she looks. This prompts a shift to a good maid of honor topic, which is her bridal shower, and I tell her that if she’s not careful I’m going to tell her friends to bring only lingerie as gifts.
When Greenie turns bright red I can’t keep from laughing, and soon she is laughing, too, and we continue like this, talking for hours, catching up, trading stories, until Greenie is hugging me goodbye and heading off to see Luke for dinner and I am rushing to meet Ash and Jada down the street at Jada’s favorite new yogurt place before we go to the movies tonight.
As I walk down Newbury a tiny voice from somewhere deep tells me how much I enjoy all this Father Mark–free time—which hasn’t technically been Father Mark–free, but I’ve made it so. And when my cell lights up with Father Mark’s number on the caller ID, it feels right not to answer it, and when it lights up again not even a minute later, I just forward the call to voice mail and determine not to give it another thought because he started this—he said it, I didn’t—I’ll see you in class, Olivia, and I assumed he meant it. Regardless of his real intentions—whatever they were, are—I am taking a Father Mark vacation, one that belongs to me, the old Olivia, before I won the contest.
But then later on when Ash and Jada and I are walking to the movie theater, each of us sipping our yogurt smoothies and Jada has caught us up on all things Sam and I am gushing about Jamie, and Ash bets that after our date tomorrow Jamie will begin following me around like a lovesick puppy, Jada says something next that stops me cold.
“You have priests following you so it wouldn’t surprise me if Jamie was next.” She is only half kidding.
“What do you mean?” Something in Jada’s voice, something leads me to wonder.
“You mean you didn’t see him?”
“See who?” I ask, but I think I know, I think I already know.
“Father Mark,” she says, and seems genuinely surprised.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, and think, Please let her be wrong.
“He walked by the yogurt place, like, four times while we were in there.”
“He did?”
“I think it was him.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling a little dizzy. “If it really was him, he was probably on his way to HMU. He always walks down Newbury Street.”
“On a Saturday night?”
“Um…maybe it was just someone who looked like him,” I say, because what else is there to say? I glance around, behind me, to my left, right, looking, searching because I can’t help it, and once I am sure the coast is clear, Father Mark–clear, I change the subject back to Sam which Jada happily picks back up as if we’d never left the topic. No matter how hard I try to focus, I am left thinking that something is off, that Father Mark and I just need to figure out how to strike a better balance, and when things calm down—when he calms down—we will talk about this and everything will turn out all right. I am sure he will understand. He will. He has to.
ON ROMANCE
SUNDAY AFTERNOON FINALLY ARRIVES AND I AM LAUGHing hard, doubled over, tears pouring down my face. My hands grip the armrests of the chair as I try to pull myself together so I can see because I don’t want to miss a moment. Jamie and his friends, their Sunday “gig” at St. John’s, turns out to be Catholic improv—which, I know, sounds totally lame, but it’s so not. The auditorium in the church hall is packed, standing room only, and I was lucky to get a seat in the back. If I wasn’t in love with Jamie already I am now, because he is so unbelievably, amazingly funny, and I am fairly sure that the several hundred other screaming girls in the room agree.
They call themselves the Holy Fools.
In the span of an hour they have made fun of everything ridiculous about growing up Catholic—catechism classes, Catholic school uniforms, nuns and priests, the Pope and his funny hat, ridiculous saint deaths, being forced to go to mass as a kid, the many uses of those palms they give you on Palm Sunday. Somehow they do all of this without being offensive. Pure Catholic comedy. Who would’ve thought?
“Your favorite childhood Bible stories, people. What are they?” The only girl among the four asks the audience to name some examples, and she follows this with another request, this time for types of music. Opera, country, Irish drinking songs, American Idol–style, yodeling, and Broadway musical are among the suggestions, and soon she steps up to the mike and sings, “The Virgin Birth!” in a ridiculous falsetto. Before the skit is over, the group performs “Adam and Eve” the musical, “The Prodigal Son” American Idol–style, complete with a lot of off-key belting, and “Samson and Delilah” like an Irish drinking song. After the last lines of “Job” are yodeled, Jamie goes up to the mike and says, “Thank you very much,” and quiets everyone down for what I expect to be a solemn prayer to conclude the afternoon, but what turns out to be a funny montage of the Nicene Creed, the Our Father, and the prayer of penitence, and everyone is laughing again.
Afterward, as people file out the back and into the church for mass, I head toward the front of the auditorium so I can find Jamie and learn that I’m not the only one hanging around. About a hundred girls crowd the stage and I hear them talking about “how totally dreamy” the one with the dark hair and eyes is—that’s Jamie—and I can’t help smiling and thinking to myself, I am with him, yes, the dreamy one.
