“True. So do you have a favorite philosopher yet?” I ask, even though I’ve read very little philosophy—mainly novels when I think about it, like The Stranger by Albert Camus.
“Nietzsche,” he answers without hesitation.
“Huh. Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I didn’t take you for a ‘God is dead’ kind of guy.” I wish I was daring enough to reach out and catch the tiny silver cross dangling from his neck between my fingers.
“Nietzsche is more complicated on the subject than people give him credit,” Jamie explains. “But that’s a longer conversation for another day.”
So there’ll be another day?
“My turn,” he says.
“Ask your question.”
“So are you excited about the class?”
The class.
My honest answer at the moment: yes and no. Today at least, I feel conflicted. What I say to Jamie: “Yes, I’ve been looking forward to it since the day I found out I had a spot.”
“Me, too,” he says. “It’s almost eight p.m., which means I’ve been excited for just over three whole hours. And now I’m wondering whether you’ll pretend you don’t know me the first day—perhaps not a bad idea.” He gives me a look, and I know Jamie is thinking about Father Mark’s strange behavior earlier in his office. “Or: are you going to lower yourself and sit with the likes of me?” Now he is flirting.
“I might consider it.” My hand shifts. Closer to his. “If you continue to be nice and entertaining.” Almost there. Hands almost touching.
“Oh, I can be entertaining,” Jamie says as if it’s a challenge. His face lights up like there is more to say on the subject.
“Really? Do tell,” I press, because I want to know everything about him, especially those things that make him come alive.
“I was going to wait until later to bring this up, but since we’re on the subject…” He breathes in deep, readying himself for whatever comes next. “So my friends and I sometimes do this thing.”
“Um, that’s vague. You and your friends do a thing?”
“Give me a minute here. I’m working up to it.” He smiles. Laughs. His eyes dart away and back.
“Okay. Sorry. I can be patient,” I say, and think about how adorable Jamie is when he’s nervous. “So what kind of thing?”
“It’s really better if you see for yourself. The next gig is on Sunday afternoon—”
“Gig?”
“Yes, gig.”
“So you’re in a band?” Oh no. He’s in a worship band and he’s going to invite me to see him play bass for God like one of Greenie’s friends.
“No, not a band.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not in one of those cheesy worship groups.”
He read my mind. “I’ll stop interrupting now.”
“You sure? Got it all out?” He leans forward. Our faces are only inches apart. His arm moves closer to mine on the table.
“Positive,” I say, determined not to move a muscle.
“So our next one is at St. John’s parish this Sunday. It’s for a bunch of youth groups—if you’re not already busy, of course. There’ll be food. There’s a mass afterward. I thought maybe we could go together, to the mass I mean. Unless that makes you feel uncomfortable. I’d walk you home afterward.”
Wow. Jamie asks me out on what sounds like a real date and it’s to go to church. Greenie’s going to love this, since it’s basically her favorite kind.
“Sure, I’ll go. I’d love to go. Sunday. Got it,” I say, because I would love to go and because I’m curious what exactly “gig” means in this context. “You won’t tell me what you’re doing, though? For real?”
“Just promise you’ll come. It’ll be fun. I hope.” He smiles. He’s nervous again. “One o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
“It’s a date then.” He places his hand on my arm for emphasis but all he emphasizes is the crackle of the current between us and the fact that we are finally touching, skin on skin, and I want to faint. “You better be careful, Olivia,” he warns.
“Careful of what?” I am grinning, busy enjoying his nearness.
“Now you’ve made me two promises.” His hand stays put and I find it difficult not to add mine to his.
“Two?”
“Sunday…”
“Yup. I remember that one.” I ready myself to make a move, to take his hand.
“And the second is sitting with me in class every session—”
“Now we’re up to every session? I don’t know if I can commit that far,” I kid, thinking, Yes, yes, yes, absolutely, I will sit with you all summer if you want.
“—even if you have to brave the wrath of your protective benefactor who has marked out special Olivia Peters Only reserved seating next to him up on the stage.” Jamie laughs.
I don’t.
Everything comes to a screeching halt with his suggestion, my mind, my body, my ability to speak, as if the Band-Aid was ripped off my wound too soon. Even though I know he isn’t serious, all I can think is, I don’t want Jamie to act like I am a teacher’s pet, and then wonder, But I am one, aren’t I, though? Finally, I respond. “That’s ridiculous. Why would you even say that?”
