The Possibilities of Sainthood (17 page)

I can't live another minute without you.

You are the most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on.

No one else compares to you, Antonia.

I've been hoping for time alone with you ever since my first day at the market.

Or even:

Do you know where your mother keeps the canned artichoke hearts?

Anything. ANYTHING!

But he offered none of the above and so I consoled myself with the knowledge that Andy was quiet and mysterious, which was all part of the attraction. I decided that his dark, yearning eyes said all I'd hoped for without the need of actual words. I should have mentioned to St. Augustine that some romantic talk would have been nice.

I couldn't have everything.

Besides, at the moment, Andy's fingers were running back up my arm, over my shoulder, lingering by the strap of my tank top, playing with it, under it, over it, his eyes
still on mine. I felt my face flush and was suddenly grateful I'd decided to wear a bra even under my pajamas at night. My tank top was practically see-through.

It was as if I were in a dream. Like none of this was real.

His index finger traced my collarbone.

I gasped.

AND THAT WAS WHEN IT HAPPENED. Andy's mouth, ever-so-slightly, began moving toward mine. IT WAS THE MOMENT I'D BEEN WAITING FOR MY ENTIRE LIFE. Well, aside from the Vatican declaring me a saint.

I closed my eyes and parted my lips just like Maria told me to, and waited for our mouths to meet in a delicious kiss. Any second now . . .

Then, suddenly, rather than feeling Andy's lips on mine, I felt them near MY LEFT BOOB! Right where my tank top dipped in the middle! He pressed his body hard against mine in what I would call a rather FORWARD way, while his other hand made its way up under my shirt! WHO IN THE WORLD DECIDES TO BOOB-KISS A GIRL BEFORE HE LIP-KISSES HER? WHO?

Apparently Andy Rotellini, the love of my life for the last two years!

All my hopes and dreams were dashed in a single moment.

When I finally found my voice, my bearings, I yelled, “Get off of me!” which was easy since my mouth was SO
UNOCCUPIED. I shoved Andy with all my might, using so much force that he staggered back, causing a tall stack of boxed capellini to come crashing down. “What the hell are you doing?” I was fuming.

“But you want me, Antonia . . .” he answered in what he must have thought was a sexy voice, and I might have once thought was sexy myself, but now just sounded offensive. “You've wanted me forever, Antonia. Don't think I didn't know,” he said. The shock of rejection began to register on his face.

“Did you ever think of checking with me first?” I sputtered, moving away from the wall so he couldn't pin me again, wondering how I could have believed that the boy with no words was somehow a gentleman.

“I didn't need to. I just
knew
,” Andy said, backing away.

“You just
knew
,” I jeered. I felt cheated. “You just
knew
what?”

“There are plenty of other girls lining up to be with me who will do anything, anywhere, whenever I want,” Andy said, bending down to pick up the boxes of capellini strewn across the floor.

“And you just assumed I was one of
those girls
.”

“Your loss, Antonia.”

“
My
loss?” I felt dizzy with disappointment. It wasn't supposed to be like this! All those romantic scenarios I'd imagined for years—all for nothing. All for a guy who clearly had never before and still did not see or respect me for who I really was, who regarded me as just one of the
“plenty of other girls lining up” to be with him. What I had interpreted as mysterious, shy, and quiet was really just self-importance and vapidity.

“You just missed out on the best thing you could ever hope for, Andy Rotellini. Make sure to cross me off your girls-in-waiting lineup,” I spat, dashing out of the storeroom and back up the stairs.

It was suddenly clear what I needed to do, what
must
be done. I'd had a vision—maybe from God, maybe from bumping my head against that shelf of canned artichokes after shoving Andy Rotellini away—regardless, it didn't matter. My mind was racing, my body urged on by a new sense of mission: to protect unkissed girls everywhere from heartbreaking scenarios like the one I was just subjected to by the now FORMER love of my life, Andy Rotellini.