I hover at the back of the crowd, moving forward as it begins to thin out, and Jamie smiles back at me. He makes his way over, signing a T-shirt for a fan in between.
“There you are.” He seems surprised to see me.
“Of course. I promised I’d be here.”
“I was looking for you before we started and couldn’t find you in the audience. I thought maybe you flaked. Or decided it was too uncool to meet up with a guy at church.”
“I was way in the back,” I explain. “But I saw everything and it was a-may-zing.”
“Thanks.” His smile grows. God, he’s beautiful. “You’re kind.”
“No, I’m serious. I haven’t laughed that hard in ages. You guys are like Catholic SNL or something.”
“Really?” He thinks I’m just being nice.
“Honest.” A girl walks up, asking Jamie to sign another T-shirt, and I remember we are not
alone. I’d almost forgotten there are people milling around us. He finishes, hands her Sharpie back, and she takes off, somewhat reluctantly, I notice. “Definitely not a worship band.”
“No way. Besides, I didn’t get the musical talent gene, in case you couldn’t tell from the singing during the show.”
“But that’s what made it so funny.”
“Anything for laughs.”
“Do you do this for fun, or is it, like, a job?”
“The Holy Fools is paying my way through college.”
“Really? That’s great. Beyond great.” Jamie is smart, nice, hot, and impressive.
“Hey, so I wanted to introduce you to everyone. Is that cool?” He glances around, back at their merchandise table. The rest of the group is packing T-shirts and other paraphernalia into gigantic black duffel bags.
“Sure.” I can’t help becoming a little nervous as he leads me toward the stage and everyone stops what they are doing, as if already prepped for an introduction.
“Hi, Olivia,” one of them says, all friendly, and I think, He already knows my name! “I’m Nathan. Great to have you here. Break it to us gently—what’d you think?”
“You were incredible. I loved it.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet.”
“I’m Hailey.” The only girl in the group walks up and extends her hand to shake mine. “Jamie told us you were coming today. It’s great to meet you.”
“Yeah, he wouldn’t shut up about it, either,” says a short, stocky guy with a bowl haircut. Jamie punches him in the arm, which I assume means that the friend should keep his mouth shut on the me-issue. “I’m Jonas. A pleasure.”
“Don’t worry, Jamie said only nice things,” Hailey whispers, leaning in so no one else hears. “You are one lucky girl, you know.” We both turn to look at Jamie, who has gone over to help the others finish breaking down the display.
“I am in total agreement with that statement.”
Hailey smiles. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you since the day you met.”
“Really?”
She nods.
“Come on, Hailey. Time to go.” Jonas brushes by me, heading up the aisle carrying two merchandise bags, one over each shoulder, barely able to walk. Hailey smiles and walks over to the table, hoisting one of the bags over her shoulder and following Jonas toward the door. As Nathan passes me on his way out he asks, “You’re coming to church, right?” When I answer, “Yes,” he calls back, “Now don’t you two get all caught up in each other or you’ll be late.”
Jamie rolls his eyes. “Sorry about that. They’re just…excited.”
“Excited?”
“Yeah…well……yeah.”
“How so?”
“Because I invited you.”
“You don’t usually have guests attend shows?”
“We have guests. Just not special guests.”
“Special?” My insides jump up and down with glee.
“You’re the first girl I’ve ever had come to one of these and, you know, to church afterward. They’re sort of in shock.”
“You don’t invite girls every week?” I already know the answer but I want to hear him say it.
“The honor is yours only.” He looks around and under the merchandise table making sure nothing is left behind, maybe using this as an excuse to look away. Definitely blushing. Jamie is blushing. “I think they took everything. So…do you want to go?”
“To church?”
“Yes. But don’t feel pressured. I have to attend mass, though. I always go after we perform. It’s kind of part of the gig.”
“I’m going. I want to.”
“Good.” He relaxes again, offering his hand, a gesture for us to head up the aisle. He weaves his fingers through mine and we leave the auditorium and enter the packed church. Nathan, Hailey, and Jonas have saved us room in the pew. As soon as we slide in next to them, the priest starts the procession and everyone stands.
After the opening prayers, we sit again as the deacon goes through the first reading. Little by little, Jamie’s fingers creep closer to mine, until our pinkies touch, then wrap around each other, and soon one, two, three, all our fingers are entwined. We stay like this, touching fingers, brushing palms, pulling apart for different prayers and rituals, only for our hands to find each other again, all the while staring at the altar, at the priest. The mass happens around us for the next hour. My heart speeds up, slows down, leaps, and speeds up again, thumping in my chest, and for once I wish with all my being that the priest would not come to those closing words, Our mass has ended, let us go in peace. I hadn’t known going to church could be so romantic. If it was always like this I’d go to daily mass.
As Jamie and I file out behind the crowd, I notice someone out of the corner of my eye, a man standing there, looking at me, at us.
