The Possibilities of Sainthood (13 page)

“Well, that's good to hear. I think. But can you elaborate on what you mean by I'm not the brotherly type?” There he was, trying to turn the conversation back to “us” again.

“You're too . . . I don't know . . . you're so flirty, like, all the time. And with
everybody.”
I couldn't help taking the bait. “And there's the fact that you've kissed just about every girl at my school.”

“You exaggerate.”

“I don't think so.”

“I haven't kissed
you,
Antonia,” Michael said without skipping a beat, and we were suddenly outside of friend-to-friend territory again.

“No, you haven't,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Because we're just friends, remember?”

“We weren't always.”

“Well, but technically we never got together that summer.”

“It's not like I didn't try.” His eyes locked on mine.

“I know,” I said, looking away, thinking about how this was the first time Michael and I had ever openly acknowledged what happened—or, really,
didn't
happen—between us that day when he tried to kiss me and I ran away. I'd been winding my way through the labyrinth of bathhouses where people kept their beach chairs and umbrellas, looking for the ladies' room. Michael worked nearby and I knew I'd run into him. I mean, I'd wanted to see him. I
always
did, even though seeing him gave me that jittery feeling inside.

Michael was the first boy, really the
only
boy, who'd ever paid attention to me in the way that boys who like girls pay attention.

I just wasn't prepared for him to try to kiss me.

I turned a corner, heading down the row that led to the bathroom, when I saw him, leaning against the salt-worn wood of one of the bathhouse doors, its white paint peeling everywhere.

“Hey, Antonia,” he said casually. “I was hoping I'd see you today.”

My heart skipped, seeing him here, as if he'd been waiting for me.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, walking up until he was so close I fought the urge to take a step back.

“About what?” I forced myself to look straight into his eyes, trying to read what they were saying. I shifted nervously from my left leg to my right.

“About what's going to happen when school starts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Between you and me,” he answered, tilting his head.

“We'll still be friends,” I said, now staring at my feet, afraid of what might happen.

He put his hands on my shoulders, making me shiver. I worried that my legs would no longer support my body. “Look at me,” he said. “Please?”

So I did.

“I like you, Antonia,” he said simply, and my heart felt as if it had just dropped through my body and crashed through the boardwalk onto the sand beneath. “A lot,” he added.

My hands began shaking. My whole body began shaking. I didn't know what to do or say so I said nothing.

“What are you thinking?”

“That I feel the same,” I whispered, not able to say the words “I like you” out loud, scared out of my mind, totally unprepared for what came next, which was Michael leaning toward me, his blue-green eyes still locked on mine, his mouth parted and . . .

. . . at that moment the entire summer flashed before me—all those times Michael and I spent hanging out, all the girls he'd been with, all the intensity between us, the wanting but not wanting, the confusion—and I knew right
then
that I wasn't ready.
He was out of my league. Way too experienced. It just couldn't happen between Michael and me. Not at that moment. Maybe not ever.

Then I panicked.

And before his lips could meet mine I turned and ran, leaving him standing there—rejected.

“Why didn't you let me kiss you that day, Antonia?” Michael asked, blunt, as if he'd been reading my mind again.

“I wasn't ready.” I decided to be honest. “You caught me off guard, I was nervous, I didn't want to be just another . . .”

“. . . one of all the many girls that I've kissed.” Michael finished the sentence for me.

“That, too. Yes.”

“Well, logic says that if I really
do
kiss all the girls who go to Holy Angels, then it will have to be your turn at some point, right?”

“Noooo,” I said, sounding more sure than I felt. “We're just being friends, remember?”

“We can stop being friends when I kiss you,” he said, grinning.

“News flash, Michael: I don't kiss boys who'll kiss just anybody. A kiss has to be
special
, Michael.”

“What makes you think just because I've kissed a few girls that kissing you can't be special? I think there are plenty of girls who'd argue with you on that one.”

“Exactly the problem. Too many.”

“Hmmm. I wonder what it would be like.”

“What?”

“Kissing Antonia Lucia Labella.”

“I wouldn't know,” I said before I could stop myself, trying to think of something to cover up what I'd just admitted. “I wouldn't know . . . what it's like to kiss Andy Rotellini, for example,” I added, wanting to disappear when I realized that in trying to cover my blunder I'd just made another—giving Michael the information to which just moments before I'd denied him access.

“Andy Rotellini? Is
that
who you like?”

“I might kiss him if he was interested, yes,” I said, since the cat was already out of the bag.

“You'd go out with Andy Rotellini over
me?”

“Going out with you is not on the table, remember? And since, as you claimed earlier, friends tell each other things—like who they like and would go out with—then yes, if Andy asked me out, I would go out with him.”

“Andy's not the type who asks girls out, Antonia. Trust me.”

“And you are?”

“Whether or not you believe me, I am exactly that kind of guy,” he said, defensive. “So you like Andy Rotellini,” he said again, as if he couldn't believe it was true.

“Who do
you
like, while we're on the subject?”

“Wouldn't you like to know.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am curious,” I pressed, wondering if there was any truth to what Maria overhead from Veronica, realizing that I really wanted to know because the thought of them together bothered me.

“It would be more accurate to ask who likes
me
.”

“Okay. Just tell me. Who is it?”

“Your lovely cousin Veronica.”

“So you and my cousin
do
have a thing going on. Maria was right. Interesting . . .” I said, trying to sound normal. Inside I was thinking I'd rather die than watch Veronica make out with Michael, flirt with Michael, and have to deal with Michael visiting her at the store while I was working.

