The Possibilities of Sainthood (19 page)

Mrs. Bevalaqua was animated, her voice as clear as a bell, as if her ability to walk again had taken years off. She was a Federal Hill celebrity now. When she passed
through the streets people pointed out “The Miracle Lady”—that's what they were calling her—even though for some reason she kept telling everyone that
I
was the real miracle lady. Well, miracle
girl
. Some people even wanted to touch her like they would Mother Teresa, or the Pope.

I saw the McGinnises arrive—Michael's family—with the next-love-of-my-life-according-to-Maria in tow, but he hadn't yet seen me. Veronica was probably throwing herself at him already.

“I bet Michael and Veronica are hanging out right now,” I said with a sigh.

“And you care because . . .” Maria moved to where she could survey her work.

“Well, if it wasn't for Veronica . . .” I called to mind what Maria had said at lunch and then again after school, about Michael being my
real
fate, my true love, and all the saints conspiring to bring us together.

“If it wasn't for Veronica, what?”

“I don't know, Maria,” I said, and, in truth, I didn't. Not yet, at least. After school I'd finally told Maria about Michael's late-night visits to my window. I usually never held back anything from her, but this . . . this was different. I hadn't been ready to talk about it. But maybe now I was.
Maybe
. “I can't believe I have to do this ridiculous ritual again this year,” I said, changing the subject.

“Well, you're always going to be the youngest in the family—at least until Francesca starts having kids with
that greasy Vinny guy—and since it's tradition that the youngest girl play the role of St. Lucia, I think you're stuck.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I said, dejected at the thought. “If only Veronica was a month younger. Then she'd be St. Lucia tonight, not me. Then I'd get to simply enjoy the party.”

“Yeah. Too bad. I'd love to see Veronica's head on fire.”

I
had
to stop fidgeting. Maria was beginning to light the candles. All I needed was for hot wax to drip on my head, or worse. She directed me into the bathroom so she could light the rest of the crown. Mom mandated that until I was all lit I had to stay hidden from the guests. That way, when I emerged they could “Ooh!” and “Aah!” at the surprise of it, as if they hadn't seen me lit up like the Fourth of July as St. Lucia for the last eight years running.

“Does it at least comfort you to know that you look seriously hot in that dress? I have to hand it to your gram . . . if she has anything, it's style.” Maria stepped back to admire the white V-neck sheath that stopped just above my knees. It had a chiffon overlay with long, transparent sleeves that reached beyond my wrists, making the dress seem ethereal, almost medieval. Though I had the sneaking suspicion it was also the kind of dress that would signal Virgin About to Be Sacrificed in a movie.

Maria's simple black spaghetti-strap dress, her long hair sleek and shiny down her back, made her look sexy and sophisticated on the other hand.

“You are the picture of St. Lucia, my friend!” Maria
gently guided me toward the door. “I'll tell your mother you're ready.”

I glanced in the mirror. My head glittered with a burning halo. “Thanks, Maria.” I stood as erect as possible. The light in the bathroom was coming entirely from me. I closed my eyes and made a quick petition to St. Lucia while I waited for Maria to return:

 

St. Lucia, O Patron Saint of Lights, please oh please do not let my head catch on fire tonight in front of the entire neighborhood. It would give Veronica too much satisfaction and me too much humiliation to bear, especially after this morning.

When I opened my eyes Maria was handing me the basket of cookies that I was supposed to give away. It overflowed with fig-filled cookies, wandies, and amaretto biscotti.

“Your mother said to come out. She's quieting the guests.”

“Save me, Maria. Please,” I groaned.

“It'll be over quick,” she reassured me. “I'm going to go sit with John. Good luck!”

With basket in hand, I moved slowly into the hallway, as if I were balancing a stack of books on my head.

“Ah, Antonia,” Mr. Sartoro said in a shaky, delighted voice, “you get more
bella
by the day!”

