This Gorgeous Game (16 page)

The house is dark when I enter. I flip on light after light after light, wanting to be surrounded by light, feeling frightened, scared of the dark, of the darkness everywhere, seeping into me, so I leave a trail of light after me as I make my way through the house.

When I reach my bedroom I toss the envelope onto the pile with the rest of it, the small mountain between my couch and the sill, still messy and untouched after Father Mark’s tantrum at dinner. I put on my pajamas, get into bed and burrow under the covers because I want to be buried, protected, hidden. I try to will myself to sleep but tugging at the corner of my consciousness is the story, his story, sitting so close that I cannot forget that it is there. A part of me wants to know what’s inside, to get it over with, to read it because I have a sense…I think it might…but then the biggest parts of me say,
Olivia, don’t go there, just don’t
. So maybe in the end I’ll get out of reading it like I get out of everything else recently, because he’ll start to get the picture like anyone else would, with him so desperate to be in touch and me avoiding, resisting, running away, because I will not stop avoiding. I will not. And eventually he will understand and stop and there will be no confrontation, no need for one, and then everything will be okay again because how could he not get the picture with all the signals I’m sending? How could he not? He will, in time he will eventually. My mother is always saying that
pa
tience is a virtue
and I determine that I can ride this out, that I can be patient and virtuous, and so in the end no harm will have to come to anyone.
Patience, Olivia, patience,
I repeat over and over until sleep finally claims me.

JUNE TURNS INTO JULY AND I THROW MYSELF INTO EV
erything that comes my way—everything that has nothing to do with Father Mark. Addressing Greenie’s invitations, planning her shower, spending time with Ash and Jada, and Jamie, I see more and more and more of Jamie. Jamie who makes me forget. I want as much Jamie as possible. I wish for a brain that thinks only Jamie-thoughts because Jamie is the one person who can pull me out of the darkness that has settled over me, into me, throughout every part of me because of
him
. I am a heavy, dark cloud creeping across the sidewalks and parks of Boston, always bringing with me doom and gloom and destroying everyone’s mood around me, about to rain and ruin everything and everyone nearby.

And now, now,
now
I wish with all my heart that I had never won this stupid freaking writing contest which is what got me into this mess with Father Mark who is probably going to call any minute because he calls just about
every
minute if he’s not e-mailing or texting every other minute or racing after me when class is over to discuss his stupid story only to find out that I, the ungrateful Olivia Peters, have still so far only read the title.

This Gorgeous Game. By Mark D. Brendan.

I can’t bring myself to go any further.

I attend class to keep up appearances and because, well, Jamie is there and we go together and because if I stop going people will wonder
why
and
what happened
and say things like
That’s not like you, Olivia, to skip class
and
Olivia, you used to be so excited about it
and then I will have to come up with something to say. More and more and more reasons
why
and
why not
and for now going seems the path of least resistance, to just get in, get out, get home, and quick—at least until I find a better solution or it all stops and the situation resolves itself.

I want this situation to resolve itself.

As it is, Jamie knows something is up. That something is going on. That something is wrong. He’s started to make leading remarks like
Wow, Father Mark calls you a lot, doesn’t he?
and
Father Mark is always leaving you things
and
You realize that Father Mark treats you different than everyone else, right?
and all of these oblique observations require me to make even more excuses, to become a full-time Father Mark Excuse Machine because it’s only a matter of time before Father Mark gets the picture and stops, before it all stops and goes away, and if I can just keep this up a little longer then everything will be okay.

I have to believe this.

The other option is unthinkable. It requires that I…that I…and I can’t. I just can’t.

Please, God. Please fix this for me.

On yet another class day when the clock says three p.m. I drag myself from my room and out of the house, all the while debating whether or not to skip, to give myself a reprieve, engage in this internal tug of war—
To go or not to go? To go or not to go?
—always, eventually, landing on
go
because if I go I will see Jamie and I will avoid raised eyebrows from other parties. But most of all I won’t set
him
off because God only knows how badly I want to avoid doing that, giving Father Mark cause to come after me in some other new and creative way, and at least, at least if he sees me in class it seems to satisfy him somehow, pacify him, keep him from using that imagination for other purposes.

It’s amazing, the things he thinks of doing. Trying.

But today, today for some reason I remember that I can see Jamie after class or tomorrow, since by now Jamie always wants to see me as much as I want to see him, and I’ve only gone as far as the sidewalk in front of my house, my feet like lead, before I flip open my cell—three more missed calls to add to the four from earlier. I find Jamie’s number and hit Send.

I decide to give myself a pass.

“Olivia.” Jamie picks up right away.

“Hi, Jamie,” I say, and scrape my foot back and forth along the cement. I can’t help but smile when I hear Jamie’s voice and the gloom lifts a little.

“What’s up? Are you on your way?”

“I was calling about class. I’m not going.”

“Oh.”

There is disappointment in that “Oh.” And a silence that follows.

“Are you sick?”

“No. I just have a lot of stuff to do. For Greenie. For Greenie’s wedding.” I hate lying to Jamie.

“Olivia.”

“Jamie.” I mimic his serious tone, trying to lighten things up.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

Here we go again.

“What do you mean?” I play dumb, stabbing at the sidewalk with the toe of my shoe.

“I’m not sure. I know it hasn’t been that long since we’ve been seeing each other but I feel like we’ve gotten really close. But then I sense you are holding something back. Something important.” He sighs. “I want you to be able to tell me anything, Olivia. Absolutely anything.”

No you don’t,
I think.
Not this, you don’t.

“I trust you,” I say, and lean against a car parked along the street. The metal burns hot through my T-shirt even though the sun is hidden behind some clouds.

“Olivia.”

“I do,” I say, and wait another long moment. “So I’ll see you tomorrow at three?”

I hear him breathing, in, out, hesitation, then resignation. “Fine. All right. Let’s meet at our spot,” he says, which makes my heart beat quicker. Jamie and I have “a spot” like other couples have “a song” and it’s the bench in the Public Garden. We go there almost every day now, ever since that first night of class. “I’ll be around later tonight online if you want to chat,” he adds.

“Good to know.”

“Well. Maybe talk to you later then,” he says, and I hear the phone click on the other end.

I look up at the darkening sky and see that it’s probably about to storm like it does sometimes on summer afternoons, the thunder and lightning and rain rolling in and out over the course of an hour. The phone vibrates and I pick up without thinking. “What, you miss me already?”

“Olivia,” scolds a familiar voice, and not the one I was expecting to hear. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

I slide down the side of the car until I’m sitting on the sidewalk.

“Olivia? Are you there?”

“Hi, Father Mark. Sorry. I, um, I thought you were someone else.”

“Olivia, what is going on with you?” He is urgent. Desperate.

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.