The Possibilities of Sainthood (10 page)

 

little stuff like the love of my life actually showing up during my shift at work

 

No. Revealing my adolescent sexual interests to the Vatican was probably not the best idea either.

 

little stuff like my playing like a virtual varsity soccer star in gym the other day.

No. That was insignificant to the point of too negligible to mention. There really
was
a pretty long list of minor miraculous events this week though—even Billy Bruno's same-day elbow healing, which was far more appropriate to mention than Francesca's flu symptoms and my newfound soccer abilities. I decided to go for broke:

 

P.S. You should know that I am kind of a minor miracle magnet lately. By minor I mean, you know, little things like my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Bevalaqua, who has had serious arthritis and all sorts of leg problems that were so bad she was in a wheelchair for twenty years, and,
just like that,
a few petitions to St. Sebastian and the woman is walking again! Totally extraordinary. Not that I really think I had a hand in this wondrous occurrence, it's just that I thought you should know in case you were interested. Hope to see you soon and look forward to hearing what you think of the new picture!

Just as I clicked Send, the bell rang. Maria, Lila, and I jumped up, grabbing our things. Lila waved goodbye and went running off to meet Hilary and Angela and their Bishop Francis hockey boys, and Maria waited while I checked out my Hildegard book so we could enjoy my one free afternoon of the week.

“This is due back December first,” Mrs. Gaines, the school librarian, said as she scanned my book into the computer.

December first, I thought. That was soon. Would I be proposing a new saint that day or finally basking in the glow of beatification? Had I gone overboard adding that “minor miracle magnet” bit in the e-mail? No, I decided. There couldn't be enough miracle talk for an aspiring saint. Miracles were just a part of my everyday existence, so
of course
it was important—imperative even—to mention them to The Vatican People. I had to put my best foot forward, right? I had nothing to lose after all.

Well, except my life. But what was a little death when the community of saints awaited?

“Lila overheard you say
what
in Sister Mary Margaret's class?”

“My passionate petition to St. Jude that I, Antonia Lucia Labella, was desperate to kiss Andy Rotellini, come hell, high water, and even death,” I said. “Well, I didn't really
say
anything about hell, high water, or death to Jude, but you get the picture.”

“And then Veronica made a scene?”

“Yup.”

Maria and I were skating in slow circles around her family's ice rink during the free skate she worked two days a week after school. We were still wearing our uniform plaid. Maria's pretty dark hair flowed behind her as we moved, making me wish mine was straight, too. It was so cold in the arena I could see my breath. I puffed into my red-mittened hands, feeling the warmth against my face. Little kids wobbled along the ice with their parents nearby,
and middle school aspiring hockey players—both girls and boys—sped past Maria and me as if we were standing still.

“Seriously. What is Veronica's problem with you? With everybody, for that matter?”

“Well, you already know the family history,” I said. “And then Veronica doesn't know how to have more than one friend at a time, so when you showed up, three became a crowd.”

“Antonia,” I heard a little-girl voice calling suddenly. I turned and saw Bennie (short for Bennedicta), Maria's baby sister, skating up. She wrapped her arms around my legs, almost knocking me over. “Antonia,” she yelled again.

When I'd recovered my balance, I bent down to give her a hug. She squeezed me as hard as a five-year-old's arms could manage. “What did you do in kindergarten today?”

“Well, I painted this picture of my family and it had Mom and Dad and Maria and James and Adriana and Pia and . . .”

“Hey, squirt, that's enough,” Maria said, interrupting Bennie, which allowed Bennie to finally take in a much-needed breath. Unlike me, Maria came from a huge family—she was the oldest.

“But—”

“Remember what Mom said about interrupting people? Antonia and I were having a conversation.”

“I was just saying hi,” she said, starting to pout. “To Antonia,
not you
,” she spat with such force that she went sprawling forward onto the ice.

“Oh, Bennie,” Maria sighed, skating over to help her up.

“Go away,” Bennie said, her face scrunched up, obviously trying not to cry. “I want Antonia,” she whined.

“Hey, fine, whatever you want, kiddo.” Maria backed away, her hands in the air. To me she said with a nod, “Go ahead, St. Antonia, my baby sister needs you.”

“I'm not a baby.” Bennie's eyes welled with tears.

“Let me see, Bennie,” I said, and Bennie held up both of her hands. They were scraped raw from skidding against the ice. “I think you need to go see your dad at the first-aid station, but,” I said, taking both hands gently, “I think you need a couple of kisses to start the healing process, right, Maria?”

“Whatever you say, St. Antonia,” she agreed.

“Okay,” Bennie said, watching as I lightly kissed each palm. “They already feel better now.” She smiled and skated off in a flash, her pink corduroyed legs moving like lightning toward the exit door, her scrapes quickly forgotten.

“Before that little interruption,” Maria said as we began moving again, “I was about to tell you not to blame me for Veronica's problems.”

“I wasn't blaming you, I was just implying that Veronica was a jealous girl . . .”

“Whatever,” she said. “New topic: So you basically told Lila how you feel about Andy Rotellini?”

“Yup. And she was totally cool about it. I don't know why I worry so much about other people knowing who I like or . . .” I stopped, midsentence.

“The fact that you secretly aspire to be the first living saint in Catholic history?”

“Maybe.”

“It is a little unusual!”

“Don't tell me you aren't looking forward to the day when you become Maria Romano, best friend in the whole world to Antonia, Patron Saint of Something or Other.”

“Calm down,” Maria said, zipping up her “Romano Arena” jacket and adjusting her blue scarf so it was tight around her neck. Maria's skirt was hiked so short you could tell she was not even wearing boxers underneath. Her legs were red from the cold. “You can be confident that I will always be supportive of all your clandestine endeavors.”

