The Possibilities of Sainthood (8 page)

“Don't call me lover-girl,” I said from the backseat, where I was now sitting, bag of clothes on my lap.

“But you kind of are lover-girl when it comes to Michael McGinnis. He is so still crushing on you and you obviously have some strange fixation for him. You are
always
talking about him, Antonia.”

“We're just friends,” I said, with more confidence than I actually felt. Inside I wasn't entirely sure what Michael and I were exactly. “Besides, Michael crushes on
everybody
.”

“If you just like him as a friend, Antonia, then why are you hiding in my car?”

“I can't decide if I feel like talking to him right now, okay?” I sighed.

Through the car's front window I could see Michael walking toward us, his blue Bishop Francis uniform tie hanging loose, shirt half out, looking as disheveled as the dark, wavy brown hair that fell around his face in messy layers. If Michael had a superpower, it would be
the ability to home in on my location no matter where I hid. He looked right past Maria into the car where I was sitting. Ever since the day we met, something about Michael's stare always made me wish I was wearing a huge sweatshirt and baggy, unflattering pants. I knew this was not a normal reaction to someone who also happened to be the guy with whom half your school was trying to lock lips despite the fact that he didn't even play a sport. Maybe it was his Irish brogue that got him all the girls. It
was
pretty charming. Or maybe his eyes? Whatever it was,
I
was not falling for it. If Michael ever tried to kiss me again, not that he would and definitely not that I would want him to, I would run the other way just like last time, because though a kiss may be just a kiss for Michael, I wanted my first kiss to be perfect and NOT with the kissing bandit of Bishop Francis Academy for Boys.

Besides, I was saving myself for Andy Rotellini.

“You're obsessing over him, aren't you, Antonia?”

“Who, Andy?”

“Nooooo,”
Maria said. “Your ‘friend.' ”

“I am not,” I lied, and said a quick prayer in my head to Vitus, Patron Saint Against Animal Attacks, about turning Michael's attention in another direction since he practically
was
an animal when it came to girls. At least, that's what I'd heard. “I was just petitioning St. Jude about my fig proposal at the Vatican.” Why lie only once when you were on a roll? “And being thankful about Mrs. Bevalaqua's
miraculous recovery,” I added for good measure.

“More like you were just praying to Jude about the hopeless cause that would be
you
not obsessing about Michael McGinnis.”

“If you don't stop harassing me about him, I'm going to tell John about how last year you drew hearts all over your notebooks and filled them with ‘Maria loves John,' like you were still in elementary school.”

“You wouldn't do that to your best friend.”

“Just try me.”

“Uh-ho! Your cousins to the rescue, baby.” Maria was back to her play-by-play. “Veronica and Concetta have intercepted Michael and Patrick two cars away and are engaged in some heavy flirting,” she informed me. “And damn! Veronica's got her skirt hiked up as high as that cheesy banana-clip hairdo she always wears. That girl needs to learn that hair spray and teasing is not attractive.”

Veronica was in our class and Concetta was one year ahead of us—a junior.

A wave of relief washed over me. But then I couldn't help wondering if either of the Italian wonder twins were somehow involved with Michael. Not that I cared. I was just curious.

“Hey, Maria,” I said, finally emerging from her backseat. “Let's get out of here before they come over. I've got to finish an essay anyway.”

“Okay, lover-girl.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“All right, let's go,” she said, hopping off the front of her car and linking her arm through mine.

We passed Michael, Patrick, and my two cousins as we crossed the threshold of angels at the edge of the parking lot. Even though I stared straight ahead I could feel Michael's eyes on me, and my cheeks began to burn.

“Please open your texts and read quietly,” Sister Mary Margaret said, looking up from the open book on her desk, her tone stern. Unlike Sister Noella, Sister Mary Margaret wore the old-fashioned nun's habit, the
Sound of Music
kind with the stiff white frame that left only a tiny oval window for the face and covered everything else—ears, hair, and neck.

