“What are you thinking?”
“That I feel the same,” I whispered, not able to say the words “I like you” out loud, scared out of my mind, totally unprepared for what came next, which was Michael leaning toward me, his blue-green eyes still locked on mine, his mouth parted and . . .
. . . at that moment the entire summer flashed before me—all those times Michael and I spent hanging out, all the girls he’d been with, all the intensity between us, the wanting but not wanting, the confusion—and I knew right then that I wasn’t ready. He was out of my league. Way too experienced. It just couldn’t happen between Michael and me. Not at that moment. Maybe not ever.
Then I panicked.
And before his lips could meet mine I turned and ran, leaving him standing there—rejected.
“Why didn’t you let me kiss you that day, Antonia?” Michael asked, blunt, as if he’d been reading my mind again.
“I wasn’t ready.” I decided to be honest. “You caught me off guard, I was nervous, I didn’t want to be just another . . .”
“. . . one of all the many girls that I’ve kissed.” Michael finished the sentence for me.
“That, too. Yes.”
“Well, logic says that if I really do kiss all the girls who go to Holy Angels, then it will have to be your turn at some point, right?”
“Noooo,” I said, sounding more sure than I felt. “We’re just being friends, remember?”
“We can stop being friends when I kiss you,” he said, grinning.
“News flash, Michael: I don’t kiss boys who’ll kiss just anybody. A kiss has to be special, Michael.”
“What makes you think just because I’ve kissed a few girls that kissing you can’t be special? I think there are plenty of girls who’d argue with you on that one.”
“Exactly the problem. Too many.”
“Hmmm. I wonder what it would be like.”
“What?”
“Kissing Antonia Lucia Labella.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said before I could stop myself, trying to think of something to cover up what I’d just admitted. “I wouldn’t know . . . what it’s like to kiss Andy Rotellini, for example,” I added, wanting to disappear when I realized that in trying to cover my blunder I’d just made another—giving Michael the information to which just moments before I’d denied him access.
“Andy Rotellini? Is that who you like?”
“I might kiss him if he was interested, yes,” I said, since the cat was already out of the bag.
“You’d go out with Andy Rotellini over me?”
“Going out with you is not on the table, remember? And since, as you claimed earlier, friends tell each other things—like who they like and would go out with—then yes, if Andy asked me out, I would go out with him.”
“Andy’s not the type who asks girls out, Antonia. Trust me.”
“And you are?”
“Whether or not you believe me, I am exactly that kind of guy,” he said, defensive. “So you like Andy Rotellini,” he said again, as if he couldn’t believe it was true.
“Who do you like, while we’re on the subject?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am curious,” I pressed, wondering if there was any truth to what Maria overhead from Veronica, realizing that I really wanted to know because the thought of them together bothered me.
“It would be more accurate to ask who likes me.”
“Okay. Just tell me. Who is it?”
“Your lovely cousin Veronica.”
“So you and my cousin do have a thing going on. Maria was right. Interesting . . .” I said, trying to sound normal. Inside I was thinking I’d rather die than watch Veronica make out with Michael, flirt with Michael, and have to deal with Michael visiting her at the store while I was working.
“So what do you think? Should I go out with her?” His voice was playful, teasing.
“Um, only if you like girls who are stupid and annoying.”
“Ooh. Harsh. You guys definitely don’t have the family love, do you?”
“Well, she’s a generally nasty person, and if you haven’t noticed already, she hooks up with everybody, which, I guess, maybe makes her a good match for you.” I couldn’t resist.
“I’ll ignore that comment,” he said. “She’s pretty in her own way, I suppose.”
“Pretty ridiculous,” I said, not liking this turn in our conversation, suddenly feeling drowsy again. “I have to go back to bed. Tomorrow I have to begin winterizing the fig trees. Besides, I don’t want my mom catching us like this.”
“If you insist.”
“I do,” I said, getting up from the chair.
“It was nice talking to you, Antonia.”
“Yeah. Thanks for stopping by. Careful there, with my cousin Veronica.”
“I bet you’d like it.”
“Like what? You dating Veronica?”
“No. Kissing me. There’s a lot I could teach you.”
“You don’t let up, do you? I am not going to kiss you. Good night, Michael,” I said in a huff, shutting the window and turning off the light. I got back under the covers for the second time that night, willing my mind to focus on the fact that Andy Rotellini would be working at the store all the next day to help lull me to dreamland again. But my thoughts instead were captured by the hateful concept of Michael dating Veronica, and whether Michael had any idea I’d never been kissed. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if Michael’s plan was to somehow change this fact himself.
13
I PRAY TO ST. WALBURGA ABOUT THE FIG-TREE BURYING AND LOSE THE POWER OF SPEECH DURING ANDY’S FIRST SHIFT AT THE MARKET
My alarm blared like an angry siren at 7:00 a.m. After hitting snooze, I flung myself back against the mess of pillows and blankets, avoiding the sunlight that poured through the window across the bed. I cursed myself for staying up so late talking to Michael. I was about to doze off again when I sprang up with a start, unable to hold back a huge grin despite the early-morning hour.
How could I have forgotten?
