A Tale of Two Centuries msssc-2

by Rachel Harris

  If this is the start of my gypsy adventure, I believe I am quite ready for it to end.

  A person dressed from head to toe in red and blue with a giant spider emblazoned on his chest walks past, followed by a man wearing all black and a flowing cape. I gawk at a huge man painted green. Is this the future or a strange, altered world?

  On the fringe of the square, closer to the bustling road, a flash of crimson catches my eye. I waggle my head around the ever-moving crowd and spot a woman in a long, flowing surcoat.

  Finally, someone like me.

  A man holding a bright yellow sign leads a long line of people between us, and anxiety pulses through me. I cannot lose her. Pushing through the crowd, my weak apologies swallowed in the commotion, I fly past maidens sprawled on the dirty ground posing with various handprints. Clicks from boxes like the one Cat called a camera go off on either side of me. The chunks of gray ground give way to a smooth strip of road oddly marked with stars, and I stretch out my hand to reach the woman, the tips of my fingers just snagging her right sleeve. “Pardon me.”

  She turns and eyes me strangely, glancing at my tight grip on her gown, and I hastily let go, rubbing my fingers together at the unusual feel of the fabric. “I am sorry,” I say before clearing my throat. How do I ask this without appearing completely mad? “It was my hope that you could perchance tell me where I am?”

  The woman, dressed as I should be, bestows upon me a sweet smile. I am surprised to see her teeth lined with shiny metal. In a noticeably unnatural accent, she replies, “Ah, dearie, behold the world-famous TCL Chinese Theatre.”

  Despite hearing the word theater, my hopes of rescue plummet. This woman is not like me, after all. She is an impostor.

  Heaving a sigh, I turn around to behold the madness from whence I came.

  It is not as splendid as the woman believes.

  Towering buildings across the street capture my attention. A white sign sitting atop one proclaims it as the Roosevelt Hotel, and opposite me, past where all sorts of strange carriages seem to fly over a paved road, a colossal structure houses a variety of merchants. I smile at the happy orange Hooters, finding it an odd but intriguing location for an owl shop, and then pause at American Apparel.

  The woman remains beside me, watching me curiously. I ask her, “And the city in which this famous theater resides?”

  My question elicits a slight waver in the woman’s pretend smile. “Why, Hollywood, of course.”

  It takes a moment for the foreign word to sink in. But when it does, the weight of fear and anxiety that has nearly crushed me from the moment I discovered Reyna gone lifts, and relief streams in like a glorious sunrise.

  Hollywood.

  Cat spoke often about this land of actors and actresses, plays, and movies. Her satchel contained glossy portraits of such things and a device that allowed me to witness one of her father’s films.

  Now understanding that the woman’s use of a false accent marks her as an actress, I curtsy in awe. “Yes, Hollywood. Of course.” I wiggle my fingers in anticipation and ask one final, important question. “And pray, can you tell me what century we are currently in?”

  She fists her hands on her hips and tilts her head, now abandoning her role altogether. “Honey, are you all right? Do you need some water or something?”

  I shake my head, impatient for her answer. Cat never confided the exact year she was from, but I know the era. And if by chance Reyna sent me to my cousin’s time, it is possible I could have a helpmeet through this worrisome journey of the unknown.

  The woman scrunches her nose, and when she replies, her voice is high-pitched and questioning, as if she herself is not quite sure of the answer. “The twenty-first?”

  Just as I dared to hope.

  I clap my hands and do a little dance, enjoying the comfort of the peculiar slippers on my feet. Reyna’s cryptic message flashes in my mind, as though the very words are floating in the air, and I grin so wide it hurts.

  Alessandra, the adventure that you seek is full of possibilities. But always remember where your real strength lies.

  Cat’s time is a time of opportunity, freedom, and passion—a world full of possibility.

  And now I am here, too.

  Overcome with emotion, I throw my arms around the woman’s neck and kiss her ruddy cheek. She pats me awkwardly and leans back, a wobbly smile on her face. “And you’re sure you’re all right?”

  Looking at the world around me with new eyes, I nod emphatically. “I am perfectly and wonderfully happy. Thank you for asking.”

  A beep blares from the frenetic road, and the woman bobs her head toward the sound. “That your ride, honey?”

  A disgruntled man waves his hand from inside a yellow horseless carriage, then pins me with an annoyed gaze. “Meter’s running, lady. Done enough sightseeing yet?”

  With a glance behind me to confirm no one is there, I point to myself. “Are you referring to me, sir?”

  He exchanges a look with the actress beside me that I cannot read, and the woman smothers a grin. She pushes me toward the carriage. “It is warm for January. Maybe it’s best you get along home now and rest.”

  Though the word home sounds comforting, the idea of getting inside the modern form of transportation is positively terrifying. I clench my fists, and Reyna’s missive crinkles. I swallow. “I-I believe I was told you would take me where I needed to go,” I say hesitantly.

  I slide him the visibly trembling note through the open window, and he yanks it from my fingers. He reads it, scowls, and juts his thumb at the back of the carriage. “So? You getting in or what?”

  I frown. The future appears filled with unpleasant people whose manner of speaking is even stranger—and more improper—than my cousin’s was.

