“I sense a ‘but’ in that statement, Antonia.”
“Well, you will just have to look up St. Antonia yourself because I’m not telling you that one. It’s way too embarrassing.”
“You know a lot about saints, don’t you?”
“Yes. I suppose so. Don’t all Catholics?”
“Well, when most Catholics are asked to describe their father, most would not compare him to his name saint.”
“Oh. Maybe not.”
“And back when you and I used to”—he paused a moment, searching for words to describe “us” and our past activities—“hang out, you’d always bring up some saint or other in conversation.”
“So?”
“So nobody I know does that. Not even my grandmother.”
“I read a lot.”
“What’s the fascination?”
“I’ll tell you . . . if you tell me . . . whether or not one of my cousins is next on your list of conquests?” The question was out of my mouth before I could catch it.
“Why do you care so much about me and other girls? What is it that bugs you, Antonia?”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“You’re not answering mine.”
“You first,” I said, unwilling to budge. Besides, I didn’t know the answer to his question. I wished I did.
“I think you may have inherited your father’s dramatic traits.” Michael’s eyebrows arched.
“My mother is the drama queen in the family—not me,” I said in my defense.
“But what I am really wondering now is whether you inherited your father’s ability for dancing . . .”
“Why would you care about that?” I said, getting nervous. Was he asking because of the HA–Bishop Francis Winter Formal coming up? Was he going to ask me to go with him? Maybe I was getting ahead of myself and Michael was just making conversation. Oh, why was talking to a boy so fraught with complication?
“Just curious, that’s all,” he answered quickly, sensing my discomfort.
“Okay,” I said, unsure what else to add. The intimacy between us was suddenly gone, bursting like a fragile bubble. And I felt . . . disappointed. Even though, I reminded myself, Andy was the love of my life and the boy I’d been waiting to kiss for fifteen years. I wasn’t about to settle for anyone else. Not that kissing Michael would be settling since I was sure he was a perfectly good kisser—it’s just that I wasn’t going to find that out, myself.
Michael sighed, shifting positions again so that he could finally back out of the parking space. We left the lot and drove in silence, passing fast-food restaurants and strip malls until we neared Federal Hill, where things started to look more like a neighborhood again. I stared out the passenger window, noticing that some of the houses already had decorations outside for Christmas. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet. I did my best to pay attention to everything but the tension that ebbed and flowed between Michael and me.
“Are you giving me the silent treatment?” Michael spoke for the first time since we left the skating rink.
“No, I’ve been praying to St. John about our friendship,” I said without thinking, even though I hadn’t been.
“See. You are always going on about the saints, Antonia.”
“I had saints on my mind because we were just talking about them—that’s all.” I turned to Michael and added, “St. John is the Patron Saint of Friends and Friendship.”
“I know who St. John is,” Michael said. “What about?”
“What about what?”
“The prayer to St. John. What was it about?”
“Oh. That we don’t let any weirdness get in the way of us being friends again,” I said, making up an answer on the spot. But as soon as I’d said it, I knew that I meant it. I’d been enjoying our talk—it reminded me of how I felt when Michael and I first met, like we could talk for hours.
“What do you mean, weirdness?”
“I don’t know, Michael,” I said, sighing. And I really didn’t. “Can you let me out here, please?”
“We’re still a block from your house.”
“Yes, but I’m only allowed to ride in Maria’s car.” I dug in my backpack for my keys. “If my mother, or anyone in the family, for that matter, sees me getting out of your car, I’ll be in trouble.”
“But it’s Friday, Antonia, I thought we could—”
“NO. I can’t,” I said before he could finish.
“Whatever, Antonia,” Michael said. There was frustration in his voice. He pulled the car over.
“Whatever, Michael,” I said, getting out of the car. I slammed the door and stomped off without looking back, my brain turning a mile a minute. How could I go from a place where I felt totally connected to Michael, like I could trust him in this really important way, back to tense and confusing in, like, zero seconds? And besides, our relationship—or whatever you wanted to call it—wasn’t always about me. It was usually about him and what he wanted to know or what he wanted me to do. Though there was one thing I felt sure about: my personality didn’t vanish into thin air around Michael like it did when I was around other boys, like, say, well, Andy, for example. But then, that was just because I didn’t know Andy as well.
I stopped walking as a wave of guilt hit me. I hadn’t even thanked Michael for the ride. I turned around to run back to the car and make amends, but I was already too late.
I watched as Michael’s car peeled away, leaving me alone, confused, my heart pounding so hard I wondered if anyone passing on the sidewalk could hear it.
12
I WORRY ABOUT MY FIG PROPOSAL, AND “THE ANTI-ANGEL” PAYS ME A VISIT
It was late and my awkward goodbye with Michael already felt like it had happened a long time ago. I had other things to worry about at the moment. Big things. Literally.
My Saint Diary lay open to St. Charles Borromeo. The soft glow of my reading lamp illumined the good archbishop, also the Patron Saint of Apple Orchards. I was considering whether to petition him for the fig-tree burying this weekend. He was a poor substitute for what I really needed, though.
