This Gorgeous Game

by Donna Freitas

  How is it that I’ve made him so desperate? Why?

  “Nothing. Everything is fine. I’m fine.”

  “Then you should call me back. I’ve left so many messages.”

  “My voice mail isn’t working,” I lie. “And my cell is acting up.”

  “You should get it fixed.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve left messages with your mother, too.”

  “She must have forgotten to tell me.”

  “That doesn’t sound like her.”

  Just because you’ve met my mother a few times doesn’t mean you know her, I want to say. “Well. We’ve been busy. Family stuff.”

  Silence on the other end. Then, “I’m glad I caught you.”

  I wait for him to continue. I already know what comes next.

  “Have you read it yet?” The story. His story. He is irritated and hopeful at once.

  “No,” I tell him for the millionth time, wanting to scream, wondering why and how our every interaction went from being about my story to talking about his freaking story, and when I can’t even bring myself to get beyond page one. So I go into excuse mode. “It’s just, I’ve got so much going on…a lot of…stuff…at home…with my sister’s wedding. I’m sorry,” I say, but the only thing I am really sorry about is picking up my cell without looking at the caller ID.

  “Olivia.” His voice is cold. “This is unacceptable behavior,” he says, sounding like a father. “It’s almost unforgivable.”

  Almost? Please. Don’t forgive me and let’s part ways.

  He waits for me to say something. Rain begins to fall. Fat, heavy drops.

  “Olivia?”

  “I’m here.” Big splotches of water polka dot the sidewalk, the front walk. Me. Plop. Splash.

  “We need to talk in person. Wait for me after class tonight,” he orders.

  “Sure. I will.” I lie.

  “I want you to promise me, Olivia, that you’ll wait.”

  “I promise.” My voice is a whisper. I have to push the words out of my mouth.

  “It’s not nice to break promises, Olivia.”

  “I know.” Tears well and mix with the rain rolling down my cheeks. Off the tip of my nose. Warm drops of water mat my hair and pool in the fold of my T-shirt near my stomach.

  “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” He sounds excited. Relieved. “Now, the next thing—”

  “Oh look, there’s the T train coming. Gotta go. See you later,” I interrupt and shut the phone. Click.

  I tilt my head forward, between my knees. My hair falls in a wet curtain around me. The only thing that gets me up off the ground and running into the house is the knowledge that if I shut myself in my bedroom right away, then when Mom emerges from her study she might not notice that I am there, skipping class. At least not for a while. I shut the front door behind me, catching a quick glance of myself in the long mirror on the foyer wall, thinking pathetic when I see the girl reflected back, the Olivia I’ve become. I am soaked through and water drips from my hair, my face, my clothes and onto the floor. But then a surge of relief runs through me about not having to see Father Mark tonight and a burst of energy gets me bounding up the stairs into my room and onto my couch, tucked into the comfort of a warm blanket that I wrap around myself, all the way up to my eyes.

  My consolation is short-lived, however, because as soon as I peer out, letting the soft shield fall to my chin, I see the manuscript on the coffee table. I can’t bring myself to lift my arms to turn it over. To touch it.

  This Gorgeous Game. By Mark D. Brendan.

  I look away. Burrow deeper under the afghan again.

  I try to forget the now and the how I got here and the moment it all started and how I walked right off a ledge I didn’t even realize was there and before I knew it, before I was even the tiniest bit aware I was falling, falling fast, and now there is nothing I can do. Nothing I can do but fall and wait, fall and await the impact. When is the impact coming? I wonder. Or is this it? Is it slow and painful and never-ending?

  I glance at the pile of letters and other memorabilia between the couch and the windowsill, the Father Mark loot I was once so proud to have acquired. One last ray of sun falls across it as the afternoon fades to night, as if God wants to remind me it is all there, the spoils of my naïveté, my stupidity, my trusting nature.

  Sometimes I hate God. I just do.

  ON A KISS

  THE NEXT DAY IS THE HOTTEST ON RECORD. THE THERmometer rises past 100 degrees and keeps on going. The lightning storms that rumbled through Boston during the night made everything wet. Heavy. Steam rises from puddles scattered along the pavement. Droplets of water hang in the air and I swim, not walk, through it. A thick haze blankets everything, muting the sun’s light.

