The Possibilities of Sainthood (7 page)

The bell attached to the door jingled again. I glanced up and all thoughts of Andy Rotellini in the back room disappeared in an instant. (Well, almost all of them.) I watched, open-mouthed, as our new customer ambled slowly, carefully, toward the counter, her gray hair pinned up neatly in a bun, elegant dress gloves covering her delicate hands.

“Hello, Antonia,” she said, her eyes sparkling, and that familiar, warm smile spreading wide across her face.

“Mrs. Bevalaqua! You're . . . you're . . .” I said, trying to find the words. It wasn't that I was surprised to see Mrs. Bevalaqua—she'd occasionally rolled her way down to the store on her own in the past. But, it was just, her entrance, I mean, it was almost, I don't know . . .

A miracle?

She was . . .
walking
.

No.
It wasn't possible. I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear whatever was making me see this illusion. But the illusion didn't go away.

It was real.

Mrs. Bevalaqua was walking!

“St. Sebastian,” I whispered, conjuring with wonder that familiar golden image of the boy with all the arrows in my mind. “Did you do this, Sebastian?
Did you?
” I asked, my eyes glancing toward heaven.

“What was that, honey?” Mrs. Bevalaqua asked when she arrived at the register.

“Nothing,” I said, blinking away tears. I walked out from behind the counter to take in the vision that was Mrs. Bevalaqua, standing before me. “Mom,” I called out, no longer concerned about who my mother was talking to or what they might be discussing. “Mom? Gram? I think you'd better come out here! There's someone here to see us!”

“It's been so strange, Antonia.” Mrs. Bevalaqua's voice was matter-of-fact, as if old women confined for decades to wheelchairs got up and walked every day. “Ever since you gave me that kiss on the cheek this morning—it made my toes start tingling and then my legs, and, well, I won't bore you with all the details, but here I am. Don't just stand there now. I won't break, I don't think.”

“I'm sure you won't,” I said, throwing my arms around her, and thinking, as we stood there together, that the world was indeed a miraculous place.

The week passed quickly and soon it was Friday morning, the day before the great fig-tree burying. I was on my way to meet Maria by her car in the parking lot, near the big marble angel statue of St. Gabriel. There were seven statues in all, each representing the seven archangels—Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Raguel, Sariel, and even the fallen Lucifer—forming a kind of protective wall between HA and Bishop Francis, as if the nuns who founded our school were trying to ward off the boys with God's army.

But no army, godly or otherwise, could scare me at the moment. I was on cloud nine about the week's two biggest events.

The whole neighborhood was buzzing about Mrs. Bevalaqua's miraculous healing. She'd been to visit the store again last night, at which point Mom, Gram, Mrs. B, and I celebrated her cure with tiny glasses of limoncello. Though
Mrs. B kept insisting on toasting
me
. For some reason she associated that peck on the cheek with the beginning of her recovery. I kept telling her that if we were going to toast anybody it should be St. Sebastian, since he was the man to thank for the miracle. But Mrs. B wouldn't hear of it and Mom kept shushing me and saying I needed to stop contradicting my elders.

Second only to Mrs. Bevalaqua's recovery was the thrilling news that Mom had hired Andy Rotellini as a stock boy (!!!), proving, yet again, that the saints were making miracles happen all the time.

“Antonia, you need a serious uniform adjustment,” Maria said the second I arrived. She was staring at my kneesocks. As usual, Maria was the picture of Catholic Girl Hotness and probably didn't even realize it. No wonder so many guys were in love with her. Little did they know we were, like, the last two surviving virgins at Holy Angels.

“Oh, right, thanks,” I said, kicking off my loafers so I could take off my socks. “Mom's been giving me such a hard time about the uniform lately. She's been lurking by the door every morning, waiting to pounce. Gram thinks it's hilarious.”

“Your grandmother would probably let you out naked if your mom wasn't around,” Maria said, laughing.

“Yeah. Gram's a little crazy.”