An apple tree is nothing like a fig tree.
Which is why we needed a Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees. Though I admit I was starting to lose hope. November was passing quickly and my calendar reminded me that it was already that time of the month, the time I began brainstorming other possible saint proposals in case the current campaign was unsuccessful. By the first of December I would have my next letter drafted and ready to go.
I needed to be prepared.
It was eighteen uneventful days into the Month of Figs, and the list of things that hadn’t happened during the current campaign for sainthood were many:
News from the Vatican that they loved my Patron Saint of Figs idea: Nope.
News from the Vatican that they not only loved my Patron Saint of Figs idea but had elected me as their ideal candidate for the job: Not so far, no.
Getting my mother to let me off the hook about winterizing the fig trees: Not happening.
Finding out that the love of my life knew I existed: Not that I knew of.
Success in the Kissing-the-Love-of-My-Life department: Not this week.
My capacity for patience growing: Nope again.
My brain stalled. Usually I was full of new saint ideas, but tonight I was empty. I turned to the section in my Saint Diary where I kept a record of the year’s proposals, hoping for inspiration. Last month, October, was the Month of Secrets and Secret Keeping. I couldn’t believe the Catholic Church didn’t have a Patron Saint of Secrets, someone devoted to not gossiping, spreading rumors, and sharing people’s deepest desires. September was the Month of Memory, which I’d proposed with Gram in mind.
I knew I could use a Patron Saint of Memory where Gram was concerned. But, for now, at least I had St. Anne. I picked up my pen and began to write:
Dear St. Anne, O Patron Saint of Grandmothers, please watch over Editta Lucia Goglia, who I love so much it almost hurts
, because I am worried about her and this whole forgetting and misplacing everything but the kitchen sink business. I don’t know what I’d do without her, so if you could please send some attention her way I’d be forever grateful. Thank you, St. Anne, for your intercession in this matter.
The St. Anne mass card in my Saint Diary was one of my favorites—a woman sat, serene, a halo glowing above her. One arm was raised up toward heaven and the other was around a child, a little girl kneeling next to her. The girl’s eyes gazed lovingly up at this gentle lady. I stuffed the petition in the pocket on St. Anne’s page.
I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes, feeling tired. I needed a good night’s sleep for the big day tomorrow. Inspiration was unlikely at this hour, so I forced myself to get up and put my Saint Diary away and then slipped back into bed. I tucked the blankets all around my body until I was cozy and warm, ready to let go of the day into sleep.
As I was drifting off I fantasized about Andy’s first day at the market (which was tomorrow!) . . . we’d accidentally gotten locked in the storeroom overnight . . . the lights were out and we were all alone . . . I was pressed against a wall of boxes and Andy was leaning toward me, about to kiss me for the first time . . . when right at that very moment . . .
. . . there was an urgent tap, tap, tap against my window. I sat up with a jolt.
I couldn’t even get kissed by a boy in my dreams.
I dragged myself out of bed and wrapped myself up in my rose-colored quilt. I turned on the light and opened the window.
“What are you doing here?”
“I just thought I’d say hello again, love.” Michael McGinnis was crouched outside on the landing as if it were totally normal to be sitting there like a burglar.
“By climbing up the fire escape at midnight?” It had been more than a year since Michael had last come to my window. He used to do it all the time until my mother almost caught him—well, us—which would have gotten me grounded for the rest of my natural-born life. “My mother would kill you if she found you here. And me. She’d kill me.”
“Your mother loves me,” he said with confidence.
“My mother only loves boys who show no interest in her daughter.”
“So you think I’m showing interest?”
“I didn’t mean that,” I said, getting flustered, especially since it was hard to ignore that Michael looked good. He wore a thick winter jacket with a blue wool scarf that matched the color of his eyes.
“What did you mean?” He leaned forward far enough that his head almost came inside the room.
“I don’t know what I meant. Can we change the subject? Like to why you didn’t see enough of me earlier?” Maybe Michael wasn’t mad at me after all.
“Well, no one should be alone on a Friday night. How about you let me climb in so we can chat awhile?” He glanced around my bedroom with interest.
“Not unless you want to get me in trouble,” I said, though I did pull my vanity chair over to the window. “Besides, I’m not letting you anywhere near my bed.”
“I learned my lesson about you a long time ago, Antonia . . .”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We’re just friends, like you said, so you have nothing to worry about. I’m happy to simply talk through the window even if I am a bit chilled.” He rubbed his hands together.
“Well, aren’t you nice,” I said, getting up to grab my red mittens off the vanity and handing them to him out the window. “I think these are big enough.”
“Thanks,” he said, putting them on.
“I like your pajamas. The bottoms are a bit big for you, though,” he said, reminding me that when I’d gone to get the mittens I’d left the quilt behind. I was now sitting there, in only the thin white tank top I’d worn to bed and my billowy striped pajama pants. I quickly rolled myself back up in the quilt.
“Don’t feel like you have to hide anything from me, Antonia.” Michael’s voice was teasing, his face only inches from mine through the window.
