My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (9 page)

I toss a nervous smile over my shoulder, looking for any hint that he suspects something. What I get is worried looks up at the sky, now completely covered with swollen black clouds. Clearly he’s got things on his mind—and my tattoo and what it may represent aren’t one of them. I turn back in relief.

My secret’s safe.

For now.

Chapter Eight

As it turns out, I was right about losing track of time under the waterfall. When Lorenzo and I finally made it back to the carriage, it was nearly sundown. And that’s when I discovered an interesting tidbit I had not yet known about Renaissance Florence: the city has a curfew, along with ten guarded gates that get slammed shut at sunset. Apparently if you’re found wandering the streets inside the gates after curfew, you get to spend the night in jail. And if you find yourself outside the gates when they’re bolted, you’re stuck up a creek until sunrise.

Another noteworthy detail is that being locked out isn’t that big of a deal, as there are plenty of inns outside the walls where the newly homeless can stay until morning. While this alone isn’t shocking, what
is
crazy is that with all the rules and regulations about society and sumptuary laws, and keeping classes in their places, the owner of the inn we stopped at had no qualms about giving us a room for the four of us to share.

I, on the other hand, have qualms galore. And they all center on one hot boy who’ll be sleeping on the floor next to the very bed I’ll be in, where I’ll most likely be dreaming of him.

Fan-freaking-tastic
.

I glance over at Lorenzo as he works, sucking his lower lip and staring a hole through the paper in concentration. I know that expression well, having seen it on just about every other student in Mr. Scott’s classes the last two years, and occasionally on myself when I attempt a self-portrait. Eyes and mouths are the trickiest things for me to get exactly right, too.

Lorenzo looks up and grins, then puts his head back down, hand flying across the paper.

Our driver, acting as our chaperone since Cipriano and Alessandra are at dinner downstairs, shifts uncomfortably from his perch near the door. I offer him a smile. I
would
offer him a seat, but besides the one mattress, the only other option is the floor.

“Cat.”
Lorenzo’s voice is laced with exasperation, but hearing my name still sends a secret thrill through me. He knows to only use it in private, but I doubt our crabby old driver is gonna say anything.

I turn my face back to Lorenzo and correct my pose. “Sorry.” I pause. “Again.”

His lips tense, and his strokes appear to gain momentum. A stab of guilt hits me. It’s not that he’s taking too long. I’m an artist—I understand how much time these things can take. My inability to sit still has nothing to do with him and everything to do with
me
.

When I was growing up, whenever my mother did something scandalous
, I could almost guarantee there’d be a few paparazzi stalkers sitting outside my house or my school, waiting to get the most pathetic picture they could find. It took me years to stop buying the magazines and tabloids, to stop obsessing over the comments and criticism about my appearance.

And that was just a group of strangers looking at a crappy picture—not a hot guy I’m kinda/sorta/okay, a lot into, sketching me in intricate detail with a pen.

“It is almost finished.”

Stifling my sigh of relief, I smile encouragingly. “I know it’s gonna be amazing. I can’t wait to see it.”

That part is true. I’m dying to see Lorenzo’s work in any form, even if I am the subject.

He looks up from the page, and we lock eyes. His drawing hand stills, and his teeth sink into his lower lip as his eyes roam over me. Even from this distance, several feet away, I can see they’re darker. The same dark-chocolate shade they were in the meadow, when his eyes trailed over me like this before. And just like then, I
feel
beautiful.

When Lorenzo brought his art supplies up from the carriage with him and suggested I pose, my jaw nearly dropped to the floor. So did Cipriano’s. I was imagining Rose and Jack from
Titanic,
and while obviously he hadn’t seen the movie, I think Cipriano was pretty much picturing the same thing. So when Lorenzo and I both didn’t want to go down for dinner, Cipriano made our driver come up to “guard my virtue.” But honestly, he should’ve trusted his friend more. I’m posed leaning across the bed, one arm bent to support my weight, my head slightly tilted.

And I’m fully clothed.

But then again, the way Lorenzo’s looking at me over his sketchpad, and the way my insides are turning to complete mush as my skin forms a third-degree burn, maybe we did need that virtue protection, after all.

“Ahem.”