  I glance around Arlington Avenue, uneasy, wishing it was already time to meet Jamie. Maybe it’s just the heat. People mill about the park, tourist families making the requisite visit to the Public Garden to see the ducks and the swans. My cell says two o’clock. Mom wouldn’t let me leave the house without it, said she’s tired of not being able to reach me and she’s tired of having to force me to eat, too, tired of my excuses—that my stomach hurts, that my phone isn’t working right. She found my cell on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet last night, long after I’d gone to bed, long after we fought about why I was home and not in class, and why, if I wasn’t feeling well, I was refusing all the help and comfort she had to offer—tea, soup, toast, talk.

  “Why in the world would you put your phone there, Olivia?” she wanted to know this morning when I came downstairs, still in my pajamas, but I just shrugged and took it from her. “What’s gotten into you, Olivia?” she asked but I didn’t have a good answer so I didn’t say anything.

  At the gates to the park, I debate what to do since Jamie won’t be here for another hour. A bead of sweat drips down my back and I tug my shirt away from my body.

  My mouth is dry—is it nerves? The walk here? The heat?

  I need a drink, something icy to enjoy while I wait for Jamie. Even though on principle I am against Starbucks, they are on practically every corner so I head for the nearest one.

  Cold air rushes to greet me when I open the door and for a brief moment I decide I love Starbucks because the frigid air is such a relief from this heat. It’s packed, people everywhere reading the paper, hanging out with friends, chatting, pairs of moms drinking their coffees with strollers squeezed between tables. Half the customers are typing away at laptops, and I wonder, Do I even want this anymore? To be a writer? To sit with my laptop like some novelist? I push these thoughts away and head up the line to place my order.

  After paying for an iced latte I stand by the counter, watching the man at the espresso machine whip up what seems like ten drinks at once. Customers wipe sweat from their brows, pulling at their shirts. That’s why they keep it so cold in here, I think, so people can tolerate steaming coffee on even the hottest summer days.

  Tap, tap goes my foot, impatient. I pace in the small space where you wait, grab a few napkins, a stirrer, decide I’m not ready to go back out into the heat yet, look around for a vacant table. I see a woman with a baby starting to get up, packing her things, the very same moment the world starts spinning. A tornado in my head.

  The espresso man calls out my drink and I force myself to walk up to the counter. Nausea ricochets off the walls of my stomach like it wants to punch holes. I try to focus. Grab the coffee and run. Run fast.

  Run, Olivia, run.

  My body ignores these commands.

  “Olivia!” The surprise is fake. So obviously fake. “How serendipitous to run into you here, especially after not seeing you yesterday. I am very, very upset about this business of you skipping class.” He lets this last bit cross me like a threatening shadow.

  Father Mark.

  Come on, Olivia. Act normal. This is not a big deal. Don’t make this more painful than it needs to be. He’s just a person. Just a professor. Just a pr
iest. Person, professor, priest. Person, professor, priest. I am locked in the center of a Father Mark triangle, walls all around me, and him everywhere I turn. There is no way out.

  I focus on the soothing cold of the drink in my hand, force a smile onto my face.

  “Hi, Father,” I say, and can’t help but notice how good I’ve become at forcing enthusiasm. So skilled at this game of pretend, of cat and mouse. “Getting a drink on your way to HMU?” In my voice is hope, hope that this will be over quick.

  “Oh look, there’s a table opening up over there. Why don’t you grab it while I order my coffee. Then I’ll join you and we can finally have a conversation.” He sounds exasperated. “We need to talk, Olivia,” he says.

  My feet obey and carry my body along to the table, but everything else is numb. Slow. Surreal. How did my Jamie anticipation hour turn into coffee with Father Mark? Did he know I was going to be here? How would he?

  Unless…unless…

  No. No, no, no, no.

