My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (12 page)

Chapter Eleven

I pace in my bedroom, stop to sit on the bed, then pace again. Chilly night air blows through the open window, but I can’t stand still long enough to get cold.

All through supper, Alessandra remained quiet, only looking up from her plate to study me. I couldn’t eat, but I did make a big show of pushing my food around. As soon as my aunt and uncle were finished, I hightailed it back to my room, waiting to see if Alessandra would confront me.

I don’t know how much she’s figured out or how much I should even tell her. Again with the things Reyna failed to mention before letting me walk out of that tent. What if telling someone the truth negates the magic and sends me back…before I even have a chance to say good-bye?

I think of Lorenzo and squeeze my eyes shut. As much as I miss Dad—and I do—am I really ready to leave tonight and never see Lorenzo again?

A hesitant knock on my heavy door stops me mid-step, and I swallow hard. The knocking grows manic and louder as I swipe my sweaty palms on my surcoat. I draw in a ragged breath and let it out slowly.

On the other side of the door stands Alessandra, looking frightened. Of me. The weight of that look is like a punch to the gut. I stick my head out to check the hall, then usher her in and close the door behind us.

She runs her hand along the sapphire coverlet of my bed, keeping her back to me. The closeness of the past few days I never thought I’d want, much less miss, is gone.

In a soft voice, she says, “Your way of speaking, the knowledge you possess, the things you do not know…I have thought these things peculiar, yet I did not allow myself to ponder them too closely. Perhaps I feared what I would discover had I done so.”

She turns to me and lifts her eyes cautiously. “But this afternoon in the piazza, listening to you describe a sculpture created mere months ago, displayed in a city you have only been in for a few days, with such detail… How is it possible, Patience? Pray tell me there is an explanation that I have not yet considered.” She bites on her lip, and her eyes fill with tears. “Tell me, dear cousin, that you are not an impostor. Tell me I am not going out of my mind.”

I hang my head and sigh. When she first began her speech, I planned to call on every acting gene I possess and lie with style. To explain everything, send her on her merry way, and go back to how things were before. But seeing Alessandra, my friend, my
only
friend, the girl who opened her life to me without question, with her heart in her eyes begging to understand? I can’t do it.

I want to deserve the trust she gives me so freely.

“Sit,” I tell her, pointing to the bed. She nods once and rigidly props herself on the edge, still looking scared and perhaps even calculating the quickest escape route to the door. I know I would be. I walk to the head of the bed, near her but not too close, and blow a heavy breath through my lips.

Where to begin?

“You’re definitely not losing your mind. If anyone’s crazy, it’s me.” I laugh and fiddle with the hem of my surcoat, running the smooth material between my fingers. Maybe if I don’t look at her, I can pretend I’m not really telling anyone the truth. “Three days ago I was on a plane to Florence with my dad and his fiancée. When we got here, I convinced him to let me go on a tour of the city by myself, which is when I actually saw the
David
sculpture for the first time, only it was five hundred years old at that point. Afterward, I stumbled onto a gypsy tent, and for some unfathomable reason, I walked in. I never do things like that. Never do things on a whim. Everything in my life is always planned out way in advance so I can control it all.”

I snort. Control. That’s definitely one thing I have
not
had this entire time.

Alessandra swallows, but she doesn’t say anything. So I continue. “The gypsy gave me some bogus line about adventure in my future but then saw my tattoo and went a little nutty. For some reason, that was a game changer. I should’ve left then, but I didn’t, and she ended up casting some kind of spell. When I walked out of her tent, I walked out of the twenty-first century and into the sixteenth.”

I pause and look into Alessandra’s eyes for the first time. “My real name is Cat Crawford. And I’m from the future.” Her blank look gives me nothing. I can’t stand the silence. I need to know what she’s thinking. I need a reaction. I throw my palms out, widen my eyes, and give a fake, cheery smile. “Surprise!”

My hands plop back in my lap, and I wait. My shoulders slowly sink, releasing the tension of carrying my secret alone. Whatever her reaction may be, it feels good telling the truth for once.

