The Possibilities of Sainthood Read online

  THE POSSIBILITIES OF SAINTHOOD

  THE POSSIBILITIES OF SAINTHOOD

  DONNA FREITAS

  FRANCES FOSTER BOOKS

  FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX

  NEW YORK

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PART 1: THE PATRON SAINT OF FIGS AND FIG TREES

  CHAPTER 1: I PRAY TO ST. SEBASTIAN ABOUT GYM CLASS AND THANK GOD I’M NOT NAMED AFTER THE PATRON SAINT OF SNAKEBITES

  CHAPTER 2: MY MOTHER CALLS ME A PROSTITUTE, WHICH IS CODE FOR “ANTONIA, YOU LOOK SEXY TODAY,” AND I ASK ST. DENIS THE BEHEADED BISHOP FOR ASSISTANCE

  CHAPTER 3: I RUN INTO MICHAEL, THE PSEUDO-ARCHANGEL, WHO IS SO NOT ANGELIC

  CHAPTER 4: SISTER NOELLA (POSSIBLY A SECRET EMISSARY FROM THE VATICAN) TEACHES BIOLOGY WHILE MARIA AND I PASS NOTES

  CHAPTER 5: I GET READY FOR MY MONDAY AFTERNOON SHIFT AND REMINISCE ABOUT THE FIRST TIME I MET MICHAEL

  CHAPTER 6: THE LOVE OF MY LIFE, ANDY ROTELLINI, VISITS THE STORE AND I AM WITNESS TO A MAJOR MIRACLE

  CHAPTER 7: ANDY IS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND, AND SEVEN ANGELS GUARD US FROM PREDATORY BOYS IN THE HA–BISHOP FRANCIS PARKING LOT

  CHAPTER 8: SISTER MARY MARGARET FAILS TO TEACH US ANYTHING, AND VERONICA AND I HAVE A PUBLIC SPAT

  CHAPTER 9: I DRAG LILA INTO THE DREARY LIBRARY STACKS AND DETERMINE THAT I NEED TO START WEARING A BRA ON THE ROAD TO SAINTHOOD

  CHAPTER 10: MARIA AND I GOSSIP AT THE ICE RINK, AND SHE HANDS MY INNOCENCE TO MICHAEL IN EXCHANGE FOR SOME ALONE-TIME WITH JOHN

  CHAPTER 11: MICHAEL DRIVES ME HOME AND WE SHARE A MOMENT

  CHAPTER 12: I WORRY ABOUT MY FIG PROPOSAL, AND “THE ANTI-ANGEL” PAYS ME A VISIT

  CHAPTER 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

  CHAPTER 14: IT’S RAINING MEN WHILE MARIA AND I ARE BUSY PRUNING

  CHAPTER 15: I CONFRONT MY MOTHER ABOUT HER NONEXISTENT DATING LIFE AND I EXPERIENCE TRAGIC VATICAN REJECTION

  PART 2: THE PATRON SAINT OF PEOPLE WHO MAKE PASTA

  CHAPTER 16: MOM, GRAM, AND I PREPARE FOR THE FEAST OF ST. LUCIA, AND I PRAY TO ST. AUGUSTINE, THE SAINT WHO ONCE LOVED SEX, ABOUT ANDY

  CHAPTER 17: THE UNTHINKABLE HAPPENS

  CHAPTER 18: I DRAFT AN EMERGENCY SAINT PROPOSAL, AND GET IN GRAM’S CAR, RISKING LIFE AND LIMB

  CHAPTER 19: MARIA AND I DEBRIEF “THE UNTHINKABLE” AND SHE TELLS ME HER “OTHER IDEAS”

  CHAPTER 20: I TRY NOT TO CATCH ON FIRE WHILE I PASS OUT COOKIES FOR THE FEAST OF ST. LUCIA

  CHAPTER 21: I CONFRONT AN UNINVITED GUEST IN MY ROOM, VERONICA GETS IN THE WAY, AND CATHOLICS THE WORLD OVER RECEIVE SHOCKING NEWS

  CHAPTER 22: WE EAGERLY AWAIT OUR NEW HOLY FATHER

  PART 3: THE PATRON SAINT OF FIRST KISSES AND KISSING

  CHAPTER 23: MARIA AND I MAKE OURSELVES LOOK IRRESISTIBLE, AND SHE TRIES TO CONVINCE ME OF WHAT MY HEART SHOULD ALREADY KNOW