“Because after seeing him with you this afternoon, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
I shift in my seat. Turn away. Stare at the people next to us.
“Hey, I was joking,” he says.
“I know,” I say, but I’m trying to imagine what Jamie saw in Father Mark’s office that would make him think I’d be set apart from everyone else, if maybe my presence in Father Mark’s office was somehow so out of the ordinary to someone who just happened upon us. I almost muster the nerve to ask him about this, straight-out, when he says, “Do you know how many students would kill to be in your shoes? If only I was as exceptionally talented as Olivia Peters.” He is playing, trying to lighten up the conversation, but for some reason it only keeps upsetting me. Maybe it’s because I’m worried I somehow did permanent damage to my situation with Father Mark and I’m still smarting from it. I can’t decide.
My hands slide into my lap and we no longer touch. It’s as if I’ve pulled some kind of plug and the electricity shuts off. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to give you a compliment and instead I made you feel awkward.” He looks pained.
“It’s okay. Next question,” I prompt, trying to get back to our game of back and forth. I’m not sure whose turn it is anymore but I decide to go next and go for broke as far as changing the subject because I want to take our topic as far away from Father Mark as possible, do some triage. I close my eyes, ready myself, then just blurt: “So, how many girlfriends have you had?”
His eyes widen and I detect a slight flush in his cheeks. This brings a small smile back to my face. My hands creep back onto the table until both my forearms rest there, in front of me.
“I plead the fifth on this one,” he says. “Besides, there are plenty of other things you don’t know about me yet.”
“But I asked you about this in particular. The rules are, you have to answer.”
“I didn’t know there were rules.”
“I might be making them up as we go.” I am feeling better now. Ready to return to our conversation and the feelings of before.
“I see,” he says, still avoiding the question.
“Answer, please: number of past girlfriends.” It is my turn to act flirtatious now.
“You might never want to hang out with me again if I tell you.”
“Why? Are there like, dozens? Hundreds?”
“No.”
“Thousands?” I gasp in mock horror.
“No.” He stares at his coffee mug instead of me.
“Then how bad can it be?”
“It’s not that it’s bad so much as it’s…rather nonexistent.” His eyes blink up from the mug, his lashes long, fluttering. Embarrassed.
; “Tell me.”
“Let’s just say that I think I’m working on girlfriend number one as we speak.” Jamie leans toward me. His hand slides along my forearm, slow, until it reaches my fingers.
“Oh,” I whisper, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Hey…so…it’s getting late and I should go. Can I walk you home?”
“Sure,” I say, “yes.”
“Excellent.” We lock eyes, his confidence returning. Even when he gets up from his chair, he holds my gaze. “Shall we?”
I nod.
Without another word, we gather our things, and he buses the table. As we walk out of the coffee shop and down Newbury Street my left arm swings near his right. Occasionally our arms brush, sending invisible sparks into the atmosphere. Silence hangs between us except for the swish, swish of my dress, and everything is perfect, absolutely glorious, until the moment I check my cell to find out the time, but what I find instead, what I find in addition to the time, is that I have four missed calls and about ten new text messages all from the same person, and I can’t help but think, What has gotten into Father Mark today?
The snapping shut of my phone is loud like a door slamming, which feels satisfying because I don’t want to let anything else in right now, I want to shut everything else out, I want to shut Father Mark out because he does not belong here, between Jamie and me on our maybe-date. Besides, Father Mark is the one who said he’d see me the first day of class, and even if he lied—because he was obviously lying—I think maybe he had a point, that a break would be nice for all involved, and I’m going to hold him to that little stunt he pulled because two can play at that game even though I don’t like being played with this way. I don’t like it at all.
“Olivia?” Jamie inquires, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Still here,” I say, looking up, focusing on his big brown eyes, which are looking into mine.
“Good,” he says.
That is all I need to forget: one word, one glance, one stare from Jamie as we walk—almost hand in hand, not quite, but almost—toward my house. With every step I find that my joy gets bigger and those nagging, unsettling feelings get further and further away until they have almost entirely disappeared from notice. But not quite.
ON URGENCY
FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE WEEK I TALK TO EVERYONE, all the time, everyone being Ash, Jada, Greenie, Luke, Mom, and Jamie, too—who has me counting the minutes until I see him again on Sunday.