We were reading
The Great Gatsby
in class,
literally
. Sister Mary Margaret didn't actually teach. We spent almost all our time “reading quietly,” and when Sister Mary Margaret thought we'd had enough “reading quietly,” she gave us a test on whatever book we'd spent zero minutes discussing.

Lila Delman (of the Lila, Angela, Hilary trio) was trying to get my attention—never a good idea with Sister Mary Margaret watching. Lila always sat next to me whenever I had class without Maria. “Hey, Antonia,” she was whispering. “Antonia . . .”

I gave Lila the we're-going-to-get-in-trouble-if-we're-not-careful stare.

Apparently, Lila had trouble understanding my signal. Soon she was leaning toward me, trying to start a conversation, her perky blond hair swinging forward. “So can you hang out in the parking lot today after school? Hilary, Angela, and I met these totally hot guys from the hockey team and they said they'd see us there today and we could share the wealth . . .”

“Can't do it,” I'd already written on one of the slips I kept in my bag for saint petitions, holding it up so Lila could read it from her desk.

 

Plans with Maria. Sorry. Love 2 next time!

Friday was my one afternoon off from working at the store.

“Maria could come too if she wanted . . . though she might not be interested since, well, she's dating that senior guy at Bishop Francis, isn't she?”

Lila was still talking when Sister Mary Margaret suddenly yelled, “Was there something confusing about my request that you open your books and read quietly?” which silenced Lila midsentence, and together as a class we gave the expected response . . .

“No, Sister Mary Margaret,” we said in unison, making sure to draw out each syllable clearly.

. . . and which ended any attempt of Lila's to continue our conversation. Everyone went back to
The Great Gatsby,
or whatever else they were doing before the interruption: homework for another class, writing notes to friends and loved ones, doodling, reading trashy romance novels, or, in my case, reflecting about the fact that it was now seventeen days since I'd sent the fig proposal to the Vatican.

I'd suggested a grand total of 103 specialties so far—all rejected, with the Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees clocking in at number 104. That's one saint specialization a month, every month, for almost nine years. Some people would've gotten discouraged already. But not me. I was nothing if not persistent. Besides, I was confident that soon the Vatican would take notice of at least one of my ideas. At least
mine
were always practical, unlike some specializations that were pretty ridiculous. For example, there are official saints for rheumatoid chorea (I don't even know what that is), pewterers, which I think are people who make pewter objects (??), bachelors (though not
bachelorettes,
interestingly enough), and disappointing children (whether this means warding against letting down your offspring or a child who is less than satisfying, I am not quite sure). All these in addition to saints for beekeeping, bartending, unattractive people, cattle, and, all kidding aside, a separate specialty for diseased cattle (perhaps for mad cow?), feet problems, plague, not to mention spelunking (for you nonoutdoorsy types, that's caving). There are even saints for Belgian and Spanish
air crews
—you know, pilots and airline attendants. But, bizarrely enough, there
isn't
a Patron Saint of Gelato! (I tried that one when I was nine.) Or Secret Keeping! (I floated that one just last
month after Gram overheard me talk about Andy to Maria and I was afraid she might spill the beans.) And, of course, figs. No Patron Saint of Figs! Not yet, at least.

Waiting is the worst.

After staring at page 96 for ten straight minutes, I decided to organize the most recent petitions in my Saint Diary, including the one I wrote last period to St. Jude about kissing.

Everyone I knew had, at the very least, kissed someone. I was probably the only girl at Holy Angels who'd still never gotten any tongue. Talk about having a reason to pray to St. Jude. I could be the poster child for the Hopeless Cause when it came to kissing.

 

Dear St. Jude:

O Patron Saint of Desperate Situations and Hopeless Causes, I am indeed desperate and I know you can help. All I want is a little kiss. I know that wanting to be kissed is probably not something you think a good virgin Catholic like me should be asking for, but believe me, a little kiss from Andy isn't even going to make a dent in my purity, I'm oh-so-untouched. So if you are at all worried about my Virginity, please stop, and if you could turn the attention of the love of my life my way, I'll be eternally grateful.
Actually, if you could turn his lips in my direction specifically, that would be best. Thank you, St. Jude, for your intercession in this matter.