Alessandra shakes her head and makes a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob. “You are mocking me again. Surely you do not expect me to believe such a fantastical tale?”

I chew on my lip, racking my brain to figure out a way to prove it to her. Then it hits me. I stand, turn to the side, and lean against the bed, gathering a section of my surcoat and linen gown in my hand. As I lift them, Alessandra’s eyes grow wide in shock. Modest as ever, she turns her head.

“Look, Less.” She shakes her head vigorously, and my voice gets harsher. “I’m not flashing you. Look!”

She slowly turns her head and immediately scoots away from me, her hand covering her mouth.

“This is my tattoo,” I tell her, looking at the small patch of skin I’ve exposed on my hip.

Tattoos are art, and as such, I’ve always been drawn to the creativity involved. I know from my research that people have been using their bodies as canvases for centuries, but they haven’t always had the options we have today. In the past, they were pretty much limited to henna or a few other colors they could create from plants. Vivid colors, like the emerald green and bright white in mine, weren’t possible.

“They’re kind of popular in the future. Some people even cover themselves completely with them, but for me, this wasn’t about showing off artwork. In fact, I actually try to hide mine. Dad only discovered it a few months ago, and he kinda flipped out and grounded me, but it was worth it.”

“It is paint?” she asks, obviously waging an inner battle between complete fascination and feeling the need to modestly look away.

“No, it’s ink. Things have just changed a lot in the last five centuries. Here, touch it.” Her shocked gaze flies to my face, and I roll my eyes. “It’s no big deal; it’s just my hip. But it’ll help you understand. Maybe it’ll prove to you I’m telling the truth.”

I demonstrate running my finger over the small pear, and she hesitantly reaches a hand out and does the same. Her eyes snap to mine. “How bright the colors are!” she says, her touch growing rougher as she tries to remove the ink. “And they do not rub off.”

“Ow! That’s my skin, you know,” I say, letting my dress fall. “It’s kind of attached.”

I sit back on the bed and turn to her, waiting for the onslaught of questions. She tilts her head back and forth, those same questions surely running through her head. What is a plane, and where is the real Patience? How did I get here, why am I here, and how am I supposed to get back?

All things I’d love to know myself. Well, minus the plane part.

She scratches her head and then asks, “Why a pear?”

Okay, not the question I expected.

“Um, well, I actually got the idea from my favorite painting,
Madonna and Child with Apples and Pears.
It was painted by Bernard van Orley in 1530, which is actually still twenty-five years from now. Man, that’s trippy to think about.” I shake my head and continue. “The painting shows Mary holding baby Jesus, and in front of her on the table are an apple and two pears, one of which is sliced like my tattoo.” My hand instinctively touches where my dress covers my body art, and Alessandra’s gaze follows. “I still remember the first time I saw it. My fourth-grade class was on a field trip at the museum, and they had a print of it in the gift shop. The maternal bliss on Mary’s face as she held her baby? That’s the way a mother
should
look at her child.”

Hot tears burn in my eyes, and I wrap my arms tightly around my chest. “See, my mom never looked at me that way. All she cares about is her job, her fame, and her fans. I like to think that she loved Dad at some point, enough to marry him at least, but then how could she love him and then toss him, toss
us
, aside like that?”

Alessandra runs her fingers through my loose hair to comfort me, and I give her a weak smile as I swipe at the tears falling on my cheeks. “Mom’s an actress, so you’d think she could at least pretend to care, right?” At the word
actress
, Alessandra leans forward. I sniff and pull my legs under me. “But no, Mom’s a victim of the Hollywood stereotype that says all actors are supposed to have addiction problems. But hers aren’t alcohol or drugs. She’s addicted to falling madly in love—supposedly—with whatever hot costar happens to be in her latest movie.”

With a low growl, I think back to the plane and my seatmate’s tabloid cover.
Caterina Angeli Does It Again.
Another failed relationship to feed the rumor mill.

“Dad was different. He was an assistant director when they met, not an actor, and he thought he understood her so well and could make her happy. But in the end, nothing he did made a difference. He just couldn’t compete with the allure of falling in love over and over again. She stayed with us until I was five—probably cheating on him the whole time—and then left without so much as a call or birthday card since.”