We break eye contact, and I grin at our driver. Lorenzo looks at the sketch, takes a step back, and then rubs his neck. He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs with force. He folds his arms across his chest and says, “It is complete.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he looks as if he wants to take them back. But I jump up, wiggle my joints, and haul butt to his side before he can change his mind. Giggling at his look of terror, I jump over the ransacked picnic basket and skitter to a stop in front of the picture.

My hand flutters to my mouth.

I take a step closer, admiring his technique, the use of contrast and his hatch marks, and as I stare in amazement at the girl in Lorenzo’s ink portrait, I learn two things.

The first is that if beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder, I want the world to see me the way he does. Every flaw, every imperfection that I hate about myself has been made beautiful through his eyes and with his hand. The sketch manages to both look like me and like a gorgeous stranger at the same time, but I know it’s not his creative interpretation. It’s how he honestly sees me. It’s as obvious as his signature in the corner, in the way he composed it, the way he used the strokes, the areas he highlighted.

I trace the page with my fingers, not wanting to touch the ink but needing to feel closer to the work he’s created.

Lorenzo coughs and shuffles his feet.

“Lorenzo, you
need
to be an artist.”

He stops all his nervous gestures and searches my eyes. He grins. “You are pleased with it, then?”

A slow smile creeps up my face, and I nod. “Very much so.”

Then the pit of my stomach completely drops out. My pulse races, and my spine locks in fear as I finally admit to myself the other thing I’ve learned from staring at Lorenzo’s artwork.

I’m starting to fall for him.

…

“I
told
you he was an impressive artist,” Alessandra whispers in my ear, crawling over to my side of the hay-stuffed mattress. “That day in the piazza, before you even met, I told you, did I not?”

I stare blankly into the darkness and nod weakly. “Indeed you did.”

She leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. “And I am always right. Now I bid you good evening. I shall dream of evil hags and magic kisses tonight.” She giggles and rolls back to her side of the bed, leaving me alone in my upside-down world.

Alessandra did tell me Lorenzo was talented. She even warned me to be careful, letting me know from the beginning how girls have a habit of falling all over themselves when it comes to him. And when I told
her
I wasn’t interested and set out to prove I’d be the one girl immune to his player charms, she laughed at me.

Maybe Alessandra’s part gypsy, too.

My stomach flutters, and I instinctually place my hand over my sliced-pear tattoo. Letting
anyone
besides Dad get close to me was never a part of my life plan. I’ve seen what it does, the pain it can cause. But now it’s happening anyway, and not just with Lorenzo. Alessandra, Cipriano, my aunt and uncle… Loving each of them is like an earthquake—I can feel it; I know the destruction it’ll leave behind and have witnessed previous aftermaths, but I’m powerless to stop it. And the worst part is, I don’t really want to.

Turning onto my side, I shove my hands under my head and replay the last sixty or so hours of my Renaissance life. This experience is making me lose myself; I’m forgetting who I am and where I come from. Earlier today, the idea of becoming the Cat I always wanted to be was exciting. New and different and harmless. But after only one day, it’s already causing casualties.

I wiggle one leg on the lumpy mattress, trying to smooth down the bunched-up hay under me, and scratch the other one. I’m trying not to think about how clean these sheets really are or what kind of things could be living inside the mattress. But then maybe thinking of invisible bedbugs can distract me from what waits for me in the morning.

When I open my eyes tomorrow, there’s every chance in the world that I’ll be back in my plush, clean bed in the hotel room, back in my own time. This afternoon I helped Alessandra live her dream—and in the process rose above a few of my mommy issues. I embraced what may very well be the only good thing about Caterina Angeli besides her Italian heritage—her theatrical side. And maybe that’s all I needed to do. Maybe the powers that be will shrug and say, “Eh, good enough. Off you go now,” and transport me back to the twenty-first century, back to the land of shopping malls and technology and lots and lots of smog.

My throat closes, and I swallow past the pressure. I know that’s where I need to be. My life is there, my dad is there, and who knows what havoc I could create if I stay here too long. But the thought rips at me, leaving a jagged, brutal hole. I have family
here
now, too. A kind—if somewhat quiet—uncle and an exuberant aunt, both of who welcomed me into their home and lives without question. But even more importantly, I have two cousins who’ve actually become my friends, and I’m gonna miss them like crazy if and when I do go home.

Not to mention Lorenzo.