“Antonia, what
are
you going on about?” Lila was staring at me, her eyebrows raised, her voice
so
not a whisper.

I froze. Had I read my petition to Jude out loud?

What was WRONG with me?

It took only one innocent question from Lila to get all sixteen pairs of eyes in Sister Mary Margaret's American lit class, including my cousin Veronica's, on me. People were always looking for excuses to break up the daily boredom.

“Um, I'll tell you later, okay?” I pleaded, my voice quiet.

“Antonia, did you have something you wanted to tell us?” Sister Mary Margaret piped up from her desk, frowning, her forehead a mass of wrinkles along the edge of her nun's habit.

“I was just commenting to myself about the story,” I began, praying that Lila had not really heard all that stuff I was asking St. Jude about my aspirations to kiss Andy Rotellini. “I guess I got so caught up in the book I forgot where I was and spoke my thoughts out loud. Sorry.”

“And those thoughts were what? Why don't you share with the class? Tell us what you think of
The Great Gatsby.
” Her voice was skeptical.

“Sorry,” Lila mouthed, her pale skin flushing red.

“Why don't you tell us, Toni,” Veronica snickered, using the nickname from my childhood that she knew I hated. Just hearing her nasally voice and that thick Rhode Island Italian accent made my body tense.

I shot Veronica—who was smiling cruelly—an evil look for two reasons. First,
no one
called me Toni. I was not a boy and I did
not
do nicknames. When I was a little girl and my father was still alive he used to say I had a beautiful name, which is why he and Mom gave it to me, and therefore there was no reason to shorten it. Like I mentioned before, really I am Antonia
Lucia,
just like Mom is Amalia Lucia and Gram is Editta Lucia—but I leave it at Antonia.

Second, Veronica was just plain wicked and would love to see me humiliated in front of the class. St. Veronica may be the Patron Saint of Laundry Workers (and given the marinara stain from lunch on Veronica's white oxford, she could stand to do a little washing), but it would be more true to form if my cousin's name saint was the Patron of Hurtful Gossip or of Mean Remarks or even of People With Nasty Souls.

“Antonia?” Sister Mary Margaret pressed, perhaps awakened by the strange sight of people in her class paying attention.

“It was me that was talking, Sister Mary Margaret, not Antonia . . .
really . . .
” Lila started babbling, but one look from Sister Mary Margaret silenced her.

“I was talking to Antonia. Is your name Antonia?”

“No, Sister,” Lila said.

“I was just saying to
myself
,” I said finally, “that if Gatsby puts up with any more agita—that's Italian slang for aggravation—from Daisy, then he's likely to become a saint, or he should at least consider praying to St. Rose, the Patron Saint Against Vanity, because Daisy really has some problems in that area.”

Right then the bell rang and I was saved from any further public trials.

“Tomorrow we'll continue reading,” Sister Mary Margaret said, but her redundant directive was lost in the din of an entire class of girls already on the move, getting out of seats, slamming books shut, packing up, the little exchange between Veronica, Sister, Lila, and me already forgotten. I felt thankful for small miracles like bells that end class with perfect timing and made a mental note that there should be a Patron Saint of Quick Thinking.

“I'm
soooo
sorry about that, Antonia,” Lila said, her blue eyes apologetic.

“No worries.”

“But now that we
can
talk . . . what
were
you saying anyway? I definitely heard something about kissing and the name Andy,” she said, her face turning from apologetic to curious. “Did you mean Andy Rotellini? Because if you did I don't blame you. He's
so
cute.”

“Maybe I did,” I whispered, wondering if it might not be such a big deal to confess my love interests to more friends than just Maria. “Have you ever seen him pitch a game? He looks so good in his uniform and a baseball hat.”