The Possibilities of Sainthood (6 page)

“Excuse me?” Okay, I got repetitive.

“Would you prefer I lie to you?”

“No. I mean, yes! I mean, I can't believe you just said that! It's totally inappropriate.”

Question: Could I have sounded more like my mother in this moment?

Answer: No.

“They're nice.”

“What?” I asked next, still playing the role of confused girl.

“Your legs are nice.”

My cheeks were on fire at this point, matching my new red gingham bikini, which I began to wish was cut more in the style of a spacesuit.

“My name is Michael,” he said, his eyes rising to meet mine, which, I admit, almost made me melt on the spot despite all his unnerving forward behavior. They were a bright greenish blue, their color seeming to change back and forth with the glimmer of the sun. He was good-looking, I decided. This made my heart pound so hard that I worried he might hear.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” His eyes were huge and unblinking. I couldn't look away.

My mouth opened but nothing came out.

“You want me to guess, then?” He was grinning now, which made me notice that he also had a nice smile.

“No. I'm not telling you my name,” I said, finally. “You're kind of rude, you know.”

He took this response as a challenge.

“Tanisha?”

“No.”

“October?”

“That's not a name, it's a month,” I said, letting my guard down a little. A laugh escaped despite my better judgment.

“I once knew a girl named October.”

“I bet you did,” I said, smirking.

“Bronwyn! Your name is Bronwyn.”

“I can't believe you guessed right,” I said, laughing hard now.

Somehow our conversation continued for hours that day and throughout the rest of that summer. We were a weird pair when you considered that I was as pure as the driven snow and Michael was more like the snow after it spent a week on the city streets. We became inseparable, with Michael even hanging out after curfew by climbing up the fire escape outside my bedroom and talking to me through the window. But we stopped being inseparable the day he tried to kiss me behind the bathhouses and I got really mad because:

 

(a) I'd thought we were just friends.

(b) It wasn't as if he'd been leaving out details about his escapades with, like, every girl in the grade above mine at Holy Angels.

(c) He knew I liked somebody else even if that somebody didn't ever give me the time of day.

Who did he think I was anyway? Just another girl who fell for the accent and his ridiculous one-liners?

No way
. I was not going to be one of
those
girls. And I conveyed this to him the second I realized he was about to kiss me, but not so much in words and more in the way that I turned around and ran in the other direction and then stopped hanging out with him from that day forward because I was petrified he'd try to kiss me again.

He didn't.

The red glare of the clock told me it was already 3:58, so I pushed all thoughts of Michael McGinnis out of my head. I took one last glance in the mirror and rubbed St. Anthony's halo for luck out of habit before grabbing my book bag and racing out of my bedroom to the back stairway that led down to the market. At the top of the steps I paused, uttering a quick prayer to Leonard of Noblac, the Patron Saint of Grocers and an important saint if your family happened to own a market.

 

O St. Leonard of Noblac, please let everyone get along tonight during my shift, and don't let Francesca be a pain in everyone's butt, especially my mother's, because then she
always makes me the one to deal with Francesca's messes and I really hate that. And if you could inspire Andy Rotellini's mother to need a rare imported olive oil, or perhaps a spinach pie, or really anything at all that would send her hottie son to Labella's this evening while I'm working, I'd be forever grateful. Thank you, St. Leonard, for your intercession in this matter.

Descending the stairs one at a time, I embarked on yet another afternoon at Labella's Market, where you could buy “The Finest, Freshest Homemade Pasta in all Rhode Island.” At least, that's what the sign in the window said.

“Antonia! Who died?” My mother looked up from the “Today's Specials” chalkboard to give my outfit the once-over. She was carefully erasing the stuff that was already sold out, which included every kind of pasta except the fresh, hand-cut linguini. It was looking rather lonely in the display fridge.

“What are you talking about, Ma?” I said, squeezing behind her ample frame so I could shove my backpack behind the counter. I picked up the “To Do” notebook by the old-fashioned cash register. There was a page with my name and today's date at the top.

