The Possibilities of Sainthood (23 page)

“Hi, Michael,” I said, forcing myself to sound casual, turning to look up at him. He was grinning, possibly because he was in the perfect position to stare down—or, rather,
at
—my nonexistent cleavage.

“You wore your hair down,” he said, picking up one of my curls, playing with it. I had to remind myself to breathe. “You never wear your hair down.”

That Michael was standing over me had started to make me feel vulnerable, so I popped up from my chair and turned so we could face each other. But he was standing so close that the skirt of my gown crushed up against him, and the table behind me prevented me from taking a step back. Michael made no indication that he was about to put any more distance between us.

“Hi,” I greeted him again, since nothing else came to mind. “Um, do you mind?” I gestured that I needed some space.

“But I like it here,” he said, smiling.

“Michael,
please
.”

He complied, but as if I'd requested he find a better vantage point from which to take in all of me now, from the tiny silver heels that peeked out from under my dress to the way Maria had styled my hair to spill everywhere. I was not so unnerved that I failed to notice that Michael was far from his usual disheveled state. I'd never seen him dressed up and he looked good, hot even. But then, the way his long messy waves fell around his face always made me melt a little.

“You look gorgeous,” he said, and the look in his eyes—they were definitely more green than blue tonight—was wolfish, as if he was appraising whether I might make a tasty meal.

“Um, thank you,” I answered, doing my best to stand on legs that felt as if they might liquefy like Popsicles in the summertime. “You don't look so bad yourself.
Stranger
,” I added, remembering that I had a bone to pick with Michael, that I was disappointed in him,
angry
even.

“Stranger?”

“You haven't been by in a while,” I said.

“So you noticed?” he asked, smiling.

“Maybe. Too busy pleasing Veronica?” I asked, trying to sound like it wouldn't matter to me if he and Veronica might even be considering marriage. “Last time we saw each other you and Veronica shut yourselves in my bedroom for a heart-to-heart.”

“Antonia,” he said, a concerned look on his face, “I know you might have overheard some things . . .”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said quickly.

“So you and Maria weren't listening in on us with your ears pressed up against the door?”

“Maria and I just happened to be standing there having a conversation. It
is
my room, after all. And we may have heard a few things, but if we did it wasn't intentional,” I lied. “It's nice to see you finally,” I said, changing the subject, and because it was true. I meant it.

“Is it?”

“
Yes
,” I said, and smiled for the first time since he'd walked up to me. “I may have missed you a little,” I admitted, becoming shy.

“Well, that's interesting news,” he said, taking a step forward so we were closer again. For once,
for now
, I was enjoying being the object of his admiration.

“I was a bit . . . lonely. Before you got here tonight, I mean,” I said.

“What? No Bishop Francis boys vying for your attention? That's a shock.”

“Maybe a few.”

“Only a few?”

“Well, just one.”

“All the other guys are too intimidated,” Michael said.

“Oh, whatever.” Now,
that
was a ridiculous statement.

“I just speak the truth, Antonia,” Michael said. “You have no idea, do you? The kind of effect you have on guys? You are, like, untouchable—you know, impossible to get.”

“That can't be true since the guys at your school barely even give me the time of day.”

“That's because the word at Bishop Francis on the matter of Antonia Lucia Labella is
Don't even go there
.”

“I'm just waiting for the right person to come along and sweep me off my feet,” I said.

“And who might that be?” He took another step toward me. “Is this going to be the night that I am finally going to get my kiss? Then I can top off my collection of HA girls,” he teased. “You've made me feel so accomplished about it already.”

“We're just friends, remember,” I said, feeling bold, closing the last bit of distance between us, aware of how much I was enjoying that of all people it was me with whom Michael was talking and flirting, that this was what he'd been doing for years now, or at least trying to when I wasn't busy pushing him away. The thought of him with another girl made me feel jealous. The thought of him with
Veronica
made me feel insane. Had they ever kissed? Did they have some sort of . . . understanding . . . like Maria and John seemed to have, that when they saw each other they'd hook up but they just wouldn't call themselves boyfriend-girlfriend? I had to know. “So does your
collection
of HA girls that you've kissed include Veronica?” Please say no, I willed.

“Antonia,” he said, his voice serious, “I told you: there is nothing between Veronica and me.”

“You're avoiding the question,” I pressed him.

“Okay. Once and for all, I have never kissed Veronica, there has never been anything between me and your cousin, and there never will be.”

I wanted to believe him.

“Aren't those almost the exact words you used to tell Veronica the same thing about me?”

“I
was
right. You were listening.”

“I may have overheard some things.”

“I'm sorry, Antonia. I didn't mean what I said to her, but she wouldn't leave me alone and I wanted her off my back and I was afraid that if she knew she might do something in anger . . .”

“If she knew what?”

“I was afraid if she knew that there
is
this one girl . . .”—Michael began, so close that I could feel his breath warm against my neck, so close that I had no choice but to drop all thoughts about Veronica to bask in Michael's nearness and what he was about to say . . . realizing that for once I hoped that it had to do with me—“that I've wondered about.”

“Wondered what?”

“Wondered whether there's some chance she might have feelings for me,” he said, taking my hand. “In fact, I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.”

“Really,” I said, as he took my other hand, and I kept reminding myself to breathe as the music turned from fast to slow.

“Do you want to dance, Antonia?” he whispered, sending chills down my spine.

“Sure. Yes. That would be great.” My heart raced as he led me by the hand, weaving through a path of couples already pressed against each other to a spot not far from the edge of the crowd.