  CHAPTER 24: MY HEART GOES PITTER-PATTER AND I FINALLY UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANS TO GET WEAK IN THE KNEES

  CHAPTER 25: !!!!!! (YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO READ TO FIND OUT)

  CHAPTER 26: MY MOTHER AND I PERSONALLY EXPERIENCE ALL OF THE TOP FIVE WAYS ITALIANS EXPRESS LOVE IN ONE SITTING

  CHAPTER 27: I LEARN SURPRISING NEWS ABOUT MY REPUTATION AND I HOPE THAT THE SECOND, THIRD, FOURTH, AND MAYBE EVEN THE FIFTH TIME IS THE CHARM

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Copyright © 2008 by Donna Freitas

  All rights reserved

  Distributed in Canada by Douglas & McIntyre Ltd.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Designed by Robbin Gourley

  First edition, 2008

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  www.fsgkidsbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Freitas, Donna.

  The possibilities of sainthood / Donna Freitas.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: While regularly petitioning the Vatican to make her the first living saint, fifteen-year-old Antonia Labella prays to assorted patron saints for everything from help with preparing the family’s fig trees for a Rhode Island winter to getting her first kiss from the right boy.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-374-36087-0

  ISBN-10: 0-374-36087-1

  [1. Saints—Fiction. 2. Italian Americans—Fiction. 3. Family life—Rhode Island—Fiction. 4. Catholic schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Conduct of life—Fiction. 7. Rhode Island—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F8844 Pos 2008

  [Fic]—dc22

  2007033298

  In memory of three special made-up saints in my life who’ve gone on to that great palace in the sky:

  my academic mentor, Monsignor Stephen Happel, the Patron Saint of High Places

  my grandmother, Amalia Goglia, the Patron Saint of Artichokes and People Who Say Yes When Mom and Dad Say No

  and most especially my mother, Concetta Lucia Freitas, the Real Patron Saint of People Who Make Pasta

  PART 1

  The Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees

  Vatican Committee on Sainthood

  Vatican City

  Rome, Italy

  November 1

  To Whom It May Concern (ideally the Pope if he’s available):

  I’m writing to inform you of a serious oversight in the area of patron saint specializations. As yet, there is no Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees. I mean, I know over there in Italy they practically grow wild and all because of the idyllic climate, but let me tell you, trying to keep fig trees alive through a Rhode Island winter requires divine intervention. Do you have any idea what we have to do when it starts to get cold? Not only do we have to prune them, we have to bury them! Let me be clear: come winter, I, that’s me, Antonia, BURY our fig trees. Have you ever tried to bury a tree? It’s not exactly an afternoon job. Of course, it’s worth it when those yummy, succulent figs start bursting to life come springtime. (Yes, that’s right: spring. It’s miraculous really. Our figs, the LABELLA family figs, show up in springtime, not summer!) But anyway, I think it would really help Catholic fig growers all over the world and especially in Rhode Island if we had a Patron Saint of Figs, because, Lord knows, I’d pray to this saint. I mean, if we can have a Patron Saint AGAINST CATERPILLARS (Caterpillars? What’s so bad about caterpillars?), I don’t think a saint specializing in figs is too much to ask.

  Thank you for your attention to this matter.

  Blessings,

  Antonia Lucia Labella

  Labella’s Market of Federal Hill

  33 Atwells Avenue

  Providence, RI USA

  [email protected]

  P.S. Incidentally, if you are looking for someone to fill these particular shoes, that would be those of the new Patron Saint of Figs, I’d be delighted to take the job. In fact, I insist! I can be reached by e-mail, or you could always just come by the market. Anyway, what I am trying to say is that if you need to get in touch with me, I’m easy to reach. Hope to hear from you soon!

  1

  I PRAY TO ST. SEBASTIAN ABOUT GYM CLASS AND THANK GOD I’M NOT NAMED AFTER THE PATRON SAINT OF SNAKEBITES

  I gazed up at the familiar boy. A golden aura surrounds his beautiful, muscular body, arrows poking into him from every direction.

  Poor saint, I thought to myself. I hope it doesn’t hurt.

  Sebastian’s stare was piercing, as if he were looking right through me. As if his gaze were another arrow pointed my way.