  This is not happening. Not to me. Not to me. The suspicions, those unfinished questions that keep threatening to emerge from where I keep pushing them, to deeper and darker places each time, the—could I, am I, is Father Mark, is he?—one of them sneaks out from hiding and completes itself before I can stop it, and then the others, they snowball.

  Is Father Mark, is he one of those priests? Am I a … a …?

  But then, as if shoving something down into the garbage with all my might, I trash these thoughts by focusing on the following, glaring, obvious fact: Father Mark has done nothing…nothing other than…I stop. Complete the sentence. Father Mark has never laid a finger on me. At least not like that.

  Conclusion: I am making something out of nothing. Literally.

  Just breathe, Olivia. Everything is totally fine. Sit, Olivia. Sit down. You’ll feel better. Stop making things melodramatic. It’s just coffee. Coffee. He’s just an awkward man, a man who has a difficult time getting the picture, a man who probably doesn’t hear no very often and so he is not used to it and so it takes him longer to understand because after all, he is Father Mark D. Brendan and people treat him more like he’s a celebrity than a Catholic priest.

  Soon Father Mark pulls out the other chair to sit and places his coffee on the table. A cappuccino, whole milk, no sugar. I know this because before this game of avoidance started we had many coffees together. Too many to count. Remember, Olivia, I tell myself, coffee is harmless. This is all harmless.

  Father Mark talks and I have no idea what he is saying.

  All of a sudden there is a lull in the conversation. I snap out of my daze and nod my head to indicate I am listening even though I am not listening.

  “Olivia,” He says, and looks at me, those big eyes intense, and I see anger in them, just a flash, but it’s there. What have I done now? All the energy leaves my body. I am deflated. I want to put my head down on the table to rest, close my eyes, but I can’t. Won’t. Don’t want to be that close. He’s waiting, waiting, but for what? What is he waiting for me to say? Do? “Olivia.” Again he says my name. Expectant. Expecting what, I don’t know.

  “Sorry, what? I must’ve zoned out for a second. Having trouble sleeping lately,” I explain, hoping it’s enough. Hoping he’ll accept my excuse.

  “My story, Olivia.” Oh-liv-ee-aah goes my name from his mouth yet again, like chalk screeching against a blackboard, and I can’t believe there was a time when it sounded like music to my ears, the way he says my name. “We need to talk about it, Olivia. I don’t understand why you keep avoiding this conversation!” His voice gets louder, his tone borders on hysterical.

  What can I do to calm him down?

  Please, God, make him calm down!

  My eyes dart left, right, down at the tall plastic cup in front of me, empty except for ice. I sucked it dry without noticing. Needles prickle my skin, a wave up my arms and down my back. Say something. Tell him you don’t want to read the damn freaking story. You won’t. You can’t. You refuse. That you want nothing, nothing, nothing more from him, no more of him, nothing ever again, that this is over, over. Over. This game is over.

  End. Of. Discussion.

  But I don’t say any of this. Instead I ask, “Why do you need me to read it so badly? Why is this so important to you?”

  Tell me why! Give me something to go on! Say something real! Say it out loud!

  Father Mark says nothing. There is a long silence. Then a statement. “You haven’t read it yet.”

  I shake my head no.

  “Good to know where your priorities are, Olivia,” Father Mark says in not at all a nice way, knuckles rapping the table. “Between this and missing class, I don’t know what to make of this anymore. Maybe I made a mistake with you. Maybe I was wrong about you, about what you could handle. What you were ready for. There were so many others I could have chosen…” His voice trails off and I cannot tell who these “others” are, the ones that are the object of his statement—other people who entered the contest, or just…others…and chosen for what exactly? What did he really choose me for? “Think about what you are doing. What you are throwing away.”

  “But I just—”

  “Olivia.” Oh-liv-ee-aah.

  My eyes bore into my lap, the bottom of the cup cold on my thighs.

  “If there is only one thing that you do for me, Olivia…” He pauses, wanting me to feel the weight of his words, of the way he has handed me the world, his world on a platter, and I offer him nothing in return, lately, aside from playing hard to get. “You must read this story. Please.”

  I look up. Blank stare. Panic.

  It is just a story, Olivia. What is your problem?

