The Possibilities of Sainthood (11 page)

“Deal, Michael,” Maria said.

“Maria! You want me to get in his
car?”
My mouth dropped open in surprise at Maria's willingness to sacrifice my safety in exchange for peace and quiet now.

“I just did us a favor,” she said, her face all innocence. “He'll leave us alone now, which is what you wanted anyway.
Right?”

“I guess,” I answered, feeling unsure about what I really did and didn't want when it came to Michael McGinnis.

“Besides, I can't take you home later because John is supposed to meet me here when soccer gets out.”

“But what if Michael tries something, Maria?” I shivered thinking about it.

“Then maybe you can practice on him,” she said, giving me a playful jab. This was not the answer I expected. “Antonia,
if he
did
try something again, maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing. Maybe it would force you guys to figure out whatever is going on between the two of you.”

“We
so
have nothing going on, you know that. And there's no way I'm kissing Michael, practice or no,” I assured Maria.

“I remember a time when you actually
wanted
to kiss Michael. Dreamed about it. Almost as much as you do now with Andy,” she whispered.

“That was a long time ago, when I was young and foolish and didn't know what I was getting into with him.”

“And you do now?”

“Well, no. I don't know. Not exactly, I guess,” I said, picking at the ice with my skate. “Okay, I'll admit that sometimes I am not so sure what's between us—if there's anything still between us. Which is also why I avoid all Michael-Antonia-alone-time, as you already know, Maria.”

“Nothing is going to happen, Antonia. It's just a ride home.”

“You saw how he's acting.”

“He's just playing around. You said it yourself—you guys are just friends.”

“I hope he agrees with you on that one.”

“Well, I think you have nothing to worry about.”

“That's not what you said the other day in the parking lot,” I said, remembering the conversation. “Besides, you just didn't want to get stuck driving me home when you could be alone with John.” I was starting to panic. “Maria, Michael is
notorious.”

“Listen,” Maria said, yanking me into a corner of the rink, her hands firm on my shoulders, holding me steady. “I am confident that Michael would
never
do anything to hurt you or pull any of that crap he pulls on the other girls who fall for him. He respects you too much. Anyone with eyes and ears can figure that out.”

“I just get so nervous around him.”

“You may be worrying over nothing after all.
Apparently,
he already has his next conquest in sight, if Veronica is to be believed,” Maria said, glancing behind her to make sure Michael wasn't nearby.

“Veronica? Are you crazy? No way would Michael
ever
go for her.” I was so taken aback I almost fell again. Maria grabbed my arm, steadying me. “Though that might explain why she's gone from merely nasty to intolerably awful lately.”

“Well, during free period this morning I was studying in the cafeteria when I heard Veronica, a few tables away, telling Concetta how she is totally into Michael and she's convinced he has feelings for her. Though nothing has happened yet.”

“She said that loud enough so you could hear?”

“Oh, yeah. I think she wanted me to because she knew I'd report this information to you.”

“Veronica and Michael?” I felt nauseous. The thought of my cousin and Michael together was . . . was . . . inconceivable . . . I just couldn't imagine it . . . but it wasn't just that . . . it just didn't sit right. I couldn't understand why I felt so upset. It was
Michael,
not Andy. If it had been Andy
she'd been blathering on about, then it would make sense that I'd be angry. And Michael had no allegiance to me and, well, if he could make Veronica happy somehow, then who was I to stand in their way? It would probably be better for all of us if Veronica was in a better mood. Right?

“Are you okay? You look a little green . . .”

“I'm fine,” I lied.

“. . . because that's not all she said,” Maria went on. “Veronica also mentioned that she thinks Michael is even better looking than
Andy.”

“Veronica compared Michael to Andy?” I asked, beginning to wonder if Veronica had somehow found out I liked him. “Why does she have to get in the way of my love life in addition to everything else?”

“Everybody thinks Andy's hot, you know that. It may have just been a coincidence.”

“I hate Veronica,” I said, my voice faint.

“Antonia,
breathe.
Let's switch topics to something less upsetting to you . . . like your quest for sainthood and how the Vatican is totally going to name you the Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees any day now,” Maria said, giving my arm a squeeze.

“Okay. Good idea,” I agreed, squeezing back, trying to compose myself, unclear why I was so upset. Maria and I continued circling the rink, each lap moving us closer to the time when the Zamboni would come out to clear the ice and Michael would chauffeur me home.

“I'll get that,” Michael said, opening the passenger door.

It was five p.m. and already dark. The almost wintry cold was making me shiver. I prayed:

 

Come on, St. Sebaldus, O Patron Saint Against Cold Weather, can't you help with the temperature? The last thing I need is Michael trying to warm me up.

“Aren't you the gentleman today?” I said out loud to Michael as I slipped into the seat, while he stood there, still holding the door. Not only was Michael opening doors but he had offered to carry my backpack. He practically had to rip it out of my arms on our way out of the rink, but still, he managed.

“I know how to treat the ladies.”

“I notice you said ‘ladies' in the plural.”

“I am a gentleman to
all
the girls.”

“So I've heard,” I said, grabbing my backpack from him. “From just about everyone in my class. And the class above mine. And even some of the seniors.”

“All lies . . .” Michael said while shutting the door, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down as Michael walked around the front of the car. Something was on the seat and I pulled it out from under my legs. It was
The Providence Journal.
I smiled when I read the headline:
MIRACLE ON ATWELLS AVE
.!
LOCAL WOMAN WALKS FOR FIRST TIME IN 20 YEARS

In the photograph Mrs. Bevalaqua looked pretty—she was dressed in a ladylike suit, with full makeup and gloves of course, her gray hair pulled up and away from her face. My nervousness about Michael melted away as I skimmed through the article. Mrs. B mentioned me several times. Interesting.

