My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century

by Rachel Harris

  “Any more theater dreams since your fabulous performance yesterday?”

  The familiar blush creeps up her neck, and she checks to see if Niccolo is listening. “Shh!” she scolds. “I doubt Signor di Rialto would approve of our behavior in the meadow.”

  She gnaws on her lip, genuinely looking scared to death.

  I can’t help but smile at her nervous tizzy and tease her a bit more. Laying on the unruly twenty-first-century accent that always rattles her, I say, “Nah, old Nicky boy? I’m sure he’d be down with it. Maybe we should tell him and see if he’d join us next time.”

  I learn forward as if to ask, and she grabs my face between her palms. We stop walking, and Niccolo turns around, finally realizing we’re not right behind him. In a tight voice Alessandra whispers, “Pray tell me you are mocking me for your own enjoyment and do not intend to carry through with that ridiculous proposal!”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes,” I tell her through squished lips. “I was teasing you. Now unless you plan to kiss me, can you kindly let go of my face?”

  “Oh!” she says, patting my cheeks softly. Her turned-down eyes remind me of a sad puppy. “I am so sorry. I do not know what came over me, acting in such a manner.”

  Looping an arm around her waist, I lean my head against her shoulder and start walking again. “Relax, it was funny. I teased you; you reacted. It’s what friends do.”

  Honestly, I don’t have much life experience to back up that claim, but it’s what I’ve gotten from mass media.

  A beautiful smile breaks across her face as she loops her arm around me. “Friends, cousins, and sisters,” she clarifies in that happy, animated voice I’ve grown accustomed to.

  As we turn into the Piazza della Signoria, she glances at Niccolo again and opens her mouth to say something but closes it when I abruptly freeze.

  Michelangelo’s David is a mere hundred feet in front of me.

  Niccolo walks up and smiles at my slack jaw. “Are you ready to see the sculpture, Signorina?” he asks, offering me his arm. I latch on, excitement electrifying my veins. Next to kissing Lorenzo, this is definitely the coolest thing that’s happened since I entered this time warp.

  Alessandra slips her hand through Niccolo’s other crooked elbow, and the three of us walk to the statue.

  The piazza is the city’s art center. The scent of oil-based paint permeates the air, and if I listen carefully, I can hear the faint sounds of sculptors hammering bronze or chipping marble. Just being here, breathing the same air as the artists I idolize, is an inspiration overload. The square itself boasts beautiful sculptures from world-famous artists, none more striking than Donatello’s gilded bronze Judith and Holofernes in front of me.

  The sun hits the sword Judith raises high in victory, while the head of her enemy rests in her other hand. The image is powerful; the way it shines in the sunlight, breathtaking. But it still doesn’t hold a candle to my man David.

  I pad up to the statue, marveling at the pristine beauty. The marble is new and clean, with zero signs of damage or deterioration. It’s absolutely perfect. I go into an art trance and lose all track of time until I hear heavy footsteps walk up behind me. Assuming it must be Niccolo—Alessandra is too dainty to clomp—and without taking my eyes off the sculpture, I ask him, “Did you know that while Michelangelo obviously intended for David to be staring at Goliath, by placing it facing this direction, he’s also threatening Rome?”

  He doesn’t say anything, and after a few more moments, I continue spouting my wisdom.

  “Look at how his right leg is tense and supporting him while the left one is bent like a warrior’s. His furrowed forehead perfectly shows how he’s facing incredible odds, yet his nostrils are flared and his eyes are fierce, showing no fear. Look at the veins in his hands and feet, the cords of his neck, the folds of skin on his upper thighs. Did you know Michelangelo wasn’t even the first artist to use this hunk of marble? Dude, he was a genius.”

  “Am I not still a genius, Signorina?” a deep, unfamiliar voice asks behind me in lilting Italian.

  No. Freaking. Way.

  I turn slowly, take in the hand Alessandra’s slapped over her mouth and Niccolo’s cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, and stare at the bearded man standing behind me.

  “You are quite perceptive. Has someone taught you about my sculpture?”

  My sculpture.

  The man standing in front of me is Michelangelo. He’s looking at me. Talking to me. Waiting for an intelligent response from me.

  The world goes fuzzy, and I sit down in the middle of the square. Niccolo rushes to my side, then looks to see if anyone is watching. “Patience, are you ill?” He rests a cool hand on my forehead. “You are quite pale.”

  I wet my parched lips and manage a dazed head bob.

  “Then let me assist you to your feet,” he says, putting his hands under my arms and gently lifting me up.

  I smile weakly at Alessandra, who stares back like I suddenly have two heads. I squint in confusion and explain, “I’m fine, really. Just got a little dizzy. Must be the heat.”

  Yeah, the one that’s hiding behind that chill in the air.

  Michelangelo tilts his head and studies me, probably wondering how a girl could know so much about a relatively new artwork. The truth is that many someones taught me about David. Mr. Scott at school, and the contributors and authors of the stacks of art books resting on my shelf at home. But I can’t tell him that.

  “No, Signore,” I finally manage to choke out, biting my lip. “No one taught me. Your work is just so flawless, anyone could pick up these things.” I look back at David, still not believing this conversation is happening. “And I have a feeling this sculpture’s gonna be celebrated for centuries.”

  “From your mouth to Signore’s ears,” he says. Then he bows, nods at Niccolo, and walks away. I watch him disappear into a nearby building before turning to Niccolo.

  “You did that, didn’t you?” I watch him puff up his chest, and I say, “I knew it! Are you friends with him?”

  “As your uncle said, I am a patron of the arts. I enjoy surrounding myself with beautiful things, and I know many artists. Michelangelo is one of the artists of my acquaintance, and I thought to surprise you with a meeting. A well-met surprise, I pray?”

  The look he gives me says he knows exactly how “well-met” it was. Still, I can’t help but grin. What he just did was beyond amazing, an experience I’m easily going to remember for the rest of my life.

  I stand on tiptoe and throw my arms around his neck. “Are you kidding? That rocked!”

  He stiffens in surprise, then wraps his arms around my waist. “I am glad you are pleased, Signorina.”

  I step back, too happy to worry about hugging a man in public and making yet another mistake, and say, “Seriously, that may be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you.”

  Smiling, I glance at Alessandra and notice the two-headed look she gave me before has now morphed into a three-headed one. Her eyes are as big as saucers, and her jaw is almost to the ground.

  As I stare back, cold dread washes over me.

  Something about the look in her eye tells me this isn’t simply a reaction to my latest cultural screwup or about meeting a local celebrity. This look goes deeper than that. There’s actual fear in her eyes—and it’s directed at me.

  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 s
omeone 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 al
cohol 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.”