  “Olivia.” Oh-liv-ee-aah.

  “Um, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry…I…I…but I need to go.” I get up, knocking the cup to the ground. The top pops off and ice spills onto the carpet. Father Mark bends down to pick it up and I jump back, out of his way.

  Father Mark straightens, cup in hand, eyes wide, and sighs. Big blinking eyes. Big imposing man. Person. Professor. Priest. “I will try to be patient, Olivia. Besides, I have a responsibility to you, don’t I? But in winning this contest you accepted a responsibility, too. To me, to the other contestants, to the future winners. You are a rare talent and here I am, watching you let yourself down. I don’t understand why, but I feel obliged to stick with you, to push you when you need to be pushed. You know I am only trying to help, don’t you? There are so many things I can do for you, for your future. I can give you a future, a future you said you wanted. Your dream, remember? Here I am handing it to you. Don’t you want it? Don’t you?”

  “No…yes…I mean…I do. I do.” I stutter, my voice so small, no louder than a pin dropping. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. I do.”

  I walk toward the exit. I want to run but force myself to walk. The minutes inch toward three o’clock. He trails after me. Follows me out the door. Walks beside me on the street in silence. We near the park where I am supposed to meet Jamie and I veer right instead, toward Sacred Heart.

  “Olivia.” Oh-liv-ee-aah.

  “I will. I’ll do it. Tonight. I’ll read it. Okay? I promise.”

  Soon I am standing at the bottom of the steps of my high school chapel, as if I needed Father Mark to remember who I am, who he is talking to.

  A high school girl. A seventeen-year-old girl.

  “I’ve got to go,” I tell him.

  “You promise.”

  “Yee-esss.” It comes out in two syllables.

  “I’m going to call you later tonight and you will pick up the phone.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Wonderful!” He sounds so satisfied. “I look forward to it.”

  I stand there, staring ahead. He stands at my side, facing me, close. Too close. I don’t look at him. I can’t make myself.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say again, thinking about Jamie, how Jamie is waiting for me somewhere else, how he’s going to think I stood him up, but I can�
�t worry about that right now. I need to sit and think. Alone. People stream by us on the sidewalk, some happy, some complaining about the heat. “Bye,” I say, turning away.

  “Olivia…” he says one last time. I stop. Waiting. A few more stragglers pass. Moments elapse. Forever we stand there, unmoving. The street empties. Then the unthinkable.

  Father Mark moves toward me. Next to me. Close. He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. A kiss. A peck. A wet smack like some middle school boy, but the thing is Father Mark is not a seventh-grade boy. Not even close.

  Oh. My. God.

  In a flash he is gone, down the block, almost in a run, his long, confident strides carrying him quick, around the corner and out of sight.

  I stand there, sick, unable to move. My cheek wet. Feeling disgust. Repulsion. A churning stomach.

  Calm down, Olivia. It was just a peck. On the cheek. No big deal.

  But I replay it over and over. My legs give way and I clutch the banister, a cold, metal life preserver on the stairway to a house of God. God help me. God keep me from drifting into oblivion. God please. God, please stop this, whatever this is. He’s yours after all. He’s your responsibility so fix this. Fix it!

  Minutes pass. By now Jamie is sitting on the bench at our spot alone, waiting for me, and I am not going to show. I pull myself up the steps. Breathe. Deep breaths. One foot in front of the other, I head into the chapel. A Catholic chapel. A Catholic church. How ironic to seek solace here, I think, as the heavy door shuts with a loud thud behind me.

  ON PRAYER

  WHY, GOD? WHY ME?

  The old wood of the pew creaks under my weight. Everything slows. My brain. My heart. I set the kneeler down gently, so it doesn’t make a sound. My forehead rests on the rail of the bench in front of me. I wish everything would stop. Even for a few moments. Turning my head to the side I stare up at the tall window nearby. Yellow, red, and orange slivers of glass surround Mary and bathe her in light. The royal blue of her robe sparkles. Her arms reach out and up, and for a moment I believe she could take this heavy feeling from me, take it and give it to God. Save me from carrying it any longer.