The Possibilities of Sainthood (20 page)

There was a BOY sitting ON MY BED.

“You still haven't answered why you're not with Veronica,” I said, making conversation. My eyes didn't leave his reflection in the mirror, even as I continued to work at removing my headgear.

“Do you really need me to answer that?”

I didn't respond right away. I was busy, gently lifting the crown off my head, noting that I had a bad case of crown-head: a dent the shape of a circle was branded into my hair. Great.

“Yes, please,” I said, spinning around so Michael and I were sitting almost knee-to-knee.

Mrs. Bevalaqua's voice soared from the living room.

“Oh, no, I need to go,” I said. “We need to go, I mean. We can't miss Mrs. Bevalaqua's singing . . .” My voice trailed off. Without a word Michael leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his face inches from mine. The sounds of “O mio babbino caro” drifted down the hall. It felt as if we were in a movie. I was transfixed. Unable to move.

My lips parted.

So did his.

I closed my eyes.

“Antonia!” An angry voice disrupted our moment. I sprang up from the chair, bumping into Michael in the process. The last person in the world I wanted to see right then, maybe aside from my mother, burst into my room.

“Hi, Veronica,” Michael said as if this were not the most awkward situation we could possibly conjure up.

“Sorry to intrude on you,” Veronica said in a voice that was anything but sorry.

“You weren't interrupting anything,” I said quickly.

“Yeah, right,” she said to me. I was already racing toward the door even though Michael was still sitting on my bed. To Michael she turned and said, “We need to talk.”

“I'm sure you do . . . I'll just give you some privacy,” I said, shutting the door to my room behind me like an idiot, feeling a painful stab of jealousy. There was still a boy in my room but he was WITH ANOTHER GIRL. Even worse: he was with my cousin! I felt torn. See Mrs. Bevalaqua or eavesdrop on Veronica and Michael? I decided to eavesdrop.

“What, Veronica?” I heard Michael say. He sounded annoyed.

“Why is your ear pressed up against your door, Antonia?” Maria was heading toward me, looking confused. John trailed behind her.

“Shhhh.” I held my finger up to my lips. “Veronica and Michael are in my room having a talk,” I whispered.

“Why in the world would you let them have a talk in your bedroom? Couldn't they find somewhere else?” Maria sounded shocked.

“I'm trying to listen,” I said. Maria mouthed “Sorry” and joined me, her ear to the door now, too. She motioned to John that he should leave us.

“We should go,” Michael pleaded. He obviously wanted out.

“What exactly is going on between you and Antonia?”

I felt eager to know Michael's answer to this particular question. It was easier to listen to Michael talk about his feelings for me when I was on the other side of a closed door.

“Nothing,” Michael said. “There's never been anything between Antonia and me. It was over before it even began,” he added.

My heart sank. The butterflies died.

“Really?” Veronica asked, sounding hopeful.

“Really,” he confirmed.

Was Michael playing both of us? Maria looked at me with sympathy.

“Can we finish this conversation later?” Michael asked.

“Look at me, Michael,” Veronica was saying.
“Please.”

“Listen, Veronica: I am not, nor will I ever, go out with . . .”

The rest of Michael's sentence was lost. Wailing erupted from the living room. Everything was thrown into chaos. People were shouting, crying, talking loudly to one another. My bedroom door was thrown open and Maria and I were face-to-face with Veronica (who looked livid) and Michael (who seemed upset by the discovery that we'd been listening).

This was not the time for explanations or apologies. Without a word Maria and I raced down the hall to the kitchen. The radio was blaring and through the foyer I could see everyone gathered together, glued to the television in the corner of the living room. Tears rolled down people's faces. Maria and I pushed our way through the crowd.

“What's going on?” I shouted.

“Antonia,” my grandmother said when she saw me, enfolding me in a hug. I felt her soft body, her ample chest, squeezing me tightly, making me scared that something terrible had happened.

“Grandma,
what
,” I whispered. “Tell me.”

“The Pope has died,” she whispered back. “Pope Gregory XVII is dead.”