Stupid, horny St. Augustine. I took the stairs two at a time.

I had pressing Vatican business to attend to.

“What took you so long? And where's the bag of flour?”

I dashed through the flurry of activity in the kitchen, ignoring my mother's confusion, her protests, and the concerned look from Gram, who must have noticed my disheveled state.

“Antonia?” Gram asked, worried.

“Antonia!” My mother yelled, angry.

When I reached my room I threw open the door, and let it slam shut behind me. I turned the lock. Grabbing a pen, paper, and my Saint Diary from the nightstand, I flung myself onto my bed, took a deep breath, and tried to calm down. I didn't know whether to sob or be thankful I'd found out that Andy Rotellini was a total
mascalzone
(that means “jerk-face” in Italian, more or less) before two
more
years of loving devotion from yours truly, or, even worse—marriage! I'd wasted all this time on a guy who
had to be THE LEAST ROMANTIC PERSON IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE.

Our love affair was over before it even started.

“You come out
now
, Antonia Lucia Labella!” My mother was banging on the door with her fist.

“Leave me alone,” I shouted. For once I didn't care if she was mad. I had more important things to think about.

“Antonia!”

“Go AWAY!”

“She used to be such a good girl when she was small.” My mother was grumbling loud enough that I could hear her through the door. “They grow up and they are like aliens.”

Who in the world thought boob-kissing a girl before mouth-kissing her was acceptable? Other than Andy Rotellini, the most obvious person who came to mind was St. Augustine! You'd think the former fourth-century Don Juan would know better—what women liked and all. When I mentioned that business about “amorous attention” and wanting to see Andy before me “ready to pounce” in all my petitions, I didn't mean it
literally
. All I wanted was a little kiss. Clearly, Augustine was not the saint to petition for all your kissing needs. There wasn't any saint for this sort of thing—not
yet
, at least—which was
exactly
why what I was about to propose to the Vatican was essential to the well-being of Catholic girls like me the world over. And probably the boys, too.

I picked up my pen and began to write:

 

Vatican Committee on Sainthood
Vatican City
Rome, Italy

 

December 9

 

To Whom It May Concern (ideally the Pope if he's available):

I'm writing to inform you of a
grave
oversight in the area of patron saint specializations, to replace my earlier letter this month about a Patron Saint of People Who Make Pasta, which I ask that you just file away for the time being. Though this is not to say that pasta making isn't important, since I, of all people, daughter of the most famous pasta maker in the state of Rhode Island, should know (that's Labella's Pasta, in case you were wondering or want to place an order since we ship everywhere). But there are more pressing matters at hand than pasta. Dire even!

Like the fact that, as yet, there is no Patron Saint of the Kiss, and, to be more specific, the First Kiss! I ask you: how is this possible? Young Catholic girls and boys everywhere are in DANGER, not only because of the Vatican's general need of a reality check in all matters teen-related (I mean, can you be more out of touch about us? Please!), but specifically with regard to your total lack of foresight in the area of kissing. Let me tell you what happens when there is
no Patron Saint of Kissing, especially for us kissing virgins. I mean, not that I am one or anything—I've kissed plenty of boys in my day. Though, not to say that I overdo it either—I don't want you to think I'm unchaste or something—but anyway. As a result of this deficiency, teenagers, who shall remain nameless to protect their identity, might possibly be praying to saints whose specialization is not kissing, and sources tell me that when this happens, it's like intercessions gone haywire! Girls are getting attacked left and right. Attempts to kiss and then some, if you know what I mean, are made by overzealous boys. And this, I say, is a terrible sin!

Lord knows, it is virtually impossible to get yourself kissed in general without some heavenly intervention, and then before you know it, a little prayer here, a little prayer there, to saints who clearly are not trained in the art of kiss intercession, and suddenly you are in big trouble. I know you might be thinking, “Hmmm. We are not in support of premarital kissing because that has to do with the big S word,” but listen, it's not like I'm proposing a Patron Saint of Losing Your Virginity. Kissing is about as innocent as you can get. I mean, when did a little tongue hurt anybody? When? Only when it's misdirected, that's when! Not that
I
would know personally, but this is what I have heard from others.