 

For Antonia, November 14, 4 p.m.

—stock all new produce

—organize storeroom

—home deliveries: Mrs. Bevalaqua, Mr. Romanelli

“Hi, Gram,” I said, peeking around the door frame to the back office. She stopped reading her tabloid long enough to blow me a kiss. “Love you, too,” I said, and headed back out front.

“Where's Frankie today?” Francesca hated that nickname from when we were kids, so I tried to use it often when I thought she might be around.

“She called in sick.”

Score one for the good St. Leonard, I thought to myself, but said out loud, “That's too bad, I hope she gets better soon.”

“You look like you're going to a funeral, wearing all black like that, Antonia.”

“Look who's talking, Ma,” I said, wedging past her again and pinching the sleeve of her black blouse.

“I have no idea what you mean,” my mother said as if she didn't really know.

Right.

“Whatever, Ma,” I called back as I made my way around the tower of imported canned San Marzano tomatoes that I'd spent all Saturday afternoon stacking.

My mother still dressed like a widow, all in black, at church, in the market, everywhere she went. I usually avoided the subject since she was sensitive about it, but today I couldn't help myself. Dad died eight years ago, but she still acted like it was yesterday. I couldn't decide if this was sad or ridiculous or a bit of both. I mean, we all missed him and it had been difficult getting used to life without
him, but wearing black from head to toe didn't exactly help Mom to move on, and it certainly didn't say “Ask me out” to any potential suitors either. It was kind of gross to think about my mother dating, but I had to admit that some of the men who came into the store flirted with her. She didn't seem to notice, though.

She wore the widow's black like a suit of protective armor.

I flipped the light on in the storeroom, and propped the door open with a big bag of rice. The boxes from the new shipment of vegetables and fruits were piled high in the back corner—eggplant, tomatoes, broccoli, apples from the local orchard. It would take at least two hours to put everything out into the baskets and the open-air refrigerator that lined the produce aisle, which led me to wonder if, when I was named the first living saint in Catholic history, I was still going to have to arrange tomatoes and ring up spinach pies. Though I couldn't imagine
not
working at the market, since I also couldn't remember a time when it hadn't been a part of my life.

I heaved the boxes marked “McIntosh” and “Tomatoes on the vine” onto a dolly and maneuvered it out the door and over to the produce aisle. The tomatoes smelled good. As soon as I opened the first box I grabbed one off the top and bit into it, careful not to let the juice drip onto the floor, or, worse, down my sweater. I began emptying the clusters onto the “Tomatoes, 2.99 per lb.” display with my free hand. There were a few perks working at the family market, eating all the yummy food being number one.

“Your friend Michael was here about a half hour ago, Antonia,” Gram said, shuffling her way into view. “You just missed him. I meant to mention it before, but I don't know what happened. I should have written it down. He asked for manicotti, but I think he was really looking for you,” she said, starting to giggle. “Don't worry, I won't say anything to your mother.”

“Um, thanks, Gram,” I said, watching as she shuffled back out of sight. I noticed she was wearing bedroom slippers and wondered if she couldn't find her shoes.

The bell by the front door jingled, signaling a customer's arrival, and several voices began speaking at once. Taking another bite out of my tomato, I stopped stocking and listened.

“How nice to see you, Nicoletta,” my mother said in her singsongy, welcome-to-Labella's voice, and I gasped, almost choking on the little tomato seeds that flew down the back of my throat. I tried not to cough.

“Nice to see you, too, Amalia,” said the mystery woman . . .

. . . who totally sounded like . . .

“You remember my son, of course.”

Son? Did she say “son”? Was it possible
he
was
here
?

“How are you, Andrew?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Labella,” said a deep male voice. I crouched down to see through the space between the vegetable baskets and the rows of imported pasta on the other side of the aisle, which gave me a perfect view of the counter . . . and . . .