I squeeze my eyes shut at the tearing sensation inside my chest and throw my arm out, letting it dangle off the mattress near the spot where Lorenzo lay down hours ago. Just holding it somewhere over his sleeping body helps the ache lessen by a degree.

Then a strong hand clamps over mine, and my eyes pop open. I can’t see him in the darkness, but I feel him as he interlaces our fingers and gently squeezes. The hole inside me closes, and a warm peace fills me instead.

Holding onto Lorenzo’s hand like an anchor, I scoot closer to the edge of the bed—closer to him. And as his fingers begin to draw lazy patterns on the back of my hand, coaxing me to sleep, I grip his hand tighter in mine, scared to death it’ll be empty in the morning.

Chapter Nine

I awake the next morning, fresh from a dream of Lorenzo’s lips, and find his hand still clamped around mine. I grin as I take in my sixteenth-century surroundings and place my other hand on top of his, sandwiching it between mine. Keeping him attached to me as long as I can.

Last night, before I fell asleep, I promised myself that if I woke up in this uncomfortable bed, I’d make the most of every minute I have left. No regrets. And if that means letting people close to me, having friendships, and exploring whatever feelings I have for Lorenzo, then so be it. It’s not like I have delusions that it can last.

One day, I
am
going to wake up or somehow magically transport back to my own century and leave all of them behind. And until that day comes, I can either do what I’ve always done—push people away and guard my heart like Fort Knox—or I can choose to use this impossible situation to experience what I can’t back home. And then hold onto the memories when I’m left alone again.

The first glimpses of daylight break through the small window, but I’m the only one awake. Cipriano’s sonorous musical stylings are still going on across the room, and next to me Alessandra’s soft sighs and smacking lips let me know she’s knocked out, too—dreaming of food or kissing, I’m not quite sure.

I bite the inside of my cheek and contemplate climbing down beside Lorenzo. Not to do anything scandalous, just for a little cuddle time. Another memory to file away. But the second I get the nerve to throw a leg over the side of the bed, Alessandra’s eyes pop open—probably saving Cipriano from a mild coronary.

“Morning!”

Along with killing my game, her high-pitched, bubbly voice serves as a wake-up call for the guys, too. Cipriano springs to his feet and throws on his doublet, ready to roll. Lorenzo, on the other hand, takes a more casual approach to the waking process. He languidly gets up from his prone position, rolls his shoulders, and yawns. Then he stretches his toned arms over his head, and his thin linen shirt rises, exposing a strip of smooth washboard abs.

Yum.

Cipriano heads downstairs to talk with our driver, and Alessandra saunters to the window, tossing me a pointed look and a suggestive waggle of her shoulder. With medieval rules of propriety, this is as close to privacy as we’re gonna get. Lorenzo and I stare at each other.

Gnawing on my lip, I look up at him through lowered lashes, suddenly feeling shy for the first time in my life. I’ve always been uncomfortable with scrutiny and hated any kind of focused attention, not to mention what a total and absolute spaz I am around guys—but I’ve never been
shy
.

Or I should say, I’ve never been shy before I met Lorenzo. There’s just something about this guy that makes me completely abandon my belief system and instead act as giddy as those annoying twits in chick flicks—and approximately twice as dopey.

Lorenzo rubs a hand over his messy curly hair and gives me a sleepy grin. “Good morning.”

I feel the pull of a huge old cheesy smile plastering itself on my face. “Good morning, yourself.”

His gaze dips to my hand, the one he held all night, and I feel heat spread up my arm and straight to my cheeks. We are only a foot away from each other, a few little steps, but it feels like an ocean apart after last night. I tuck my hair behind my ear and glance down briefly at the floor before forcing my gaze back to his. Lorenzo takes a step closer. Then the door to our room swings open.

Cipriano marches in, rubbing his hands, and then stops abruptly, transferring his scrutinizing gaze between the two of us. The distant ringing of bells floats through the open window, and he announces, “The gates of the city just opened.”

Choosing to ignore the big brother/protector vibe rolling off Cipriano, I look around our empty room and realize we don’t really have anything to pack. Alessandra grabs the now-empty picnic basket, Lorenzo gathers his art supplies, and I carefully roll up my picture. With a last look at the room, I follow the group down the stairs and into the waiting carriage.

