Free The Possibilities of Sainthood by Donna Freitas

Maria. Sorry. Love 2 next time!
    Friday was my one afternoon off from working at the store.
    â€œMaria could come too if she wanted . . . though she might not be interested since, well, she’s dating that senior guy at Bishop Francis, isn’t she?”
    Lila was still talking when Sister Mary Margaret suddenly yelled, “Was there something confusing about my request that you open your books and read quietly?” which silenced Lila midsentence, and together as a class we gave the expected response . . .
    â€œNo, Sister Mary Margaret,” we said in unison, making sure to draw out each syllable clearly.
    . . . and which ended any attempt of Lila’s to continue our conversation. Everyone went back to
The Great Gatsby,
or whatever else they were doing before the interruption: homework for another class, writing notes to friends and loved ones, doodling, reading trashy romance novels, or, in my case, reflecting about the fact that it was now seventeen days since I’d sent the fig proposal to the Vatican.
    I’d suggested a grand total of 103 specialties so far—all rejected, with the Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees clocking in at number 104. That’s one saint specialization a month, every month, for almost nine years. Some people would’ve gotten discouraged already. But not me. I was nothing if not persistent. Besides, I was confident that soon the Vatican would take notice of at least one of my ideas. At least
mine
were always practical, unlike some specializations that were pretty ridiculous. For example, there are official saints for rheumatoid chorea (I don’t even know what that is), pewterers, which I think are people who make pewter objects (??), bachelors (though not
bachelorettes,
interestingly enough), and disappointing children (whether this means warding against letting down your offspring or a child who is less than satisfying, I am not quite sure). All these in addition to saints for beekeeping, bartending, unattractive people, cattle, and, all kidding aside, a separate specialty for diseased cattle (perhaps for mad cow?), feet problems, plague, not to mention spelunking (for you nonoutdoorsy types, that’s caving). There are even saints for Belgian and Spanish
air crews
—you know, pilots and airline attendants. But, bizarrely enough, there
isn’t
a Patron Saint of Gelato! (I tried that one when I was nine.) Or Secret Keeping! (I floated that one just lastmonth after Gram overheard me talk about Andy to Maria and I was afraid she might spill the beans.) And, of course, figs. No Patron Saint of Figs! Not yet, at least.
    Waiting is the worst.
    After staring at page 96 for ten straight minutes, I decided to organize the most recent petitions in my Saint Diary, including the one I wrote last period to St. Jude about kissing.
    Everyone I knew had, at the very least, kissed someone. I was probably the only girl at Holy Angels who’d still never gotten any tongue. Talk about having a reason to pray to St. Jude. I could be the poster child for the Hopeless Cause when it came to kissing.
    Â 
    Dear St. Jude:
    O Patron Saint of Desperate Situations and Hopeless Causes, I am indeed desperate and I know you can help. All I want is a little kiss. I know that wanting to be kissed is probably not something you think a good virgin Catholic like me should be asking for, but believe me, a little kiss from Andy isn’t even going to make a dent in my purity, I’m oh-so-untouched. So if you are at all worried about my Virginity, please stop, and if you could turn the attention of the love of my life my way, I’ll be eternally grateful.Actually, if you could turn his lips in my direction specifically, that would be best. Thank you, St. Jude, for your intercession in this matter.
    â€œAntonia, what
are
you going on about?” Lila was staring at me, her eyebrows raised, her voice
so
not a whisper.
    I froze. Had I read my petition to Jude