“A little? She hid a coffeepot in your underwear drawer last week.”

“She just put it down and forgot about it,” I said in Gram's defense.

“In your underwear drawer? Why did she have a coffeepot in your room anyway?”

“I really don't know, Maria,” I said, “but can we change the subject to more important topics? Like the fact that aside from Miraculous Monday, there have been zero Andy Rotellini sightings and I am too scared to ask my mother what his start date is because I don't want her to get suspicious. It's been three whole days.”

“Don't worry. Soon you'll be seeing Andy on a regular basis.”

“I know,” I said dreamily. “But when? And can I just say one more time that he looked so hot Monday night that I thought I might die.”

“I am willing to listen as many times as you need to tell me.” Maria is truly the best kind of best friend.

“Andy had on his white Bishop Francis oxford, which totally set off his gorgeous, dark skin, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. Well, except to notice how good his butt looked in the jeans he was wearing. And, he was standing right underneath my bed, Maria. If only I could have gotten him upstairs,” I added, wistful. “Monday night marked the first time that Andy and I moved beyond exchanging mutual ‘heys.' ”

“An important occasion, I agree,” Maria said.

Mrs. Bevalaqua couldn't have picked a better moment to get miraculously cured and show up at the market.
Once everyone heard me yelling and came to see what the fuss was about, it got a little chaotic with all the excitement and celebrating. Ma and Mrs. Rotellini were taking turns hugging Mrs. B and saying loud prayers of thanks to Jesus (wrong guy if you asked me—Sebastian was clearly the miracle worker here), and then Mom pulled out a bottle of brandy. This allowed Andy and me the opportunity for meaningful conversation, since no one was offering us any brandy.

“Hey, Antonia,” he'd said in his sexy voice. “Where do I find the tomatoes that come in the yellow cans?”

“The San Marzanos, you mean?” My voice was ever so calm. But I have to add: I thought it was a little strange that Andy was worried about tomatoes when we were, at that very moment, witnessing what might be the greatest miracle of the twenty-first century, not to mention the fact that this was his first time alone with the future love of his life: me.

Meanwhile, brandy snifters were clinking in the background. Then Andy began walking toward me, at which point I thought to myself, NOW! KISS ME NOW OUT OF JOY FOR MRS. B! QUICK, while Ma and everyone are getting DRUNK!

He didn't, though. Instead he said, “Yeah, I guess. Yeah, that's what I want. My mother's making a sauce. How many, do you think? I don't really want to bother her right now.” He gestured at the brandy-snifting foursome to explain his reluctance before turning his giant brown eyes back to me.

“Two of the big cans or three of the smaller ones,” I answered, dazzled by his stare but still confused why we were talking about groceries when there were so many other interesting things happening around us. “There is a huge tower of San Marzanos in the far-right aisle, on the left, toward the middle. You can't miss them.” Of course, inside I was still screaming, KISS ME! KISS ME! DO SOMETHING ROMANTIC FOR ST. JUDE'S SAKE!

“Great, thanks,” Andy said, walking away, luckily not having heard a word of anything I was thinking. He seemed totally unmoved by the lightning storm of emotion behind us. Maybe Andy was the quiet, silent type on the surface, but deep and passionate underneath?

“Earth to Antonia,” Maria said, snapping me out of my daydream. “Let's figure out how you can take advantage of the serendipitous opportunity your mother just handed you by hiring Andy.”

As Maria speculated that Andy Rotellini was sure to fall in love with me in aisle 3, where the light falls in such a way that it gives everyone an angelic glow, and soon we would be going on double dates with her and John, out of the corner of my eye I noticed Hilary, Angela, and Lila a few cars away, drooling over the two hockey-player seniors from Bishop Francis that were chatting them up. When they saw me watching, they paused long enough to smile and wave, but soon turned their full attention back to the guys. Girls at HA died for Bishop Francis hockey players. Angela and Lila were both cheerleaders,
and I was sure, at the moment, they were envisioning themselves proudly wearing letter jackets to the season opener this coming weekend. I would of course miss the game because of the fig-tree-burying extravaganza. Some HA girls, like Angela and Lila, were what Maria and I called “Seasonal.” Well, really they were
Aspiring
Seasonals.