“Um, thanks, Mr. Sartoro,” I replied, eyes straight ahead, trying my best to be nice. I offered him a cookie.
Talk only slowed down my parade and I wanted it over as soon as possible.

“Antonia,” my mother whispered in my ear from behind, startling me. I almost set fire to the old photographs on the wall.

“What?” I hissed back. “Don't scare me like that!” I already knew she was assessing the length of my dress. She stepped toward me so we were nose-to-nose.

“Antonia Lucia Labella!” I could hear the anger underneath her pretending-to-be-chatting-nicely-to-her-daughter-in-public voice. “Did you shorten that dress?”

“No, I didn't,” I said, my eyes wide with innocence. Because it was Gram who had shortened it for me. “Biscotti, Mom?”

“Don't you biscotti me! And don't lie to me either! That dress is immodest! It's above your knees! Everyone is going to think my baby is a
puttana
!” She covered her eyes dramatically. “I know that dress was longer yesterday,” she said, pausing, exasperated. “Your
grandmother
did it, didn't she . . . That woman is getting senile, hemming your dress so that you're practically naked.”

“Mom, can we finish this later? Now is not exactly the time—”

“O
Madonna
, if it weren't the feast of St. Lucia . . .” she said, shaking her head, trailing off. “Go! Go! Pass the cookies and light the fire so we can all begin eating. At least your arms are covered,” she added, mustering a smile before she turned to rejoin the guests.

I continued on, slowly, into the throng of neighbors
packing the kitchen, offering the basket toward whichever hands came into sight, trying to avoid noticing who was watching the spectacle that was me with a ring of fire above my head.

“
Prego
, Antonia Lucia,” said a voice that sounded like Mr. Romano's.

“
Prego, bellissima
,” said another, a woman's, thanking me as ring-adorned fingers reached for a filled cookie.

Just keep going, I told myself. In about sixty seconds the ordeal would be over.

Michael appeared. I froze.

His stare was intense, his gaze unwavering. His eyes went all the way up and then all the way down, taking me in. It gave me chills. Even as Veronica walked up to whisk Michael away, fawning over him, Michael tore his eyes from me only at the last second, as if he didn't really want to leave but Veronica gave him no choice.

Focus, Antonia. I had to get this ritual over with so I could start getting some answers.

After what felt like forever I entered the living room. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Michael and Veronica sitting on the brown faux-leather couch. I couldn't find Maria and John. Arms reached out to me and I continued to offer the biscotti, filled cookies, and delicate wandies my grandmother had labored over all week. I mustered a smile and noticed how the older people watched me with wistful looks on their faces as I passed.

Suddenly, Veronica was standing in front of me, smirking.

“You're in my way,” I said in a low growl, shoving a wandy at her, which hit her in the stomach and immediately crumbled, leaving a trail of pastry bits and powdered sugar down the front of her skirt.

“Look what you did!”

“Sorry,” I sang. “Now, out of my way.”

“Your mother asked me to finish the ritual,” she said, a sneer on her face. She held up a long white candle.

“My mother
what
? I thought Maria was going to do it!”

“You're at my mercy, Antonia, so suck it up,” Veronica said, gleeful. “This is over when
I
make it over,” she whispered into my ear.

“Fine,” I said under my breath, making a beeline for the fireplace, narrowly missing the chandelier overhead, hoping to avoid burning by molten candle wax in the process. Before turning around to face everyone, I composed myself, not wanting to show that I was upset.

I
hated
being at the mercy of Veronica.

Veronica held the unlit candle and key to my freedom in front of her. She smiled as if she had all the time in the world.

“Will you get on with it already,” I hissed.

“Thank you, everyone, for being here with us today . . .” Veronica said grandly, pausing as if she were some gracious hostess and not just my dumpy cousin wearing a shirt that screamed, “Look at my boobs! Each one is almost as big as my head.”

The living room overflowed with guests. Maria caught
my eye and mouthed, “I'm sorry.” I tried to avoid everyone's stares.