  I closed my eyes but the image stayed. It should. The picture of St. Sebastian had been hanging on the wall in our living room for as long as I could remember, right near the old-fashioned
record player my mother listened to when she was dusting all the other saint statues and figurines, her daily tribute to the men and women who watch over us. Occasionally I’d come home from school and Mom would be belting out “That’s Amore” or “Volare” in her just-off-the-boat Italian accent. I had to be careful not to bring anyone up to the apartment when I heard music playing, or they might think she was crazy. She’s a character, my mother.

  But then, all Catholics are a weird bunch. Especially the Italian ones.

  I opened my eyes and read quietly from my Saint Diary.

  Dear St. Sebastian:

  O Patron Saint of Athletes, please help me not look stupid tomorrow in gym class when we play soccer even though I am not very fast, kick the ball in the wrong direction occasionally, and sometimes forget which team I’m on. And I promise I won’t sit down out on the field this time if they make me play defense again and I get bored. Ideally, I’d like to play more like Hilary, our star soccer player (even though she is named after the Patron Saint of Snakebites). But if I can’t be as good as Hilary, I’ll settle for just not getting picked last. And don’t forget about Mrs. Bevalaqua. It would be really great if her arthritis got better so she could walk again. Thank you, St. Sebastian, for your intercession in these matters.

  I lit the worn-down pillar candle beneath sexy Sebastian and gave him a longing look, as if I could will him to step out of his frame. It was right about then that my moment alone with the half-naked, holy babe was interrupted.

  “Time to get ready for bed, Antonia! It’s getting late and you have school tomorrow,” Mom yelled from the kitchen.

  “I’m praying,” I called back, my voice all “Please don’t interrupt my saint time,” aware that the surest way into whatever flexibility my mother could offer was through piety.

  “Five more minutes, then!”

  I started to close my diary when I noticed that the corner of my St. Anthony mass card was peeling. I smoothed the edge gently, lovingly, as if I were brushing the cheek of Andy Rotellini, the boy I’d been in love with since the summer before ninth grade. A crease was beginning to mark the murky blue sky surrounding Anthony, dark against the gleam of his halo. I dipped my pinkie into the pool of hot wax around the candlewick and placed a tiny drop on the corner of the card, refastening it to the page. Below St. Anthony’s image was a pocket made of thick, red linen paper, stuffed with devotions and prayers, some on random scraps of this and that, others scribbled on colorful Post-its. Anthony’s page had more devotions than any other saint in my diary.

  My Saint Diaries were my most sacred possessions.

  “I’m praying, Mommy,” said a voice behind me, singsong and catty, sending a shiver up my spine. Not the scary sort of shiver or even the good kind, but the “blech” kind you felt when you met up with something disgusting. “I’m such a good little holier-than-thou girl, Mommy,” the voice went on, its nasal tone like nails against a chalkboard.

  “Veronica,” I said, whirling around to face my cousin—who also starred as the evil nemesis in my life, not to be overly melodramatic or anything, because it is totally true. Veronica is eVil with a capital V. I tucked my Saint Diary behind me, making sure it was hidden.

  Veronica was at the apartment trying to learn some of the Italian cookie recipes from my mother because her mother, my aunt Silvia, was determined that at least one of her three daughters would turn out to be a kitchen natural and grow up to usurp my mother at the family store. I’d thought I could successfully avoid Veronica’s visit, but I was wrong. My blood began to boil, but I took comfort in the fact that Veronica’s outfit was way too tight and her hair was so teased and sprayed that she was the caricature of a Rhode Island Mall Rat. “Remember when you used to be a nice person and people like me could actually stand to be around you?” I asked, once I knew my temper was in check.

  “Remember when you used to not be such a total baby?” Sarcasm oozed from Veronica’s voice. Something—maybe almond paste?—was smeared down the side of her face. I bet she squeezed it straight from the tube into her mouth like a greedy glutton. “You and your mother think you’re so high and mighty.”

  “Veronica . . .” my mother was calling. “Veronica? If you are not here to watch, you are never going to learn how to fold these egg whites into the batter properly . . . Yoohoo! Where are you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, Auntie,” she said, rolling her eyes and disappearing back down the hall. Her footsteps thudded against the wood floor. Thud. Thud.

  My cousin, the elephant.

  As soon as Veronica was gone, the tension disappeared from my body. I grabbed my Saint Diary from where I’d stashed it and sighed with relief.

  My Saint Diaries were also my most secret possessions.