A Father Mark–looking man.
My head snaps right but no one is there and I think, God, Olivia, now you are seeing things. Jamie turns to me, his eyes searching, inquiring, and I smile in response, concentrate on his hand in mine, steadying myself and determining to be in this moment, the here and now, because the here and now is about as good as things get and my time with Jamie isn’t even over yet. We have the entire afternoon ahead of us and today is about Jamie only and nothing, nobody, can do anything to change this. Not even Father Mark. If that’s who I saw. Which I didn’t. Because it wasn’t. Him.
ON POETRY
THE NEXT WEEK FLIES BY AND BEFORE I KNOW IT I AM getting ready to head out for the first meeting of Father Mark’s fiction class. I am a jumble of nerves and confusion. The strange dance of avoidance between Father Mark and me has intensified and we still haven’t seen each other since that day in his office, which seems like a long time ago now. Well, I haven’t seen him at least. But Jamie and I, on the other hand, have gotten together daily since the Sunday of our church date, and he is even walking me to class and home afterward and I am more excited about this than class itself. It’s difficult to ignore how my feelings about Father Mark and the class and even the contest have changed—it wasn’t long ago that I was counting the days because I couldn’t wait for the seminar to begin.
Mom and I stand around in the kitchen, drinking lemonade, waiting for Jamie to arrive—she insists on meeting him this time—when the doorbell rings. I run to answer it, but Mom gets there first.
“Hello, Jamie. Come on in. It’s nice to finally meet you.” She steps aside. Mom is all smiles.
“Hi, Ms. Peters. Nice to meet you, too.” Jamie flashes me a grin on his way into the foyer.
“We should get going so we aren’t late,” I say, hoping for a quick getaway.
“No, no,” Mom protests, looking up at the clock, which says three, giving us a full hour before class begins. “Please, sit down.” She ushers Jamie into the living room. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Just water if you don’t mind, thanks.”
“We have lemonade.”
“Lemonade would be great then.”
“Olivia, what about you? Would you like more?”
“Fine, fine,” I give in, handing her my half-empty glass.
Mom returns with the drinks, sits down on the couch, and the questions begin.
“Where are you from originally, Jamie?”
Cape Cod. Born and raised by the beach.
“How do you like HMU so far?”
A lot. Great professors. Great classes. Great city.
“I hear you’re quite the comedian.”
The conversation continues like this for what seems like forever. Jamie is at ease, as if he meets people’s parents all the time, and Mom is having fun grilling him. It appears I am the only anxious person in the room. I guzzle my lemonade and then sit there, fidgeting, while Jamie continues to answer Mom’s inquiries with enthusiasm, even making a few of his own, until finally, I cut in. “Mom, it’s three-forty.”
She glances at the clock. “All right, Olivia. You win. Besides, I wouldn’t w
ant to be the reason you two are late for Father Mark!” She sings his name. “Especially when he’s coming for dinner later this week.”
“He is?” I am startled.
“He is!” She is exuberant.
“But when—”
“He called the house and we made a plan. You know I’ve been wanting to celebrate your win. I’m so proud of her,” she says to Jamie, beaming.
“He called the house?”
“I know it’s difficult for you to remember, but we still have a landline, Olivia. He said he was having trouble getting in touch with you on your cell—I didn’t get you a cell for you to ignore it, by the way.” She gives me a scolding look. “Anyway, he and I got to talking and I invited him over for a dinner in your honor.”
“That’s great,” I say, my heart sinking a little as Jamie and I stand up, getting ready to head out. The end of my Father Mark vacation has officially arrived. I need to work on remembering how time with Father Mark used to be so exciting and not so—I don’t know, dread-inducing? But I’m confident this feeling has more to do with nerves that will dissipate as soon as we do see each other again and things go back to the way they were before.
“Ready?” Jamie asks after the requisite “Nice to meet you’s” and “Thanks for the lemonade” from him to my mom, and I say, “Yes,” and launch myself through the foyer, out the door, and down the steps while Jamie is still exchanging pleasantries with my mother. When he finally makes his way over to where I am waiting not so patiently, he is chuckling.
“What,” I demand. “What?”
“You are cute when you get nervous.” He stops in front of me, close enough to kiss, but then he holds out his hand instead, reaching for mine. “We should walk fast,” he says. “It’s almost four.”
“How ’bout I race you instead,” I challenge, taking off before he can answer. Even though it is warm out and my bag bounces against my side it feels good to run, to release some of the excess energy I feel, and by the time we reach the campus gates I am laughing and both of us are trying to catch our breath. Jamie lies down in the grass on the quad, his chest rising and falling, and I join him, so we are side by side, and he turns to me. “I let you beat me.”
This Gorgeous Game Page 9