At the city’s gates, we fall in line behind a row of farmers bringing their vegetables and crops to sell in the crowded market. The sun is still creeping over the landscape, painting the sky in rich shades of orange, pink, and purple. I love this time of day, when God uses the sky as his own personal canvas. I’ve never really been that religious—the only time I’ve been to a service is when my grandparents took me in Mississippi—but the sky at sunrise and sunset has always been my church.

I rest my head on the open window, soaking up the beauty and wishing I’d brought my camera for a covert shot, and Lorenzo’s foot nudges mine. Without looking over, I know he’s watching out his own window, marveling the same way.

Once inside the gates, our carriage rolls through empty cobbled streets, devoid of the usual chaotic hustle and bustle I’ve already grown accustomed to over the last few days. From across the carriage, Lorenzo rubs his foot alongside mine. I shake my head in a silent laugh, my eyes never straying from his, and smile like an idiot for so long my face actually starts to hurt. Cipriano grunts and jabs Lorenzo with an elbow, wearing his responsible guardian role with flair as he moves his eyes between us. And next to me, Alessandra grins and looks about as happy as Jenna when she, well, does pretty much anything.

At the Cappelli palazzo, Lorenzo climbs down, making sure to hook his fingers in mine before he gets out. I ride the rest of the way on the bumpy roads with the feeling of floating.

As our carriage passes through the arched doorway of my current home, I suddenly wonder whether Aunt Francesca has been worried. Locked outside the gate until now means no word was sent that we were safe at the inn. Alessandra waves away my concern.

“Ours is hardly the first excursion caught on the other side of the gate. Our extended stay may not have been expected, but it was not cause for alarm.”

Sure enough, when we walk up the stairs, breakfast is waiting for us, along with a smiling, calm Aunt Francesca.

Well, as close to calm as she gets, anyway.

She ushers us into the room and kisses each of our cheeks as we make a mad dash to load our plates. “I want to know everything that has happened since I last saw you. Did you have many adventures in the countryside? Were the inns full, or was it easy to obtain a room?” She pauses for a nanosecond and waves her hands impatiently. “This house has been too quiet in your absence. I need details!”

The three of us look at one another, wearing matching grins as we think about our impromptu production, my scandalous waterfall swim, our getting caught in the rain, and my making us miss curfew.

“It was just another day in the country, Mother,” Cipriano says, before biting into a large hunk of bread. He chews and swallows, then adds, “And as for obtaining the room, it was easy peasy.”

Aunt Francesca’s forehead and nose wrinkle in extreme confusion, and Cipriano catches my eye across the table and winks.

I hide my laugh behind a cough and look down to my plate, impressed. Not only did he remember the expression, he even used it right. I know I need to do a better job of watching my mouth and trying to blend in, but I can’t help being amused at the idea of my expressions catching on and finding their way into classic literature. A snort escapes as I imagine Heathcliff in
Wuthering Heights
saying Hindley “choked the big one.”

After breakfast, we all split up, the rest of the house off to do whatever it is they do to amuse themselves without television, computers, or video games, and me to my room to relax with my creature comforts from back home. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed hanging out with my relatives, but I’m a loner by nature and need some quiet time.

Back in my room, I carefully place Lorenzo’s drawing in my chest, then sink to the floor for my backpack. I glance over to ensure the door is closed and dive inside for my iPod. I shove in my earbuds and hit shuffle, and as Rihanna blares in my ears, I throw myself across the bed and flip open a battered copy of
US Weekly
.

Skimming over the
Who Wore It Best
section and the Hollywood gossip that’s completely wrong and out-of-date anyway, I stop at a write-up about Dad’s latest blockbuster. The picture is from last month’s premiere, and it shows him with his arm around Jenna. In the corner of the picture, if I squint, I think I can make out my right elbow.

This
isn’t
a complaint. The fact that I avoided the paparazzi shot may make it the one and only time I’ve been okay with Jenna squeezing me out.

I look back at Dad’s happy face, and a jolt of homesickness shoots through me. For the first time since all of this started, I stop and wonder what’s going on back home. When I left, did time freeze, or is he frantically searching for me in the future? Has Jenna flipped her pancake because she can’t ride my coattails onto MTV?

Does he even miss me?

As soon as I think it, I know it’s unfair. Of course Dad misses me. If time is ticking along normally back home, then he’s probably out of his mind with worry—and feeling guilty for letting me go off on my own.