And finally, this is a matter of teenage purity!
Girl teenage purity especially, because I believe it's the boys who are most responsible for kissing confusion. And isn't that your favorite topic? Protecting a girl's purity? And I, Antonia, being named after the Patron Saint of Teenage Purity herself (well, it was an accident really, the naming thing, since supposedly I was named after Anthony, but my mother didn't do all her homework on the name thing)—I implore you to realize that naming a Patron Saint of the First Kiss and Kissing is essential to prevent haphazard kissing from becoming rampant in Catholic high schools across America, and I am sure Italy, too! It may already be at crisis levels.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

 

Blessings,
Antonia Lucia Labella
Labella's Market of Federal Hill
33 Atwells Avenue
Providence, RI USA
[email protected]

 

P.S. I humbly offer myself as the ideal candidate to not only become the Patron Saint of the First Kiss and Kissing, but the first ever living saint in Catholic history! Come on, you could use a little good PR these days, if you get what I'm saying. Hope to hear from you soon!

I folded up the letter and stuffed it inside one of the airmail envelopes I kept in my Saint Diary, carefully sealing the flap. This midmonth change of plans required special action, so I decided to ask Gram for a ride to the post office in her Lincoln Town Car. I'd overnight my letter to the Vatican, special delivery, since tomorrow was a Saturday.

Desperate situations required desperate measures.

No thanks to St. Jude, that was for sure.

“Stupid St. Augustine! You and your lecherous ways,” I said, jumping up from my bed, a new sense of purpose coursing through my veins. “Antonia of Providence, Patron Saint of the First Kiss,” I said, thinking how ironic my new proposal was. I hadn't even gotten myself kissed yet—for-real kissed, at least—and there I was recommending myself as the Patron Saint of Kissing. Ha!

Hidden in the back of the drawer in my vanity was a single tube of lipstick in a deep shade of red. Even though it was against my mother's rules, I was feeling bold and decided to put some on. A Patron Saint of the First Kiss would
obviously
wear lipstick. I found the matching lip liner and carefully drew a thin outline around my mouth, noticing in the mirror how the red color gave my lips a fullness, even a brightness. Maybe girls wore lipstick as a creative way to mark the spot where boys were
supposed
to kiss, directing them away from other, less appropriate first-kiss places.

Like, for example, girls generally didn't apply lipstick in the boob area.

I threw on my uniform with lightning speed, and took
one last look in the mirror, admiring my pouty red lips. I'd shower later, before the guests arrived for the party. It wasn't as if I had anyone to impress today since Andy Rotellini had fallen from grace big-time, TAKING MY HEART WITH HIM.

“Grandma!” I yelled, grabbing the letter. By tomorrow morning someone in Rome would be opening my newest appeal—the most urgent one yet. On a whim, I planted a big red kiss over the seal. Satisfied, I headed out the door to find Gram standing in the hall, purse and keys in hand, as if she'd known I needed her help. “The post office and then on to school,” I said.

“Whatever you need, sweetheart,” she answered, glancing at the letter, nodding her head. She reached up, wiping the corner of my mouth, a red smear staining her fingers. “That's better.”

“Thanks, Gram.”

The two of us swept past my mother, standing infuriated and alone before three unfinished mounds of pasta dough. I was too busy to care, praying Gram would make it to the post office in time.

Sainthood was calling me.

“He did
what
?
Where?
”

Maria and I were sitting in the school cafeteria at lunch and I was giving her the scoop about The Andy Attack. We were alone at one end of a long Formica-topped table leaning over slices of pizza and Cokes. The buzz of everyone else talking gave us some semblance of privacy.