This Gorgeous Game (2 page)

The door creaks as Sister June shuts it behind us.

Everyone turns in our direction and for a moment there is silence.

“You must be Olivia,” he says then. His deep voice booms. “Olivia Peters!”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

“I’m Mark. Mark Brendan,” he says, crossing the room with all the energy and confidence you’d expect from someone like him, extending his hand to shake mine, which Sister June passes from hers to his because I am frozen—after all, you don’t meet your idol every day—and then he is grasping my hand with an enthusiasm that is thrilling and finally,
finally
, the biggest smile that has ever met the lips on my face breaks through and I say, “I can’t believe you are here.”

And just like that, we meet.

He and I meet and everything…it all…
begins.

“It isn’t because you won honorable mention, either.” He smiles, looking down at me because he is at least a head taller. And I am tall.

“Wow,
wow
…I just never expected…” I say, because I’ve always loved writing but I didn’t really think it would amount to anything. Still, I’m not going to deny that I’ve always wanted this and my mother—she’s a writer, too—she’s always said I have it in me. But if there is such a thing as divine intervention, of God whispering to us extraordinary things, I’ve no doubt that God whispers to him the words that have moved critics to claim he is one of the greatest writers of our time. “So, honorable mention,” I repeat after him, trying to focus. “That’s not why you’re here, Father?”

And he says, “Please, call me Mark.”

So I respond, “Okay, Father Mark,” and look up at him, hopeful.

“I did go to meet the honorable mentions in person, too,” Father Mark adds because he is charming and obviously a good, kind person. “But that’s not why I am here, Olivia.”

The way he says my name, it sounds like music, beautiful music that I listen to at the symphony, and I wish he would keep saying “
O
livia…
O
livia…
O
livia” with his emphasis on the
O
as in Oh-liv-ee-aah and not
a
-livia the way most people pronounce it with a short
a
, as if my name begins with an article and I am this object named “Livia,” like
liver
or just
live.

Everyone is silent, waiting. Ms. Gonzalez’s eyes well with tears. Ms. Aronson’s cheeks flush and her body twists back and forth, arms wrapped around her middle like a girl with a crush. Ms. Jones keeps saying, “My, my…my, my, my…” with her hands clasped against her heart. Only Sister June seems unfazed—happy, yes, but somehow unruffled. Maybe this is a skill she learned as a nun, to be unmoved by handsome men, handsome priests. I wonder why everyone else doesn’t act like Sister June does.

Like I do.

Like he is a man of God.

My dad’s been out of the picture for more than a decade, but my older sister, Greenie, and I have had plenty of other dads over the years, it’s just that everyone calls them Fathers instead of Dads and they are married to the Catholic Church. Priests have been coming to our house since I was little for lunch, tea, Sundays after mass, making sure Mom was okay on her own taking care of us and one big now-empty-of-a-husband house. Greenie and I, we took to these stand-in dads like kids to candy.

Now another one, another Father walks into my life.

What luck.

“Congratulations on winning the first annual Emerging Writers High School Fiction Prize, Olivia.” Father Mark D. Brendan makes it official, his voice like velvet, and I want to reach out and smooth my hand across those words as they ripple the air. “In addition to getting your story published,” he says, pausing, drawing the moment out, letting the strength of his connections sink in, “you will receive a $10,000 scholarship to the college of your choice, and of course, a spot in my HMU summer fiction seminar.”

“My sister is a junior at Holy Mary University,” I say, as if this matters and because I can’t think of anything else, trying to stay calm, feet firm on the floor, resisting the urge to jump up and down because I want to appear older than my seventeen years and poised, like Ashley and Jada said I am.

“It was an easy decision.”

Easy,
he says. An easy decision.

Sunlight streams through the only window, its rays landing in the space between us, and I see him through the specs of dust that shine like glitter in the light.

“Your writing reveals a maturity beyond your years,” he says, his eyes locking on mine for an instant, and then looks at his watch. He holds up an arm sheathed in the black shirt of a priest, the white collar around his neck providing the only contrast against this dark, sacred uniform. “But we’ll have to continue this conversation later. Olivia, ladies, Sister June, I must be off.” One by one, he nods at each person in the room, at each of us one last time, and I want to shout,
Don’t go! Stay!
but I don’t. “I’ll be in touch again soon, Olivia, to discuss where we go from here. It was truly a pleasure.”