“We are live from St. Peter's Square at the Vatican,” the reporter announced. “It is rumored that any moment now the cardinals will be holding the second of their two morning votes. Yesterday we saw only black smoke rising from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel, signaling to the world that it would have to wait at least another day before a new pontiff is named.”

One week later, Friday, December 16, the second day of the Vatican conclave was already under way. Cardinals from every corner of the globe had gathered to elect the new leader of the Catholic Church. We'd watched television almost nonstop. Pope Gregory XVII's funeral was held Tuesday in a worldwide day of mourning. Then, with the Christmas holidays upon us, the cardinals shortened the waiting period before conclave to three days following the funeral. Three, after all, is an auspicious number if you are Catholic.

Two fates hung in the balance, as far as I was concerned—one of them
mine
.

Mom and Gram leaned forward on the couch, their eyes glued to The Chimney Channel. The networks had set up a special twenty-four-hour-a-day broadcast of the Sistine Chapel chimney for those who couldn't bear to tear themselves away from the all-important smokestack. Veronica, Concetta, and Francesca sat together in a heap on the opposite side of the living room, alternately yapping and shoving pizzelle cookies in their mouths. Trays of food covered every available surface—you'd think we were having another party. Aunt Silvia and Uncle Alfredo were in the kitchen, making cups of espresso. It could be another long day and night. We had no way of knowing.

Meanwhile, I prayed to St. Peter, the Patron Saint of the Papacy and Popes, that the next vote would be the deciding one. I was desperate to know if the College of Cardinals would play it safe and elect another conservative—someone who would offer only more of the same old tired ways and old tired doctrine—or if they would venture out on a limb and choose someone more in touch with the ways of the world today, someone who might be more amenable to, say, naming the first ever living saint in Catholic history. Besides, if the cardinals didn't make a decision soon, the HA–Bishop Francis Winter Formal scheduled for Tuesday night, the first night of Christmas break, would be canceled. All my clandestine plans for finally making it to my first dance would be shattered, just like my love for Andy that tragic morning that now seemed so long ago.

 

O St. Peter, Patron Saint of the Papacy and Popes, it is imperative that the cardinals get their butts in gear and elect a new pontiff, ideally one who will be so organized that he will assure that not a single letter is lost, not even one perhaps sent the day His Former Holiness, GXVII, died, since it is surely a sin to let even one plea to the Vatican fall through the cracks, especially one that proposes something of such dire importance to young people the world over, that is, a Patron Saint of First Kisses and Kissing. Furthermore, Catholics still reeling from the shock of GXVII's death, especially those who have important plans tonight, cannot bear to wait any longer to know what direction our new Holy Father will take us, ideally in a progressive one, but any direction will be welcomed at the moment. Please let the next signal be white smoke and bells ringing! Please! Thank you, St. Peter, for your intercession in this matter.

I'd practically been under house arrest since last Friday night, except for Wednesday, the only day between the funeral and the conclave when school was in session and we'd opened the market for shortened hours. No one had left the house since the conclave began. The market would remain closed until a new Pope was named. Aside from a few visits from Maria, I'd been trapped with family. There had been no sign of Michael, not even at my window. This was really starting to bother me, especially after what I overhead him say to Veronica in my bedroom. The only upside was that I hadn't had to see Andy.

“As you can see, everyone is eagerly awaiting the fourth vote since yesterday's conclave began,” the reporter continued, looking chilled even though she was bundled up in a long wool coat, gloves, and a scarf. She shivered, glancing behind her at the chimney. “Still no sign, but it should be any minute now. The crowds are very excited. You can feel the anticipation.”

“
Madonna
, I am so nervous!” my mother cried out, cutting another slice of Italian sweet bread.

“Why, Amalia? What's happening?” Gram asked, a confused look darkening her face. Since the night of the festival, Gram had taken a turn for the worse in the memory department.

“The Pope, Ma,” my mother responded, annoyed. “We're waiting to see who the new Holy Father is.”