  Each year on my birthday, February 14, St. Valentine’s Day, I began a new volume, fixing different colored pockets onto the pages of a thick book, compiling a section marked “Notes” for my new saint ideas (like a Patron Saint of Homework or a Patron Saint of Notice—as in “Notice me, please, Andy Rotellini!”). Most important of all, I chose which out of the many thousands of official saints to venerate during the year. Tradition, my tradition, dictated that St. Anthony of Padua, the Patron Saint for Lost Things, got page number one. Always.

  Volume 8, the record of my fifteenth year, was rose red, my favorite color.

  In the back was a section for the occasional, precious response letter from the Vatican. (Really they were rejection letters, but I liked to think of them as responses because that sounded less depressing.) I held on to these to remind myself that at least they knew I existed. For the hope that one day, I might just get through to them.

  You know, The Vatican People.

  Any day now, the news would arrive. My Patron Saint of Figs proposal was a winner. I could feel it.

  “Antonia! Sbrigati!” my mother yelled, shattering this moment of hope with her I’m-getting-angry voice and an Italian command that loosely translated as “Get your butt off to bed immediately and don’t tell me you’re still praying because I won’t buy it this time.” Early bedtime somehow applied to me but not my cousin.

  I faced Sebastian one last time, the heat of the candle flame warm on my chin. “St. Sebastian,” I whispered, gazing into his blue eyes, “if you can help me figure out the saint thing, I’d really appreciate it. It’s already been thirteen days since I sent the last letter.”

  “Antonia Lucia Labella!” (That’s “lou-chia,” by the way, like the pet.)

  “Okay, one more last thing,” I said, tempting the full force of Mom’s rage, my lips level with Sebastian’s now, as if we were about to kiss. “Even though I know that technically in the Catholic church you have to be dead to be a saint, I really don’t want to die if you can help it. Fifteen is too young to die.”

  I blew out the candle. A thin stream of smoke drifted up from the blackened wick, reaching toward heaven, and I wondered if I’d soon follow, joining all those who’d gone before me.

  In a manner befitting a saint.

  2

  MY MOTHER CALLS ME A PROSTITUTE, WHICH IS CODE FOR “ANTONIA, YOU LOOK SEXY TODAY,” AND I ASK ST. DENIS THE BEHEADED BISHOP FOR ASSISTANCE

  “Antonia! You are not going out like that!”

  “What are you talking about, Mom?” I answered, trying to sound innocent and all. Who me? Have I done something wrong? I was tiptoeing through the front hall hoping to get out the door unnoticed on my way to school.

  “Antonia! Don’t you dare take another step!”

  I looked behind me. Mom was leaning against the doorway between the foyer and the kitchen, staring at my legs, upset as usual about the state of my school uniform. I shoved my hand into my backpack to locate the socks she was going to make me wear despite any protests.

  “O Madonna! Your bare legs! I can see so much thigh you may as well not be wearing a skirt!” She was using her it’s-the-end-of-the-world voice, her left hand moving spastically as she talked. Her dark, roller-filled hair jiggled li
ke a pile of fresh-made gnocchi on its way to the table, as her head shook with disapproval. “My daughter looks like a puttana! What have I done to deserve this?”

  Important Italian Vocab to Note:

  Madonna refers to the Madonna, aka, the real virgin, not the “Like a Virgin” Madonna, the famous pop star. It’s pronounced “ma-dawn,” heavy on the n, drop the last a.

  Puttana is Italian for “prostitute” and is known to fly out of my mother’s mouth in my direction. I like to think of it as a compliment. You know, my mother’s special way of noting out loud that her daughter is looking particularly sexy at the moment.

  “Calm down, Ma,” I said, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Every day on my way to school I’d try to sneak out the door in what my best friend Maria and I regarded as coolness of the uniform, that is, as cool as we could possibly make our yellow, green, and white pleated plaid skirt and matching Catholic schoolgirl gear. And every day Mom would tell me I looked like a streetwalker (her favorite English synonym for puttana).

  Then we’d argue.

  “Are you showing off for the boys, Antonia?” I glanced over my shoulder to find my grandmother in the living room watching me, giggling, swaying in her rocking chair, her tiny body wrapped tight in her old blue bathrobe. Her white frizzed-out hair was styled like she might be auditioning for the part of Einstein’s mother.

  I felt my face turn red.