OHMIGOSH. It was definitely HIM. THE LOVE OF MY LIFE WAS IN THE MARKET. Andy Rotellini was in the store shopping with his mother! St. Leonard was on a roll today. I already couldn't wait to tell Maria that Andy was virtually in my room on my bed! Well, technically, he was underneath my room and my bed, but still. From my discreet viewing window I could also confirm that, yes, Andy was still as tall, dark, and gorgeous as I remembered. If he hadn't been talking, right at that very moment, to both his mother and mine, it would've been hard to stop myself from going right up to him and running my hand through his soft, curly hair and finding out if that perfect olive skin felt as good as it looked. And those eyes! How could I keep myself from staring into those big brown pools of perfection, hoping that he might grace me with that brilliant smile I'd loved from the moment I'd first seen it?

Though he didn't smile often. Andy was a bit of a brooder, but I didn't care.

He could brood with me any day.

The first time I saw Andy he was playing baseball in the park down the street. It was just before I started ninth grade at HA, one of the last days of summer. I stood outside the fence watching him pitch. I couldn't take my eyes off him. It was love at first sight. Well, at least on my end. I found out later that his family had moved in a few blocks away on Atwells Avenue, just a quick walk from the market. His mother came into the store all the time for groceries,
spinach pies, and occasionally some pasta. Not that I kept track. But usually
without
her son.

Can you believe that Andy Rotellini was practically sitting on my bed making out with me? At least in my imagination?

Breathe, Antonia.

“Why don't you come into the back and we'll sit and talk,” my mother was saying to Mrs. Rotellini and Andy. “Antonia? Where are you? I need you to come watch the register, please.”

“Oww,” I exclaimed, so startled when she outed me that I banged my head on the wooden shelf above the vegetable basket.

“Antonia?”

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” I said, throwing my half-eaten tomato into the empty box. I quickly rolled up my skirt, took a deep breath, and walked down the aisle mustering as much poise and sexiness as a nervous girl about to see her beloved could.

“Oh,
hi
, Mrs. Rotellini,” I said in my best nonchalant voice, smiling my biggest smile, acting like I was surprised to see her.

“Hello, Antonia,” she said without much interest, clearly unaware that she was talking to her future daughter-in-law.

“Hi, Andy,” I added, worrying that with just two words he'd be able to detect my eagerness and the fact that I was practically drooling on behalf of his perfect beauty.

“Hey,” he answered, nodding.

Okay. Andy wasn't a man of many words. But so what? He was also with his mother, so it wasn't like we were in the best situation for a major conversation, much less any flirting. I waited for him to say something else but he didn't and my mother was already shepherding everyone into the back room, which I thought was odd, but I wasn't about to complain.

Because ANDY ROTELLINI WAS IN THE MARKET!

Maybe I'll catch him on the way out, I thought and reached under the counter to retrieve my backpack to review for biology, resisting the urge to scribble away more petitions in my Saint Diary. And while Mom conversed with my future husband about who knows what, I found out why studying genetics could be useful. By reading the assigned chapter, I learned that when Andy and I procreated someday we would have children with curly hair because curly hair is a dominant-gene trait, with a capital
C
. I played with one of my long twists out of habit, which then made me wonder if when the Vatican made me a saint they would make me cut my hair short. This would be unfortunate. I'd tried short hair in the past and it made me look like a poodle, and I doubted Andy would go for a girl who looked like a poodle.

It was difficult to concentrate with Andy, his mother, and my mother having a private discussion so close by. The clock said five p.m. and I still had to put out the rest of the produce, organize the storeroom, and handle Mrs. Bevalaqua's
delivery, and Mr. Romanelli's, too. It would be a long night, since grocery delivery was never a matter of leaving orders and taking off. With Mrs. B I always unpacked everything and did all the dishes, and then with Mr. Romanelli, we sat and looked at pictures of his kids and grandkids every time I visited. He never remembered that I'd looked through his photo albums, like, a gazillion times now.