“Oh, how nice!” Gram smiled, munching on a small block of torrone. “I love the Pope!”

“Any news yet?” Aunt Silvia entered the living room holding a tray of tiny steaming cups of espresso. She lumbered over to the coffee table, her wide backside blocking my view of the television.

“Thank you, Silvia,” my mother said, taking one of the small white cups and saucers, and sipping the dark, foamy liquid. There was an unspoken truce between them out of respect for this difficult time. My mother squished over toward Gram, making room on the couch for Aunt Silvia. No small feat. “Here,” my mother said, patting the space. “Have a seat.”

Veronica, Concetta, and Francesca began squealing.

“There he is again!” exclaimed Concetta.

“Ooooh! He's so gorgeous,” Francesca said, practically drooling onto our old braided rug. My cousins had been periodically freaking out over a striking, very young, very hot guy with long, golden hair who kept walking between the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter's Basilica as the throng of reporters watched eagerly outside the gates. He was dressed in black flowing robes and the cameras followed him, as if somehow smoke signals were going to spring from the top of his head.

“Frankie! Watch your mouth,” Aunt Silvia said, ashamed. “You are an engaged woman.”

“Yeah, Ma, I know,” she answered back, her eyes never leaving the screen.

Just then the camera panned to the chimney. The crowd outside the Sistine Chapel stirred in excitement.

“
Madonna!
Maybe this is it!”

Gram, Aunt Silvia, and my mother huddled together, hands clasped. I leaned forward, eager to know the outcome of this crucial moment. Meanwhile, Veronica, Concetta, and Francesca continued on about the blond boy's eyes, nose, high cheekbones, and how the robes unfortunately hid his hot body.

And we waited.

And waited.

I said a quick prayer to St. Expeditus, the Patron Saint Against Procrastination, asking that the cardinals speed up
the process, get it over with already, put us all out of the misery of waiting, of having life on hold until this decision was made.

“Smoke is beginning to pour from the chimney,” the reporter said.

Everyone held their breath . . .

“It's white! We have a new Pope!”

Cheers erupted in St. Peter's Square and in our living room. We were all jumping up, hugging, kissing. Espresso cups were overturned but nobody cared. The phone rang and rang again. Uncle Alfredo emerged from the kitchen, a stain of sauce down the side of his mouth, and my aunt almost knocked him over between her excitement and hefty girth.

“Why is everybody so excited, Antonia?” Gram leaned over and asked me, her brow furrowed.

“Because we have a new Pope,” I whispered, giving her a big hug and kissing her on both cheeks.

“Oh, how wonderful,” she exclaimed, a smile on her face. “I hope he's a good-looking one.”

“Gram!” I said, laughing, thinking that the only way he'd even be remotely good-looking was if the cardinals did something drastic and elected someone under the age of seventy. Then again, maybe a seventy-year-old man would be more Gram's style. I quietly thanked St. Peter and St. Expeditus for their quick response, and breathed a sigh of relief that now the dance on Tuesday wouldn't be canceled.

“Shh, shhh, shhhhhhhh!” My mother hushed everyone.

“Any moment now the new pontiff will emerge from
the balcony of St. Peter's Basilica to address the world for the first time,” the reporter explained as the millions packing the square surged forward in excitement. “People are eager to see who the cardinals have chosen and to hear the first words of their new Holy Father. Will he be Italian? Have the cardinals entrusted this holy office to one of the two young favorites—Cardinal Gutierrez from Brazil and Cardinal Esposito from Naples—or have they chosen conservatively yet again, electing someone similar to Gregory XVII, who was already seventy-one when he became Pope fifteen years ago?”

“Oooooh, there he is again!” Concetta shrieked, pointing to the television, where, just behind the reporter, we caught another glimpse of the mysterious hottie. I found it hard to believe that my three cousins were oblivious to the fact that we were about to receive the news we'd all been waiting for because they were focused on some random Vatican aide.

I moved out from behind Aunt Silvia so I'd have a clear view of the television.

The doors to the balcony overlooking St. Peter's Square opened . . .