“Yeah, right,” I said, pulling the blanket tighter.
“I don’t just mean your pajamas, Antonia. You don’t have to hide other things either . . .” He trailed off.
“Like what other things?”
“Like . . . well . . . for example . . . who do you have your eye on these days? You know, who do you like?”
“Seriously? We can’t talk about that kind of stuff. That’s girl talk.”
“It’s friend talk,” he countered.
“Well, yes, that’s true.”
“Which is exactly why I was asking. If we are friends we should be able to talk about anything.”
“You really want to know?” I’d trusted Lila about Andy and that went well—but Michael? Then again, maybe talking to him about who I liked would finally shift our relationship from this weird, awkward stage to a place where we could actually hang out like normal people. Like, friends. I mean, if I was honest, I missed Michael and how things used to be between us. A lot.
“I am burning with curiosity about it actually.” His eyes were playful, but behind them lurked something else. I couldn’t decide what.
“There is someone,” I began, dangling the beginnings of a confession, not certain how far I’d go yet. “He’s actually in your class. But I am not going to tell you who it is.”
“Come on. You can trust me. Scout’s honor.”
“Like you were ever a Boy Scout,” I snickered.
“Okay . . . if you won’t tell me who he is”—Michael paused, thinking—“then will you at least tell me whether or not you and he are already . . . involved in some way?” His tone was lighthearted, but there was an urgency in it too, and I wondered if there was another reason Michael was outside my window—one that he wasn’t telling me.
“No, we are not at this moment involved. I’m not involved with anyone,” I admitted.
“So you like someone but you’re not going out with him?” He sounded relieved.
“The boy hardly even knows I exist and I can’t go out with someone who doesn’t know I exist.”
“I know you exist.”
This comment didn’t even justify a response so instead I just rolled my eyes.
“I do, though,” he insisted.
“I know you do . . . like a brother, Michael,” I said, deciding to play his game a bit since he was always turning our conversations into DTR’s: determining the relationship talks. “You’re like an older brother who’s looking out for his little sister and her love interests.”
“Ouch. That’s just about the worst thing you could ever say to a guy.”
“What is?”
“Rule number one: Never tell a guy he’s like a brother unless he actually is your brother. You may as well stab him in the heart.”
“I was kidding. Calm down.”
“Yeah, well, regardless of whether or not we’re being all friendly, I don’t want to hear any more talk about me being your brother, please,” he said, shifting so his knees came up beneath his chin. “Is that how you really think about me?”
I thought about the ambiguity in our relationship and decided to be honest. “No. I’ve never thought of you that way. I said it so you’d stop pestering me. Seriously. You’re not exactly the brotherly type, Michael.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. I think. But can you elaborate on what you mean by I’m not the brotherly type?” There he was, trying to turn the conversation back to “us” again.
“You’re too . . . I don’t know . . . you’re so flirty, like, all the time. And with everybody.” I couldn’t help taking the bait. “And there’s the fact that you’ve kissed just about every girl at my school.”
“You exaggerate.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I haven’t kissed you, Antonia,” Michael said without skipping a beat, and we were suddenly outside of friend-to-friend territory again.
“No, you haven’t,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Because we’re just frien
ds, remember?”
“We weren’t always.”
“Well, but technically we never got together that summer.”
“It’s not like I didn’t try.” His eyes locked on mine.
“I know,” I said, looking away, thinking about how this was the first time Michael and I had ever openly acknowledged what happened—or, really, didn’t happen—between us that day when he tried to kiss me and I ran away. I’d been winding my way through the labyrinth of bathhouses where people kept their beach chairs and umbrellas, looking for the ladies’ room. Michael worked nearby and I knew I’d run into him. I mean, I’d wanted to see him. I always did, even though seeing him gave me that jittery feeling inside.
Michael was the first boy, really the only boy, who’d ever paid attention to me in the way that boys who like girls pay attention.
I just wasn’t prepared for him to try to kiss me.
I turned a corner, heading down the row that led to the bathroom, when I saw him, leaning against the salt-worn wood of one of the bathhouse doors, its white paint peeling everywhere.
“Hey, Antonia,” he said casually. “I was hoping I’d see you today.”
My heart skipped, seeing him here, as if he’d been waiting for me.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, walking up until he was so close I fought the urge to take a step back.
“About what?” I forced myself to look straight into his eyes, trying to read what they were saying. I shifted nervously from my left leg to my right.
“About what’s going to happen when school starts.”
“What do you mean?”
“Between you and me,” he answered, tilting his head.
“We’ll still be friends,” I said, now staring at my feet, afraid of what might happen.
He put his hands on my shoulders, making me shiver. I worried that my legs would no longer support my body. “Look at me,” he said. “Please?”
So I did.
“I like you, Antonia,” he said simply, and my heart felt as if it had just dropped through my body and crashed through the boardwalk onto the sand beneath. “A lot,” he added.
My hands began shaking. My whole body began shaking. I didn’t know what to do or say so I said nothing.
The Possibilities of Sainthood Page 9