“. . . to celebrate the festival of Santa Lucia! If everyone would raise their glasses with me.”

Veronica plucked a nearby glass of wine from a side table. With the unlit candle in her other hand, she rose up on her tiptoes and set it alight from one of the candles in my crown, as if I were some sort of bizarre liturgical ornament at the front of a church, and then lowered it into the fireplace. A blaze roared to life.

“To St. Lucia!” Veronica shouted. It was so obvious she loved being the center of attention.

“To St. Lucia!” Everyone answered, toasting one another, the room erupting with chatter. Glasses clinked. People hugged and kissed. My mother, grandmother, aunt, and remaining two cousins whisked the food out from the kitchen and onto every available surface. People began to eat the second the trays hit the tables.

“Blow them out, Veronica,” I pleaded. That was the last part of the ritual and I was desperate to go to my room and remove the crown.

“Oh, Michael!” she called in a syrupy voice, turning away without a backward glance. “Have you tried the artichokes? They're just
delicious
! Let me get you one.”

I stood there helpless, not wanting to move through the crowd for fear of burning everyone I bumped into, wondering to myself whether the motivation behind the Feast of St. Lucia was to torture young girls. Michael looked
past Veronica at me, but I avoided his gaze, feeling embarrassed to be made to look like such a child in front of the entire neighborhood, performing this ritual year after year.

Then Maria materialized, candle snuffer in hand, and I thanked St. John, the Patron Saint of Friends and Friendship. I might have been an only child, but I knew how lucky I was to have a best friend who was always,
always
ready to come to my rescue.

“What are you doing in my room?” I asked, frozen. “Mere surprise” doesn't quite capture what I felt. Mrs. Bevalaqua was about to sing and I didn't want to miss it. I'd been so eager to remove the candelabra on my head, ripping out the bobby pins that were holding it in place and flinging them onto my bed, that I hadn't noticed Michael McGinnis sitting at my vanity. His face was reflected in the mirror. He was smiling. “Shouldn't you be with Veronica or something?”

“Now
why
. . .” he began, swiveling around on the chair, his blue-green eyes wide with amusement, when I noticed that MY SAINT DIARY lay open in his lap.

“Hey!” I interrupted before he could finish. I stormed toward him, hands outstretched. “Give me that! It's private!”

“You really do have a thing for saints, don't you?” His eyebrows were raised, my Saint Diary still open in his lap.
He glanced over at the statue of St. Anthony, and then up at the shelf filled with seven other volumes, and then back at me.

“Um, FYI, you are not really in a position to be asking
me
questions since you are sitting in
my
room,
uninvited
. AND, you are going through my private things, which I want back.”

“I'm sorry if you're upset.” He sounded relatively sincere. “I was just curious and I didn't really go through any of it, whatever it is,” he said, holding the diary out to me.

I took it from his hands and a wave of relief washed over me. My reflection in the mirror behind him reminded me that I still had a crown of candles fastened to my head. Drops of hardened white wax stood out against my hair.

Before I could say “Hey, what do you think you're doing,” Michael stood up and was reaching toward my face, causing my stomach to erupt immediately with butterflies, at which point I realized that for the SECOND TIME in one day a boy was about to touch me. At six this morning I'd been so TOTALLY UNTOUCHED and now I was practically DEVIRGINIZED. Though why I had to be wearing a crown of candles and wax in my hair when there was a BOY in my room close enough to touch was beyond me. Even if the boy was only Michael. And even if, as it turned out, he wasn't about to really touch me.

The crown tugged at my curls as he tried to lift it.

“This is on here good, isn't it?” He wore a look of concentration.

“Thanks, but I can handle this,” I said, ducking from
his hands, pulling the red vanity chair that suddenly seemed too childish for a high school girl over to the mirror. I sat down and plucked at the remaining bobby pins. I was too embarrassed to pick out the drops of wax so I pretended they weren't there. In the mirror I could see Michael sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me.