Before I can say another word, a thank you, or even a
see you later
, Father Mark is at the door, opening it to leave, and I become aware that our entire encounter has taken barely a couple of minutes, though for me, the time goes by like a dream in slow motion. I wonder whether he means what he says, about being in touch again soon, but this question is answered almost immediately.

Before he leaves the room, before he goes, he turns and smiles and looks at me like I am a gift from God, and for a moment I feel like maybe I am.

WARM AIR TICKLES THE SKIN ON MY ARMS AND LEGS AS I
walk home from school and I laugh out loud because I am happy. Carefree and wound up. At a stoplight I take a moment to breathe deep, inhaling the scent of flowering trees, leaning forward off the curb and fidgeting as if these small pushes and movements can will the signal to change from red to green and the blinking sign to Walk, like magic. The words
I won
swirl through my mind so fast they might slip right out and flutter off into the sky like a butterfly before I can catch them.

There were thousands of entries.

He picked me.

Walk
says the street sign and I obey.

My cell pings with texts and I know it’s Ash and Jada, but I am not quite ready to confirm what they suspect. For now I want to keep the news to myself, let it sink deep into the center of my thirsty soul like water in a garden.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Maybe only a minute passes before I can’t help myself any longer and I give in, digging the cell out of my bag and texting them, Come 4 dinner 2nite, BIG News (!!!!!!!!) SWAK, and then shove the phone back under my books. I look both ways then cross the street, heading along another block of town houses anchored by riotous springtime blooms packed into tiny city flower beds. I pass Berkeley Street, Clarendon Street—with its little park for small children but
no dogs allowed
—and Dartmouth Street which marks the halfway point between home and Sacred Heart, a journey I love when the weather is nice like today, but loathe in the slushy, icy muck that accumulates during a Boston winter. The sun is bright on my side of the street so I jaywalk to the center park that runs along Commonwealth Avenue, with its canopy of leafy trees that dapple the light. Pink petals fall from the blossoms above when they are shaken by the breeze and make a scattered springtime carpet across the grass. The beauty of the park reminds me of my story.

The Girl in the Garden.

Ms. Gonzalez thought it was a winner from the very beginning. It made her cry the first time she read it. “It’s heartbreaking,” she said, brushing a tear from her cheek. Then she asked: “Is it about your dad leaving?”

“I don’t know” was my response.

The opening line:
Arturo sat on a bench under a weeping willow, a magic umbrella with its long hanging vines like locks of hair from a beautiful girl.
It takes place by the lake in Boston’s Public Garden. The story is about two people who fall in love over a series of long evenings while sitting, talking on the bench. Then the girl disappears and Arturo’s heart shatters.

“What’s got you all happy?” A shout pulls at me and I turn to see Ash and Jada running across Commonwealth Ave. In a matter of seconds they are beside me in the park and the sound of traffic traveling down the street on either side seems far away. As my body and mind reawaken to the world, a grin spreads across my face until it becomes huge. My friends smile back at me and suddenly I feel nervous to say my news out loud.

“Tell us,” Jada demands.

“We couldn’t wait till dinner,” Ash explains.

My two friends are the only people besides Ms. Gonzalez who read my story—read every draft and talked me through every word, sentence, and idea I hemmed and hawed about. They listened, too, sitting on the floor of my room, full of patience, as I told them about Ms. Gonzalez’s suggestion that my dad somehow crept into my writing without my permission, without my awareness. Without an invitation.

“So did you get in trouble with Ms. Lewis?” I stall.

“Olivia.” Ash’s impatience grows.

“Well?” Jada has my arm now.

“I won,” I whisper.

“First prize?” Ash’s voice is hesitant. Hopeful.

“First prize,” I confirm.

Suddenly the three of us are screaming and jumping up and down and doing silly, celebratory dances until we work ourselves into a sweat.

“As soon as Sister June showed up to get you out of class, we totally knew. Didn’t we?” Ash turns to Jada for confirmation and Jada is nodding her head yes.