“So what do you think? Should I go out with her?” His voice was playful, teasing.

“Um, only if you like girls who are stupid and annoying.”

“Ooh. Harsh. You guys definitely don't have the family love, do you?”

“Well, she's a generally nasty person, and if you haven't noticed already, she hooks up with
everybody,
which, I guess, maybe makes her a good match for you.” I couldn't resist.

“I'll ignore that comment,” he said. “She's pretty in her own way, I suppose.”

“Pretty ridiculous,” I said, not liking this turn in our conversation, suddenly feeling drowsy again. “I
have
to go back to bed. Tomorrow I have to begin winterizing the fig trees. Besides, I don't want my mom catching us like this.”

“If you insist.”

“I do,” I said, getting up from the chair.

“It was nice talking to you, Antonia.”

“Yeah. Thanks for stopping by. Careful there, with my cousin Veronica.”

“I bet you'd like it.”

“Like
what
? You dating Veronica?”

“No. Kissing me. There's a lot I could teach you.”

“You don't let up, do you? I am
not
going to kiss you. Good night, Michael,” I said in a huff, shutting the window and turning off the light. I got back under the covers for the second time that night, willing my mind to focus on the fact that Andy Rotellini would be working at the store all the next day to help lull me to dreamland again. But my thoughts instead were captured by the hateful concept of Michael dating Veronica, and whether Michael had any idea I'd never been kissed. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if Michael's plan was to somehow change this fact himself.

My alarm blared like an angry siren at 7:00 a.m. After hitting snooze, I flung myself back against the mess of pillows and blankets, avoiding the sunlight that poured through the window across the bed. I cursed myself for staying up so late talking to Michael. I was about to doze off again when I sprang up with a start, unable to hold back a huge grin despite the early-morning hour.

How could I have forgotten?

Today was . . . ANDY ROTELLINI'S FIRST SHIFT AT LABELLA'S MARKET! The love of my life was going to be working at the store!

Granted, I'd be killing myself today over the fig trees.
But still
. . .

It felt like a pre-Thanksgiving, fig-burying miracle.

I went to my closet and gazed dreamily at the row of pleated green, yellow, and white plaid skirts on the bottom
rung, below what seemed like an endless expanse of white button-downs, and shoved them aside. Today was a no-uniform day. Catholic schoolgirls always lived for the weekends, when we could break free of our standardized attire. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt to layer with my new, red T that said “Love Me” on it (hint, hint). Remembering my promise, I grabbed a bra from my underwear drawer.

“Antonia!” my mother yelled from the kitchen. “You still have to eat and help open the store before you can get going on the trees!”

“I'm coming,” I practically sang, shoving my feet into tennis shoes and grabbing a jacket. Normally her reminder would have annoyed me. But for once I couldn't wait for the workday to begin. Never before had winterizing the fig trees felt so appealing.

I stopped by the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a quick look in the mirror, piling as much of my hair as I could fit into a fat silver clip. I puckered my lips in a pout, wishing I was allowed to wear lipstick.

Before leaving, I made sure to petition St. Walburga. The forecast was for sun and temperatures in the 60's, but I wasn't taking any chances.

 

Dear St. Walburga, O Patron Saint of Harvests, Against Storms and Coughing, though you have nothing to do with figs (technically) and I am not about to harvest anything, you are the closest saint I can think of to help (aside from
Charles, the apple man, who I am tired of asking for favors) with the out-of-control expectation that I, Antonia Lucia Labella, winterize the fig trees this weekend. Well, I suppose you could be related to the tree-burying process because if I cannot sufficiently bury the trees for the ridiculously cold winters and snowstorms we get every year, there will be no figs to harvest this spring. So I ask for your intervention in this matter. Also, speaking of storms and coughing, it would be great if it did not rain today so I don't end up soaking wet, and inevitably coughing for weeks on end, which is not only unbecoming (my face while coughing) but not at all helpful in the getting-kissed department (let's say, for example, if right before Andy Rotellini tries to kiss me in the storeroom I burst into a coughing fit because I spent all weekend stormed on while burying two trees, this would be really unfortunate). Thank you, St. Walburga, for your intercession in these matters.

I set off through the house, passing my mother—who seemed stunned that I required no further encouragement to get myself going—and disappeared down the stairs to the market before she could say another word.

I couldn't remember the last time I felt this giddy.

“Hey, Antonia,” Francesca said, still half-asleep when I burst through the door, her short hair mussed on one side as if she'd just rolled out of bed herself.

“Feeling better?” My voice was cheery.

“Much,” she said, plopping down on the stool behind the counter, an unspoken statement that she wasn't planning
to help with the opening checklist. For once, I didn't care.

“I'm so glad to hear that. The flu is just awful. Can you hand me the ‘To Do' book, please?”

“Here.” Francesca reached over and handed me the notebook, making a show of what a huge effort this required.

“Let's see,” I said, mostly to myself since I knew Francesca didn't care what had to get done. “Put out the pastries, straighten the tower of canned tomatoes and the shelves of olive oil, organize the torrone section.” Old-worlders like my mom and all the recently immigrated Italian ladies who shopped at our store loved torrone—a nougatty, almondy Italian candy—so we carried the widest variety in all of Rhode Island.

The door jingled.

“Hey, Antonia,” Andy Rotellini said, walking his beautiful self up to the counter. “Did your mother tell you that I was starting work this morning?”

He said this as if it were no big deal when it was SUCH A HUGE DEAL.

Meanwhile, I stood there frozen, the large tray of spinach pies I was about to put out held in front of me like an offering. I held my breath. I tried to think of something to say.