“How about here?” Michael said, turning toward me, expertly guiding my hand up around his neck, taking the other in his, pulling me close. His skin felt smooth and it was hard to resist playing with the waves of hair that danced against my fingers.

“So I was talking about this girl,” Michael whispered, but didn't finish. Little by little, his arms tightened around me until we were dancing as close as the couples I'd
watched earlier that night, almost to the point where there was no space between us. We swayed to the music and I felt myself melting into the warmth of his body. I thought about how the Antonia who fought off all boys including Michael seemed to have disappeared, replaced by another Antonia, who wished that this slow song would never end.

But it did. Eventually.

As we pulled apart I was too nervous to look at Michael, so instead I glanced around, staring at anything but him, avoiding all thoughts about the fact that my body had virtually been welded to his for the last six minutes, which,
ohmigosh
, was so intimate and new and wonderful.

At which point exactly two unfortunate things captured my attention, shattering my bliss.

The first was Veronica. As soon as our eyes met I knew that she'd watched our entire dance, that she was fuming and had just confirmed that it really was me standing between her and Michael. She had that expression I knew so well—the kind she always got when my mother asked her to do something at the market that she didn't like or when Aunt Silvia admonished her about how eating that tenth cookie was not a good idea—that look where her lips were pursed and her nose scrunched up, creating little creases between her eyes.

It was Veronica's I-hate-you face.

A seed of worry planted itself in the pit of my stomach, but I refused to let it grow. I wasn't going to let her ruin my night.

Which was when I noticed unfortunate thing number two. Veronica was not the only person watching me—watching us. It was dark, but I could still make out the tall figure of a boy standing not too far away, an ugly smirk on his face, directed at me.

Andy.

“Um, let's move to the other side of the gym or anywhere but here,” I said, feeling embarrassed, the spell of just moments before totally broken. I wished I could cover my eyes, as if that would prevent someone from seeing or finding me.

“Forget about him, Antonia,” Michael said, his voice protective, when he noticed Andy's stare. “You deserve better. It makes me crazy to even think about how . . .” He didn't finish but he'd said enough.
He knew
. Michael knew what had happened between Andy and me. I wondered what version of the story Andy had spread around. What he claimed
really
happened. “Come on,” Michael said, grabbing my hand to lead me somewhere, anywhere but where Andy could see me.

“He's just a jerk. I know that now,” I stammered, not wanting Michael to think I still had feelings for Andy,
really
not wanting Michael to think I was interested in anything or anyone other than him at this moment. Because I wasn't.

When we reached the opposite corner of the gym I finally dared to take in the guy standing before me, the boy who was at once my friend and the person who made my
heart thump like mad. His eyes, glimmering in the darkness, were intense and sweet, but most of all I knew they were only and totally, exclusively for me.

“Are you okay?”

“Never better,” I said, willing myself to keep my gaze steady on Michael, not allowing myself to chicken out and turn away. For the first time in my almost-sixteen-year life, I had that
just knowing
feeling about how I wanted this night to go, kind of like that
just knowing
feeling I'd get when the pasta dough was ready, and that
just knowing
feeling that someday I really would become a saint. It was, like, a sense of destiny. Rightness.

Then I did something I never dreamed I'd ever do.

“So, Michael,” I said, a smile spreading across my face even though my hands were trembling, maybe my entire body even.

“Yes, Antonia?” Michael's voice was hopeful. I liked that he called me by my name and not “love” in this moment.

“There's this place in my school . . .”

“A place? What place?”

“It's in the library actually.”

“The library?”

“Yeah, the library. Have you ever been to our library before?” I knew it was a stupid question as soon as I'd said it. I was pretty sure that Michael had explored the dark corners of the HA stacks many times before.

“Well, sort of . . .” he said, a little embarrassed, neither of us needing any further explanation.

I wasn't about to let this put me off. We all had pasts, right? Mine was just rather unblemished. “Well, I bet you've never been to this particular place in the HA library, which happens to be my favorite place
.
”

“Are you offering to give me a tour?”

“I am.”

“Lead the way.” He was intrigued.

We headed toward the exit, wading through the bodies of our classmates, some of them still pressed tight together, swaying, their feet rooted firmly in place, the upbeat music secondary to their desire to wrap themselves around each other. Others danced wildly in groups, here and there in pairs, mostly girls, and we did our best to stay out of their way even as we were about to get whacked in the head by Hilary's flailing left arm, or shoved as Lila jumped up and down haphazardly, calling out, “Hey, Antonia,” as we passed.

Everything felt surreal, as if I were dreaming, watching myself from afar. Michael and I pushed through the double doors that led into the lobby, where crowds of students stood around in the bright fluorescent lights drinking soda and water, taking a break from the heat and sweat and dark of the gym, and made our way to the doors that led outside.

I can do this, I told myself, taking a deep breath as the doors shut behind us and suddenly everything went quiet.

It was just the two of us now. Michael and me.

We climbed the old, familiar metal staircase that wound high into the library stacks, the only sound coming from the swish of my dress as it brushed against the railing.

“I've never been up this far,” Michael said, breaking the silence. I could feel him close behind me, his fingers near mine but not touching them. Our hands slid up the banister.

“Well, I'm glad I can at least show you something new,” I said, only half joking.

“You are full of surprises sometimes, Antonia.” Michael's footsteps were heavy on the steps as we neared the top. “That's one of the things I love about you.”

“No,” I corrected him, “I'm as average as you can get.” Except for the saintly aspirations, I thought but didn't say out loud.

“If you are anything it is definitely
not
average.” His
voice was soft, sincere. I was still unaccustomed to sincere Michael—only flirty, funny-guy Michael.