Wanting to stay here is selfish. My feelings for Lorenzo and my relationship with my cousins are nothing compared to my relationship with my dad. Until recently, it’s always been the two of us against the world—almost quite literally, when you throw in the tabloids.

But as guilty as I feel for what he may be going through right now, I honestly have no idea how to get back. It’s not like there was a
Handbook to Gypsy Transportation
waiting for me upon arrival. The only clue I do have is to keep my mind open for some kind of lesson, whatever that means.

Dad’s face continues to beam up at me from the page as the weight of guilt presses down, heavy and stifling. I rip out my earbuds and shove everything back into my bag, struggling to breathe as the dizzying walls seem to close in around me.

I’ve spent the past few days doing nothing but thinking about adventure, boys, and kisses while Dad’s been stuck in the future, wondering if I’m even alive. The thought nearly doubles me over, and I run to the garderobe. As I lean close to the hole, my free hand clamped over my mouth and nose to block the horrific smell, I remember how happy I was to wake up this morning, still here.

I am a horrible, horrible human being.

Eventually my queasiness subsides, and I hobble back to the bed on shaky legs.

There’s nothing I can do to get home quicker, short of begging the universe for a crib sheet on this elusive lesson to learn—and clinging to a bedpost and feeling guilty to the point of nausea is not gonna help me get back to Dad. I need to focus on something else. I need to find a distraction.

I need to get out of this freaking room.

I race to the door and throw it open but hesitate in the hall with no idea where to go. Ever since I arrived, I’ve had an Alessandra-sized shadow with me at all times. I guess I could go up to her room, but she has an eerie way of reading me too well. The second she opens her door, she’ll ask what’s wrong. And what can I say?

Um, yeah, Less, you know all those weird and crazy things I keep saying and doing? Turns out I’m not nuts—I’m just from the future, and right now, I’m really feeling homesick. By any chance, do you know of any gypsies hanging around here?

For some reason, I don’t think she’d react to that very well.

Nope, I’m on my own. I glance to the left and then to the right, wondering which direction I should take. Turning left will lead me to the main living areas of the house: the dining room, the atrium, and the stairs down to the courtyard. And on the right lies the great unknown. It’s been almost seventy-two hours since I first set foot in this ginormous mansion, and I’ve yet to take the grand tour. Now seems to be as good a time as any. I go right.

Not counting the ground floor and courtyard, the palace is three stories tall. As I wander down the never-ending hallways, my arms wrapped tightly across my chest, I manage to only get turned around a few times—which is saying something, considering each floor has pretty much the same décor. Brightly painted frescoes are everywhere, adding vibrant color and warmth, and thick, luxurious tapestries make the expansive rooms seem more intimate. Beautiful, soft rugs whisper beneath my feet, and long, silky, scarlet damask curtains hang in every room. The whole house really is an artist’s dream, and I run my hands along the cool stone walls covered in thick plaster, trying to muster up the appropriate amount of enthrallment.

Melodic trickling from the courtyard fountain drifts through the countless open windows, and I lean against one overlooking the street. Inhaling the delicate sweetness of the iris garden on the sill and watching the flowers dance in the autumn breeze help the pain in my chest to lessen—until I look down and see two boys engaged in a mock duel with swords. An image flashes in my mind of a similar scene from one of Dad’s military action films, and I push away from the window.

On the third floor, I get odd looks from the servants. This is where the kitchens and servant quarters are located, supposedly because it’s the most convenient for dispelling the heat. That may be true, but I still think it seems
inconvenient
to have to carry all the food down two whole floors. But what do I know? I’m no space planner.

Peering inside the kitchen, I spot a dark head. I rush inside, hurrying past the huge fireplace and the worktables where the cooks are preparing our midday dinner, looking for Lucia.

If I can actually get her to talk, maybe she’ll be the diversion I need.

Dozens of servants dart about the room, all of them dressed in the same drab uniform Lucia wears, but I don’t see her among them. What I do see is a slab of meat on a spit turning above a three-legged pot in the fireplace and people cutting vegetables, sifting flour, and kneading bread. One of the cooks grinds herbs with a mortar and pestle, and in the corner, I spot one of those contraptions used to churn butter.

As much as Dad loves to cook, I doubt he’d enjoy it with this ancient setup.