“Girls at your school love to gossip about hooking up with Bishop Francis guys,” Michael said as he got in the driver's seat.

“Funny how the one they all pick to gossip about is
you.”

“You're wrong about me, Antonia,” Michael countered as he put the car in reverse, but instead of backing out he gave me a long look and then put the car back into park. “Why are you so happy suddenly? Is it something you realized about me? Like maybe the fact that you secretly love all the attention I give you?” His eyes flashed. They looked
a deep blue in the darkness. He grinned as he leaned in my direction, waiting for my response.

“You
wish,
Michael. You are
so forward
sometimes,” I answered, feeling that familiar nervousness come over me again. I smoothed my skirt so it almost reached my knees. “And I'm smiling because I just saw the story about Mrs. Bevalaqua in the paper.” I shoved the newspaper between us like a shield, so he could see the article.

“It's incredible,” Michael answered. His voice held a genuineness I wasn't used to. “They even got the headline right.”

“What do you mean?”

“The part about the miracle.”

“You think so?”

“I do,” he said with confidence. For once I didn't want to turn away, so we sat there, eyes locked, my brown pouring into his blue and vice versa.

“Do you
really
think it was a miracle, what happened to Mrs. Bevalaqua?”

“Yeah, I do, Antonia,” he said.

“Really?
Really
really? Do you believe in them, then? You know, miracles?”

“Well, look at her,” Michael said, grabbing the paper and holding it between us. “She's walking after twenty years.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, sighing.

“What about
you
? Do you believe in miracles?” He threw the paper into the backseat and turned to face me
again. His hand lingered at the edge of my seat, not even an inch away from my skirt.

A long moment of silence hung between us. I tried to ignore the thrill I felt with him so close. “I think miracles happen all the time,” I began, then paused. “And some are bigger or, I guess, more
noticeable
than others.” Somewhere in the back of my mind it registered that Michael and I were beginning to have a real conversation, the kind we always had that first summer when we met. This unexpected intimacy made me bold. “I think it's the saints, you know. I think they are around us all the time, in our lives, listening to our prayers. Making miracles.”

“Do you think of your father as a saint?” he asked out of the blue, catching me off guard, as if he were somehow inside my mind, poking around, looking through a file of my deepest secrets, or reading my soul. Michael and I had never once spoken about my father. The look in his eyes was serious, gentle even.

“Not exactly, no,” I began my answer, thinking about how I loved Michael's question, that he'd even wonder whether I thought of my dad as a saint. “My dad loved the saints, though. He was named after one actually. As was yours truly,” I added.

“He was? You were? Which one? I mean, I don't know your father's name, I guess. And there's a St. Antonia then, I assume . . .”

“I'll tell you about my dad first,” I said, pressing at the creases in my skirt, my hand brushing Michael's for
one, electric second. “His name was Genesioso,” I explained, pronouncing each vowel carefully, drawing out the long
e
and
o
sounds. “Most people called him Gino for short.”

“And he died when you were little, right?” Michael shifted position so he was almost facing me, moving his hand to the passenger-side headrest, his fingers so close to the back of my neck I could feel their warmth. He seemed willing for us to sit there idling in the parking lot all night.

“I had just turned seven when he died.”

“What do you remember about him?”

“Well, he had the perfect saint name for his personality,” I said, smiling, the words coming easier now. “St. Genesius is the Patron Saint of Actors, Drama, Comedians, Clowns, and Dancers, and my dad was quite the clown. A fantastic dancer, too. He and my mother went out dancing a lot when I was little. Gram would stay home to babysit me. They used to have a good time, I think—my mom and dad. My mother hasn't danced once since he died. They were beautiful to watch . . .”

“She must miss him a lot.”

“Yeah . . . we all do. It's hard,” I said, looking away. I was afraid I might cry.

Michael changed the subject, as if he could sense that I needed to talk about something else. I turned to face him again and saw that familiar look of mischief return to his eyes. I felt a rush of gratitude.

“Technically I was named after St. Anthony, the Finder
of Lost Things,” I began, but Michael chimed in at “Anthony” and finished the sentence without me.

“I sense a ‘but' in that statement, Antonia.”

“Well, you will just have to look up St. Antonia yourself because I'm
not
telling you that one. It's way too embarrassing.”

“You know a lot about saints, don't you?”

“Yes. I suppose so. Don't all Catholics?”

“Well, when most Catholics are asked to describe their father, most would
not
compare him to his name saint.”

“Oh. Maybe not.”

“And back when you and I used to”—he paused a moment, searching for words to describe “us” and our past activities—“
hang out,
you'd always bring up some saint or other in conversation.”

“So?”

“So nobody I know does that. Not even my grandmother.”

“I read a lot.”

“What's the fascination?”

“I'll tell you . . . if you tell me . . . whether or not one of my cousins is next on your list of conquests?” The question was out of my mouth before I could catch it.

“Why do you care so much about me and other girls? What is it that bugs you, Antonia?”

“You're not answering my question.”

“You're not answering mine.”

“You first,” I said, unwilling to budge. Besides, I didn't know the answer to his question. I wished I did.

“I think you may have inherited your father's dramatic traits.” Michael's eyebrows arched.

“My mother is the drama queen in the family—
not
me,” I said in my defense.

“But what I am really wondering now is whether you inherited your father's ability for dancing . . .”

“Why would you care about
that?”
I said, getting nervous. Was he asking because of the HA–Bishop Francis Winter Formal coming up?
Was he going to ask me to go with him?
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself and Michael was just making conversation. Oh, why was talking to a boy so fraught with complication?