Father Mark and I, on the other hand, do not talk at all, not since the day in his office, but not for lack of trying on his part. He’s even started leaving little packages on the doorstep. I avoid his calls and texts and letters and gifts, dodging everything like a dodgeball champion on the playground. I don’t know what possesses me to do this, to ignore him, to hold him to his word, as if performing a strange experiment. To see what happens if I simply don’t pick up my cell, if I don’t respond to any of his attempts to communicate, if I leave the letters that have begun arriving in the mailbox at our house unopened, notes that just last week I would have been eager to read the second they were in my hands. Now I just toss them onto the pile between the couch and the windowsill in my room. Ever since that day when I said, No I can’t meet you at Eastern Standard, I’ve wondered what would happen if I continued saying no, no, no to everything, instead of the usual yes, yes, yes. I’ve wanted to know if Father Mark would eventually forget about me.
And I find out. I learn something. His attention doesn’t abate.
It increases.
It’s not that I don’t feel guilt—I do. I feel tremendous guilt and like I am intentionally hurting this person who only wants the best for me. But the moment I begin to avoid him the avoidance becomes something like an addiction because it brings me relief. In all honesty I feel tremendous relief though I am not sure why.
I thought I’d feel regret.
On Friday evening, when I open my laptop and log on to my account, hoping to find Jamie online but finding instead e-mails piling up in my mailbox, spaced only a few minutes apart, I’m prompted to think—and not for the first time—What has gotten into him? and How can I calm him down? I take the path of least resistance and decide to open one and write a quick response.
Dear Olivia,
His e-mail begins.
Is everything all right? Are you okay? Is there something I did to upset you? If there is I apologize. I can’t help but worry. Please be in touch, just to let me know if you are okay. And then, there’s a special event I want to talk to you about attending as my guest. I need an answer soon, though. Please call or e-mail or text. I am waiting.
As always, he signs it,
Yours,
Mark
I write a short message back—Dear Father Mark, Everything is fine! Just busy. See you in class week after next. Sincerely, Olivia Peters—hit Send, and sigh. I have done my duty and now I can move on.
After waiting around online for a while, hoping to see Jamie, I am about to shut down when an instant message pops up on my screen:
MDBrendan: Olivia? Is that you? It’s me. Mark.
I freeze. This is the first time Father Mark finds me this way and I know what I need to do: I have to answer. I have to. He can see me. He knows I am here. I have to explain to him. I owe him an explanation even though it feels like it might take all the energy in my body, but there is still something of the obedient Olivia in me and so I take a deep breath and begin to type.
Livvee17: Hey Father! What a surprise! You IM. Wow.
MDBrendan: Where have you been? I’ve been worried about why you aren’t answering my calls or returning e-mails.
Livvee17: Yeah, about that. I’m really, really sorry. I just have a lot going on and you know, I need to make time for my sister and my friends. They kind of get mad if I don’t hang out with them. You know how it is, high school stuff.
MDBrendan: Olivia, your number one priority needs to be your writing. I told you it can get lonely but that’s what I am here for. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.
I’m in the middle of typing a response—But I didn’t mean to—when another line from Father Mark pops up.
MDBrendan: End of discussion.
I don’t know what to say to that. I can barely manage to type in But when Father Mark writes something else.
MDBrendan: Something has come up since we last spoke. There is an event we must go to and I need to RSVP. The people attending are important so it’s crucial that you go. It’s the James McDaniel book release party.
Livvee17: Wow! James McDaniel? Wow.
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.
MDBrendan: See, Olivia? These are important opportunities.
Livvee17: I know.
MDBrendan: I take that as a yes, then? You’ll go.
Livvee17: Yes. Definitely. I will. I wouldn’t miss it. Thank you for thinking of me.
MDBrendan: Good, good. Wonderful news. I’ll RSVP for the both of us then, and send you the info.
Livvee17: Okay.
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—
MDBrendan: The next order of business is that we need to meet ASAP.
—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:
Livvee17: I can’t.
MDBrendan: What do you mean, you can’t?
Livvee17: I have plans every day and night until class starts. Maybe we could meet that afternoon, the first day of class, to work beforehand? How does that sound? A good compromise, right?
MDBrendan: What is so important that you can’t meet with me immediately?
The cursor blinks and I don’t know what to type. So I take the cowardly route.
Livvee17: My mom is calling me I gotta go, BYE!
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.
ON BEING WATCHED
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—”
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