This Gorgeous Game (11 page)

I’m in the middle of typing a response—But I didn’t mean to—when another line from Father Mark pops up.

I don’t know what to say to that. I can barely manage to type in But when Father Mark writes something else.

I am impressed, tempted by the offer, too tempted to say no, and this is when I remember why it’s exciting to be around Father Mark.

I can’t help but feel pleased with myself. I want to stay in Father Mark’s good graces because of the doors he is opening on my behalf. Why in the world would I do anything to get in the way of that? Maybe I’ve been too harsh and acting immature about this whole
we’re not speaking
thing because I didn’t like the way it felt to be scolded by him. I begin to think that maybe I should call off my little experiment, this little game of me running away from him, when I receive another IM—

—and as soon as I read the words on the screen I know that I don’t want to see him, that I can’t because I am booked anyway—plans with Greenie tomorrow, Jamie on Sunday, Ash and Jada all through next week, and hopefully even more plans with Jamie if things go well this weekend. I take a deep breath and type what I know are Father Mark’s two least favorite words, words that I’ve found so difficult to say to him, that I know will make him unhappy, maybe even angry:

The cursor blinks and I don’t know what to type. So I take the cowardly route.

I slam my laptop shut, breathing hard. I’m covered in sweat.

My cell phone lights up on the couch next to me. I’m careful not to touch it. I don’t feel ready to hash this out right now. When the ringing stops I grab it, wanting to shut it down but it immediately lights up again in my hand, startling me. I’m afraid if I try shutting it down I’ll accidentally answer instead so I bury it under a pile of dirty laundry where it continues to ring. I shut my bedroom door and lie down on the rug. It feels soft underneath me and I close my eyes. I am so tired all of a sudden. Worn out. Eventually the ringing stops. But soon the thought that there is something…something going on that’s…I don’t know. But then, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just in my head. Maybe I’m overreacting.

Yes. I’m sure that’s it. It’s just me and my overactive imagination.

Convincing myself of this is what allows me to eventually drift off to sleep right there, on the floor of my room, without even a blanket. And I wake like this on Saturday, stretched out and exposed in the light of the morning sun.

GREENIE AND I SPEND ALL DAY SHOPPING FOR WEDDING
dresses and I have fun playing maid of honor which, in addition to holding up mirrors and oohing and aahing at how beautiful my sister looks in everything she tries on, also includes prying information from her about kissing Luke and making her blush when I ask whether she has any wedding night jitters. But then Greenie turns the tables on me even though this is not her intent and says, “By the way, Mom said Father Mark is really serious about you—”

“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
en
joy
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.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON FINALLY ARRIVES AND I AM LAUGH
ing 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.”