“It hasn’t really hit me yet.”

“Don’t worry, it will. Wow.” Jada’s mouth forms a big O.

“He gave me the news in person.”

“The author?” Ash asks.

“Yeah. It was crazy. Surreal.”

“Was he nice?”

“So nice.” All the feelings from earlier this afternoon come rushing back and my face flushes with the memory. “I just stood there, soaking it up and telling myself over and over,
This is really happening, this is really happening
, and wanting to pinch myself to make sure.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Jada says.

“Well, I’m glad because it really would be a shame to waste that brain of yours,” Ash says, with a playful roll of her eyes. “Did you tell your mom yet?”

“No. I’m waiting to tell her in person. Want to come back to the house with me?”

“Yes,” they say.

“Mom is going to faint.” I laugh when I try to picture her expression.

“We’ll watch out for falling bodies then. Let’s go,” Jada says, and the three of us cross the street toward my house to tell my mother the good news.

The Gospel of Olivia Peters. Ha.

Jada beats me up the front steps and flings open the front door and I go flying through the foyer and into the living room. I swoop down on my mother, who is on the couch drinking her afternoon tea and talking to Father MacKinley, our parish priest, having one of their weekly chats. Ash and Jada occupy Father with polite
hello, how are you
’s, while I wrap my arms tight around Mom and say, “I won!” She gasps and draws me close, crying out, “Olivia, I’m so proud of you!” and by now Ash and Jada have explained things to Father and I hear them laughing, Father MacKinley exclaiming, “Oh, that’s wonderful,” and I think how if this was a scene in a story it would be the moment when the protagonist feels the world is made entirely and perfectly of love.

THE NEXT DAY ASH, JADA, AND I WALK TO HOLY MARY
University after school so I can register for my summer class. We get detoured the second we arrive by all the guy potential. Even though spring semester exams are in full swing, students are everywhere, enjoying the weather. Some lie on blankets in the sun, some play Frisbee. Here and there others sit reading with their backs against the trunks of the old, gnarled apple trees dotting the edges of the quad. I am already in love with the idea of being a college student here. For a couple of months at least.

We decide to wait for my sister—Greenie’s living on campus through the summer—by the steps in front of Gregory Hall, right at the edge of the quad in prime people-watching territory.

“It’s okay, you know.” Ash turns to me.

“What is?”

“To appreciate the hot guys checking you out,” Jada says, but is unable to tear her eyes away from the soccer game to our left.

“How do you know they aren’t checking
you
out?”

“Um, because they’re not looking at us.” Ash says this like she’s stating the obvious, but to me, nothing in the boy department is ever obvious.

“Or maybe it’s the fact that we scream Sacred Heart High School.” The three of us are still wearing our uniforms, plaid skirts and all, and stick out like a sore thumb.

“All I’m saying is that if you’re not careful, you’ll break some hearts this summer.”

“I will not,” I protest. “You know I’m not like that.”

“Tell that to Will Porter.”

“I just kissed him at a dance.”

“Yes, after leading him on for six months and then—” Jada holds up her hands in a heart, her attention no longer on the soccer game, and then cracks the heart open.

“Can we please not talk about this again?” Jada gets a glare from me for the physical demonstration. “Will Porter didn’t even like me which is why it didn’t go anywhere.”

“You are blind sometimes.” Jada turns back to her boy-watching.

I cross my arms over my chest, eyes darting around, self-conscious now that people, boys, are looking at me and somehow I am simply oblivious to it.

“Good thing we go to an all-girls school,” Ash says, trying to lighten up the mood again. “And don’t deny the fact that your eyes are practically popping out of your head.”

“Not true,” I say, but Ash is right. There are cute guys everywhere I turn and it’s impossible not to notice. It’s as if HMU decided to hold a cute guys festival this afternoon.

“Let’s get a better view,” Jada says, dragging the two of us closer to the soccer game. The sun shines above the gothic, ivy-covered buildings, giving everything and everyone a summery glow. The grass feels lush through my thin-soled flats. We eventually stop under a nearby tree, shading ourselves from the sun. Jada continues speaking but I no longer catch anything.