“Not always. But almost always,” I called out as Maria skated off to deal with two little boys who looked like they were about to come to blows.

A little more than a year ago I suggested a Patron Saint of Irons and Ironing, which Maria judged as temporary insanity on my part. Gram had almost burned the whole house down, market and all, by forgetting to unplug the iron, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. But Maria was horrified by the possibility that this might be the idea that would finally get through to the Vatican, and then she would be known as The Best Friend of the new Patron Saint of Irons and Ironing.

“Do you really want pictures of yourself in some dowdy housedress holding an iron in your hand all over
the place, Antonia?” Maria said at the time. “I can see it now—
Still Life: Girl with Iron
in every Catholic church for miles around.”

She'd had a point. Not much glamorous portrait potential in ironing.

The saints each had their own representations—you know, a particular way they were always pictured related to their talent. Like Sebastian's sexy, muscular bod since he represented athletes.

And figs! Figs were a sexy sort of fruit. Figs had lots of potential for the saint portrait. I could be holding a fig to my lips, for example. With a lusty look in my eyes . . . Or I could be reaching for a fig in a tree. My chin tilted toward heaven, my black hair cascading wildly down my back. A little sliver of midriff showing. Yes. This was good.

Sometimes Maria tried to help me with saint suggestions, but she always came up with ideas that would never work.

Like breast augmentation. Or instant slimness. Not that she needed to worry about those things.

The Vatican People would never go for that anyway.

 

Things to Remember When Suggesting Saint Specializations

• Can't majorly conflict with nature (i.e., the way God made things)
  
• Has to help make the world a better place, even if in a small way (e.g., providing consolation for
  sadness, feeding the poor, keeping the breast milk flowing. Yes, there is actually a saint for breast-feeding)
  
• Specializations that help with everyday activities = good
  
• Anything to do with Sex, especially kinky-happy-sexy pleasure = bad
  

Making boobs bigger and reducing the circumference of thighs fails all four.

“Little boys are monsters,” Maria said once she'd caught up to where I was still moving along, talking over the
click-click
of everyone's skates against the ice.

“Is John coming by today?”

“Not until after soccer practice,” Maria answered. She took my arms and we did a little spin so she was skating backward.

“I thought soccer season was over.”

“Well, it
is
over, but apparently they practice indoors during the winter.”

“So I'm stuck being your only rink buddy?” No sooner was this out of my mouth than a familiar Irish brogue called out from behind me.

“Hello, loves!”

“Um, Antonia, there's something I've been meaning to mention,” Maria whispered, grabbing my arms.

“That Michael is now working Friday afternoons?” I hissed.

“Am I interrupting something?” Michael said, sliding to a stop beside us, sending up a wave of ice from the force. He wore a black jacket and hockey skates like Maria.

“Aren't you a little late today for your shift?”

“Who are you, my boss now?” Michael asked Maria, skating backward with ease. If I hadn't known better I'd have thought he was a hockey player. Michael was athletic even if he didn't play any sports. We were moving faster now and the cold air raised goose bumps on my legs, and for once I wished I was wearing tights.

“Um, yeah, I sort of am your boss,” Maria answered. “Don't worry, though. I won't tell my dad.”

“Kind
and
beautiful. What a combination,” Michael said, his tone sarcastic. “You're awfully quiet, Antonia. Though I couldn't help but notice you had plenty to say to Maria before I showed up. Don't let me stop you from your conversation.” He slowed a bit and skated closer, his stare unnerving as usual.

“Well, you interrupted a private discussion,” I answered, giving him my best don't-mess-with-me stare when a pint-sized hockey-player-in-training whizzed by. He knocked me off balance and sent me sprawling. I could hear Maria laughing and trying not to laugh all at once.

“Damsel in distress on the ice,” Michael said with mischief. “I'll handle this one, Maria.”

“Go right ahead.” Maria said as she watched me trying to pull down my uniform skirt, which had flown up virtually around my neck when I fell. Thank God
somebody
wore
boxers today, otherwise I would have flashed half the neighborhood, young and old, not to mention Michael McGinnis.

Michael leaned over, his right hand stretched out to me. “Need some help, love?”

“Sure, I guess, since no one else is offering,” I said, shooting Maria an accusing look. I took Michael's hand and felt myself pulled up from the ice, my skirt falling back into place. Michael grabbed my waist to steady me, but didn't show signs of letting go even after I'd regained my balance.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to take my hand back, but his grip was firm. His eyes were intense, staring into mine, and I found I couldn't move. His hand felt warm against my body. My heart thudded in my chest. “What are you doing?” I finally asked, trying to recover my senses. “Can I have my hand back, please?”

“Your cheeks are as red as your mittens.”

“It's the cold, don't flatter yourself,” I lied, wiggling out of his grip and skating over to Maria.

“If you want me to leave you two alone, no worries,” Maria said loud enough for Michael to hear.

“Some best friend you are today,” I said, hooking my arm back into hers, pushing off my left toe pick. “You know I don't like to be left alone with him.”

“Why is it that I scare you so much, Antonia? You should really give that some thought . . .” Michael called out from behind us.

“You don't scare me,” I yelled back. “I am
not
intimidated
by my friends.” Whether I was trying to convince myself, Michael, Maria, or all three of us of this was unclear.

“So we're
just
friends, eh?” His voice had mock hurt in it.

“
Just
friends.”

“And stop checking out our legs, Michael,” Maria chimed in.

“I will if you let me in on the conversation.”

“Okay, keep checking them out, then.”

“Maria! Stop encouraging him,” I protested.

“How 'bout you let me give Antonia a ride home later and I won't bother you anymore for the rest of the free skate.”