Today was . . . ANDY ROTELLINI’S FIRST SHIFT AT LABELLA’S MARKET! The love of my life was going to be working at the store!
Granted, I’d be killing myself today over the fig trees. But still . . .
It felt like a pre-Thanksgiving, fig-burying miracle.
I went to my closet and gazed dreamily at the row of pleated green, yellow, and white plaid skirts on the bottom rung, below what seemed like an endless expanse of white button-downs, and shoved them aside. Today was a no-uniform day. Catholic schoolgirls always lived for the weekends, when we could break free of our standardized attire. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt to layer with my new, red T that said “Love Me” on it (hint, hint). Remembering my promise, I grabbed a bra from my underwear drawer.
“Antonia!” my mother yelled from the kitchen. “You still have to eat and help open the store before you can get going on the trees!”
“I’m coming,” I practically sang, shoving my feet into tennis shoes and grabbing a jacket. Normally her reminder would have annoyed me. But for once I couldn’t wait for the workday to begin. Never before had winterizing the fig trees felt so appealing.
I stopped by the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a quick look in the mirror, piling as much of my hair as I could fit into a fat silver clip. I puckered my lips in a pout, wishing I was allowed to wear lipstick.
Before leaving, I made sure to petition St. Walburga. The forecast was for sun and temperatures in the 60’s, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
Dear St. Walburga, O Patron Saint of Harvests, Against Storms and Coughing, though you have nothing to do with figs (technically) and I am not about to harvest anything, you are the closest saint I can think of to help (aside from Charles, the apple man, who I am tired of asking for favors) with the out-of-control expectation that I, Antonia Lucia Labella, winterize the fig trees this weekend. Well, I suppos
e you could be related to the tree-burying process because if I cannot sufficiently bury the trees for the ridiculously cold winters and snowstorms we get every year, there will be no figs to harvest this spring. So I ask for your intervention in this matter. Also, speaking of storms and coughing, it would be great if it did not rain today so I don’t end up soaking wet, and inevitably coughing for weeks on end, which is not only unbecoming (my face while coughing) but not at all helpful in the getting-kissed department (let’s say, for example, if right before Andy Rotellini tries to kiss me in the storeroom I burst into a coughing fit because I spent all weekend stormed on while burying two trees, this would be really unfortunate). Thank you, St. Walburga, for your intercession in these matters.
I set off through the house, passing my mother—who seemed stunned that I required no further encouragement to get myself going—and disappeared down the stairs to the market before she could say another word.
I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this giddy.
“Hey, Antonia,” Francesca said, still half-asleep when I burst through the door, her short hair mussed on one side as if she’d just rolled out of bed herself.
“Feeling better?” My voice was cheery.
“Much,” she said, plopping down on the stool behind the counter, an unspoken statement that she wasn’t planning to help with the opening checklist. For once, I didn’t care.
“I’m so glad to hear that. The flu is just awful. Can you hand me the ‘To Do’ book, please?”
“Here.” Francesca reached over and handed me the notebook, making a show of what a huge effort this required.
“Let’s see,” I said, mostly to myself since I knew Francesca didn’t care what had to get done. “Put out the pastries, straighten the tower of canned tomatoes and the shelves of olive oil, organize the torrone section.” Old-worlders like my mom and all the recently immigrated Italian ladies who shopped at our store loved torrone—a nougatty, almondy Italian candy—so we carried the widest variety in all of Rhode Island.
The door jingled.
“Hey, Antonia,” Andy Rotellini said, walking his beautiful self up to the counter. “Did your mother tell you that I was starting work this morning?”
He said this as if it were no big deal when it was SUCH A HUGE DEAL.
Meanwhile, I stood there frozen, the large tray of spinach pies I was about to put out held in front of me like an offering. I held my breath. I tried to think of something to say.
“Um” was all I managed during what could have been the beginning of the most important boy-interaction of my entire almost-sixteen-year career as a girl.
“What Antonia means,” Francesca cut in, going from sleepy to perky in an instant, batting her eyelashes as she sauntered over to Andy before I could do or say anything else, “is that yes, we knew you’d be here today and we’re thrilled for the help. Let me show you around.”
“Yeah” was word two that escaped my mouth and I nodded my head as if I approved of this tour, watching as Francesca, who flirted with everything that moved even though she was getting married in three months, directed Andy around the market. All the good feelings I’d had for her just moments before vanished. As I finally put the tray of spinach pies onto the pastry shelf, in my mind I noted that a Patron Saint of Using Your Words would have been helpful at the moment.
“And this is the stockroom,” I could hear Francesca saying.
Ooh, THE STOCKROOM.
Andy would be working in the stockroom! Presumably, at least occasionally, with me! Impure thoughts began flying through my head: Andy and me in the stockroom laughing over something. Andy and me in the stockroom kissing passionately behind the canned tomatoes. Andy and me having a romantic moment in the stockroom after I’ve closed the market for the night and turned off the lights!
