Who died?” My mother looked up from the “Today’s Specials” chalkboard to give my outfit the once-over. She was carefully erasing the stuff that was already sold out, which included every kind of pasta except the fresh, hand-cut linguini. It was looking rather lonely in the display fridge. “What are you talking about, Ma?” I said, squeezing behind her ample frame so I could shove my backpack behind the counter. I picked up the “To Do” notebook by the old-fashioned cash register. There was a page with my name and today’s date at the top. For Antonia, November 14, 4 p.m. —stock all new produce —organize storeroom —home deliveries: Mrs. Bevalaqua, Mr. Romanelli “Hi, Gram,” I said, peeking around the door frame to the back office. She stopped reading her tabloid long enough to blow me a kiss. “Love you, too,” I said, and headed back out front. “Where’s Frankie today?” Francesca hated that nickname from when we were kids, so I tried to use it often when I thought she might be around.
What do You think about The Possibilities Of Sainthood?