I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my linen gown and take a ragged breath. I can’t seem to shut up. I’m a blubbering mess.

Dad always tries to get me to talk about what happened, but I can’t make him relive the pain she caused him. I won’t. That’s why he got me a therapist—he thinks it’ll help me to talk about it with an unaffected third party, but I have no interest in hearing psychobabble.

Talking to Alessandra is different. I trust her.

She pushes back the clumps of hair sticking to my wet, tear-streaked face. “I am sorry for the agony your mother has caused you. But the painting on your body, I still do not understand. Why a sliced pear?”

I sink to the floor and reach under the bed for my backpack. Now that she knows the truth, there’s no point in hiding anything. I pull out my Body Shop Face Mist. A few sprays of the rose-scented cool mist calms my heated skin instantly.

Alessandra’s eyes have grown so large at this point, it’s almost comical. I really have thrown a lot at her at once. I hand her the bottle, and she sprays hesitantly. She sniffs, jerks her head back in surprise, and sprays again.

“In Renaissance art, the pear symbolizes marital fidelity, so it’s fitting that one of the pears in the painting is sliced. Mom sliced our family apart with her cheating. She never allowed herself to look at me the way Mary does in that painting because she was selfish. She followed her fickle heart and abandoned her family. The sliced-pear tattoo is a visible reminder of what she did to us, making sure I never forget that the heart can’t be trusted. Following it only leads to pain.”

Immediately Lorenzo’s gorgeous face, golden curls, and hot-as-hell smile spring to mind. This is why I tried to push him away. My mother has taught me that love never lasts. But then, neither can my stay here. I sink into the pillows.

Alessandra’s forehead crinkles, and she shakes her head. “That is a sad lesson to learn,” she says, wrapping her arm around me.

It feels nice, being comforted. But the catch in her voice and the way she tentatively pats my shoulder tell me she’s still not buying the whole time-travel portion of the evening’s confession.

My eyes land on my open bag on the floor.

“I know what will prove once and for all I’m from the future,” I tell her, pulling it onto the bed and emptying the contents. She watches guardedly as I turn on my iPod and press play, hand her one of the earbuds, and demonstrate how to put it in.

A catchy pop beat blares in our ears.

First, the sound alone shocks her. Her spine snaps straight, and she flattens her palm against her ear. Then, as she continues to listen, probably not understanding a word of the English but recognizing it’s a woman singing, her jaw drops.

I laugh and start bouncing on the bed along with the music. My shoulders shimmy, and my head swings. I grab a hairbrush microphone and mouth the words of the song. Less’s eyes follow my dancing, and she stiffly bops her head.

After a couple minutes, I press stop.

No need to send the poor girl into shock.

She slowly removes the earbud and hands it to me, her gaze glued to my iPod. “Enlighten me, cousin, on what I just heard. How was
that
—” she asks, her voice growing in volume as she points to where I’m wrapping the buds around the iPod, “—possible? Is there a tiny woman living inside that box?”

I laugh at the image and shove everything back into the bag. “Hardly. It’s how we listen to music in the future. You download what you want onto here and take it wherever you go. What did you think?”

Her eyes sparkle, and she giggles. “It was ever so strange…but delightful!” She pauses and stares at me for several moments, then touches my hand, which is resting on my backpack. “You speak the truth. You
are
from the future.”

Hearing her say she believes me removes the last trace of tension from my chest. I collapse against my pillows in relief. “Yes, I am. But Less, I’m
also
an Angeli. That part’s true. I’m still your cousin, just a little further removed than you thought.”

Alessandra laughs, and together we share a smile.

A loud
clank
outside the door makes us both jump. I leap off the bed, wide eyed. “Do you think someone’s out there?”

If anyone overheard our conversation, it could be disastrous. I throw open my door in time to see Lucia scamper around the corner. At my feet is a silver tray of fruit.

“Someone must have noticed your spectacular performance of shoving food around your plate at supper,” Alessandra says, appearing beside me. She bends down and picks up the tray. “
Perhaps they thought you would enjoy a snack.”