Deep breaths, I told myself, since I didn’t want to get too carried away. Before laughing, kissing, and romance were possible I first had to learn to utter complete sentences in Andy’s presence. This was a job for St. Teresa, the Patron Saint of Grace. I silently petitioned her:
Dear St. Teresa, I know you are busy because lots of people are in need of grace and everything, but if you could just help me have a little bit of it while I’m around Andy I’d be eternally grateful. Oh, and if you manage to remove any graceful potential from Veronica, Concetta, and Francesca when they’re working at the store, that would be a huge help. No—wait. Forget that. That’s not very nice. I take that last part back. Thank you, St. Teresa, for your attention.
Francesca proceeded to monopolize Andy for almost an hour, introducing him to virtually every canned vegetable and box of vermicelli we sold in the market, while I moved through the checklist, still tongue-tied. When I looked at the clock again, it was almost eight. Time to get outside. Maria would be here any minute. You knew you had a good friend when she’d show up at eight on a Saturday morning to help you bury the family fig trees. And all I needed to quell any angst about the job ahead was to recall my total joy about Andy’s new position at the store, which finally put me in prime position to (a) get Andy Rotellini to really notice me and then (b) get Andy Rotellini to give me my very first, totally amazing, dreamy, passionate kiss! If only I could figure out how to talk in his presence. Maybe when he kissed me this could count as my Miracle Number One on the road to sainthood. It certainly seemed to require a miracle to get yourself kissed—at least at the right time and with the right boy.
“Antonia! Time to get going!” my mother yelled from upstairs.
Perhaps it would help with the kissing if I was beatified (i.e., beautified) by the Vatican first.
Despite my reluctance to leave Francesca alone in the market with Andy, I knew I had to get to work outside. Before my mother could yell my name again, I was in my jacket and out the door to the yard in back, soothed by the knowledge that Andy would be nearby the entire day.
14
IT’S RAINING MEN WHILE MARIA AND I ARE BUSY PRUNING
“Hi, Antonia,” said a male voice, but not the one I’d been hoping to hear. Andy was just steps away and yet he hadn’t come out once to say hello or to offer his assistance.
“Hi, Michael,” I yelled from my perch on the ladder, squinting in the bright sun, trying not to be fazed by his arrival. Instead, I concentrated on the branch I was about to clip with shears big enough to chop down a small tree. As I squeezed the handle, there was a loud snap and the branch broke free, tumbling down against the lower limbs and onto the grass below. “Hey, can you make yourself useful and gather those branches down there?” I called out.
“I’ve got it, Antonia,” Maria said, emerging from behind the other tree, where she’d been pruning its lower limbs.
“Hey, Michael,” she said, giving him a wave. Maria and I had been working steadily all morning and I hadn’t even had a chance to brief her about my nighttime rendezvous with Michael—though I did manage to get some delighted squeals in about seeing Andy.
“Looks like you already have excellent help,” Michael said, approaching the bottom of the ladder.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” I lied. “So are you going to just stand there or what?”
A big smile spread across Michael’s face.
“Wait. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know,” I said, feeling that familiar head rush I always got when we locked eyes, which made me consider climbing down from the ladder so I didn’t plummet to my death. Death by fig-tree winterization was all I needed today of all days. Though I probably had a better chance of becoming the Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees if I died on their behalf. And as appealing as this possibility of sainthood was, I reminded myself that (a) my goal was to become a living saint, (b) I refused to live up to my name saint and become yet another fifteen-year-old dead virgin named Antonia, and (c) I really should get down because not only was I getting dizzy but I was currently giving Michael an unobstructed view of my butt.
“How about I come up there and join you?” Michael asked.
> “That answer is definitely no,” I said, carefully stepping from rung to rung until I reached the ground, still grasping the pruning shears as if they were a weapon to keep Michael at bay.
“That was nice of you to give Antonia a ride yesterday,” Maria said, emerging again from underneath the other tree, wiping her brow. We were sweating from the hard labor.
“Anytime, Maria.”
“I’m sure, Michael,” Maria said with a knowing laugh.
Michael looked from me to Maria and upward to the two towering trees that left little room for much else, and back to me with skepticism on his face. The Labella fig trees were unusually big.
“This is quite a job,” he said.
“We can handle it,” I said. Though, not without serious assistance. Tomorrow we’d have half the neighborhood men here to help bend the top branches to the ground, holding them while Gram, Mom, and I secured them with rope into small mountains of cardboard and canvas.
“You really know how to make a guy feel welcome, Antonia.” Michael’s eyes moved to the pruning shears I was still holding out as if I were about to attack him.
“Someone has to ward off the throng of guys looking for Maria,” I said, lowering the shears to my side.
“Oh, please,” Maria said. “My heart is already taken.”
“So I’ve heard,” Michael said. “John Cronin, eh? Taming a popular senior like him is quite an accomplishment.”
“He is amazing, isn’t he?”
“Just be careful. He gets around, Maria.”
“Like you don’t, Michael,” Maria came back, laughing.
“I’m saving myself for Antonia,” Michael said. Our conversation last night came back in a rush. I felt my face flush as red as my T-shirt.
“Right. Mabye I should go back to my tree and leave you two alone,” Maria said, backing away.
“Don’t go, Maria,” I said, half laughing, half pleading. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
The Possibilities of Sainthood Page 10