 

Definition of a “Seasonal” Catholic Schoolgirl

Seasonal girls date guys according to the current sports season. For example, you date the soccer star during soccer season, the hockey star during the winter, the best baseball pitcher during spring. Then you always have a game to go to, a guy to root for, a letter jacket to wear with the appropriate star-player-guy's name on it while you're oohing and aahing him in the stands. Some girls take it even further and try to find a guy who will cover them for more than one season, meaning he's a superathlete and plays both soccer and hockey, or football and baseball (but then those winter months are really a drag).

I know what you are thinking: not very feminist of us to be revolving our love lives around our ability to say “Go, sweetie!” from the sidelines at a game, but hey, don't blame me. I didn't make the rules. I'm just the messenger.

I suspected that Lila had better karma for success in the Seasonal Dating department since Angela had the misfortune
of being named after the Patron Saint
Against
Sexual Temptation, which was almost as bad as being named after the Patron Saint of Teenage Purity. Of course, with my record I'd be lucky to date a guy on the chess team. Maybe I should try being
Off
Seasonal, and go after the guy
before
the season started so there would be less competition. Like now, when we were a full two seasons before baseball, Andy's sport. When the season began he would become far more desirable and every girl I knew would be watching him pitch at games, and the team would start wearing those ugly satin baseball jackets that all the girls dream of snagging.

“What's on your mind? I can tell you're scheming,” Maria asked, studying my face.

“Well,” I said, leaning against the hood of Maria's old blue Honda, trying to pull off a casual yet sexy look but wondering if I looked as uncomfortable as I really felt against the cold metal, “I was just thinking that I have a better chance of getting Andy now, while baseball season is a distant memory in our pretty classmates' heads. Though, with my luck, Andy will start dating some girl this weekend, while I'm busy burying the fig trees.”

“You know I'll help with the burying, so that should give you at least some socializing time,” Maria said. She helped with the figs every year.

“It's always nice to have the company,” I said, grateful. “And speaking of company, why is it that I am perfectly good at attracting girl company, all of our neighbors whenever they have a problem they need fixing, and even little
boys when there's a skinned elbow in need of attention. But Andy—nowhere to be found!”

“Maybe we need to make you look more . . .
available
,” Maria said, reaching out and deftly undoing the top two buttons of my oxford, then cocking her head to observe the effect. “That's much better. Just because your mother locks you in at night doesn't mean we can't find other ways of getting Andy to notice how totally gorgeous you are.”

I played with the delicate filigree necklace I always wore, visible now that my oxford was open at the neck. Mom gave it to me for my confirmation—the day I officially became an adult member of the Catholic Church and therefore could also, someday in the future, marry Andy Rotellini at Our Lady of Loreto.

“Hey, before I forget, I brought the clothes you left at my house last week. They're somewhere in back,” Maria said, opening the passenger door of her car.

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” I said, folding down the front seat to search for my stuff. One of the only social things I was allowed to do was sleep over at Maria's. We had big plans coming up for the December Holy Angels–Bishop Francis Winter Formal. The big plans being that I was actually going to go by way of Maria's house.

“Look out, Antonia. Here comes your favorite Bishop Francis admirer,” Maria sang from her perch on the front of her car, where she'd been observing the scene in the parking lot.

Somewhere in my before-school brain-fog it registered that she meant that Michael, not Andy, was on his way over. I fought the urge to cower in the backseat.

“He's approaching. Patrick McMahon is with him. They are, let's see, about ten cars away but talking to every girl in between, so you've got some time to make a decision,” Maria narrated. Her loafers were banging against the side of her car. “What do you want me to do here, lover-girl?”