  The woman squeezes my shoulders and mutters a good-bye. Determined not to give way to feelings of desertion, I stare at the door and wait for the coachman to come around and help me in. When he merely settles deeper into his seat and a footman fails to appear, I realize he expects me to get in by myself.

  Well, then. Perhaps chivalry cannot exist in a world of female equality, I ponder, studying the unfamiliar frame of the carriage. But if women of this time can do this, so can I.

  How hard can it be?

  Lifting my head high, I run my hands along the cool, solid frame. I cannot find a door pull. I press harder against the metal and scratch at the glass window to no avail, then squat to study the apparatus closer. My driver sighs from the front.

  I choose to ignore his ill manners.

  On closer inspection, I discover a hand-sized metal indentation. The intricate detail is impressive, a truly modern marvel. With a triumphant grin at my discovery, I curl my fingers around it and yank. My reward is a gratifying creak.

  “Aha! Figured it out,” I proclaim, climbing onto the springy, cracked seat.

  My coachman does not appear sufficiently impressed.

  The cloth inside the carriage reeks with a disharmonious blend of sweat, food, and something undefinable, and the floor where I place my feet is filthy. But neither the coachman’s aloofness nor the unappetizing smell and dirt surrounding me can quell my pleasure.

  I am well on my way to acclimating to this strange new world. My cousin would be so proud.

  Keeping my back straight so as not to lean against the seat, I watch the man turn a dial, causing the music pouring from the front of the carriage to increase to an uncomfortable level. He grips a tattered wheel with both hands and looks to the left. The carriage lurches with a sudden powerful jerk. My head slams into the greasy window.

  My pleasure dampens.

  A shrill shriek emanates from below our carriage, and we advance with a jolt, moving faster than should be humanly possible. I brace my right arm against the dank seat in front of me and clench the stinky cloth of the seat behind.

  “Sir, must we travel so fast?”

  The coachman meets my gaze in the mirror above his head and rolls his eyes. I lick my lips a
nd try again, raising my voice to be heard over his dreadful music. “Surely this is unsafe! Kindly remember you have a lady as a passenger.”

  If it is possible, the horseless carriage actually gains speed. Deciding it best not to antagonize the man any further, I clamp my jaw and watch as my cousin’s world flies past my window in a dizzying blur of confusing gadgets, scary transportation, and indecent clothing. I hold on for dear life.

  Chapter Four

  What feels like hours later—but what is probably much shorter—the stomach-roiling ride ends. Exactly how long we careened through the hazy streets of Hollywood I cannot say. I was too busy keeping the contents of my stomach off the already grubby floor and doing my best not to notice the distressing speed, sights, or creeptastic sounds of the future.

  After the first few minutes within the flying carriage, I fastened my eyelids shut and centered my thoughts on Cat, praying as my body jerked back and forth that her home was our final destination. And as we now roll to a stop, it is with a heavy heart that I slowly crack my eyes open to take a peek. A large, pointed gate sits in front of us, a swirling letter C inscribed in its center.

  Joy floods me. If he were not so vile, I would kiss my maniacal coachman.

  Crawford.

  Cat’s last name is Crawford.

  Before the notion is even fully thought, I yank the metal handle and throw open my door. Peeling my feet off the sticky floor, I practically leap from my seat, eager to feel solid ground beneath me again. Beyond the gate, a two-story white building looms tall and proud, and instinctively I know my cousin waits inside. I take a step toward it.

  “That’s gonna be twenty bucks, lady.”

  And lurch to a stop.

  The man extends an open palm, and his meaning becomes clear. “Ah, yes.” I pat my shiver-inducing trousers and shove my hands inside a pair of pockets I find on either side. I am certain that I do not have any bucks on my person as even one such animal would hardly fit in the carriage with us, but perhaps fate has left me with something. Then I pause. “Twenty, you say?”

  In my time, twenty florins could buy a home. Things have certainly changed in the last five hundred years.

  When my hands leave my pockets empty, I am not surprised. Mama never allowed me to carry florins in town, and it appears as though I am fresh out of any bucks. The coachman’s eyes narrow disdainfully, and I chomp down on my lip. “L-Let me just step inside and get that for you.”

  The gentleman—if that term even applies—watches, suspicious, as I stagger to a small gate off to the side. If this is not Cat’s home, then I can only hope it belongs to a benevolent stranger with currency to spare.

  I hesitantly close the gate behind me and cross the paved ground to the front door. Lines string across the sky from wooden posts, and two glass-encased torches glow from the exterior walls. I have no idea what any of it is, but it is all extremely fascinating.

  I lift a hand to knock on the red-painted door and spot a small, circular torch embedded into the stone. Just like the larger torch affixed above it, the blazing flame somehow remains contained within, and before I can think, before the possible consequences of touching fire can spring to mind, I extend a finger and press. Fortunately, the surface is cool and does not burn—but as the torch sinks into the stone and a series of dings rings out, I snatch my hand back as if it had.

  From inside, I hear the rhythmic clacking of footsteps approach. I push my hair behind my ear, pull down the exceedingly tiny tunic that comes nowhere near my hips, and fretfully tap on my leg.

  The door creaks open…and there stands my beloved cousin.

  Thanks be to Signore above.

  “Alessandra?”

  Cat’s dark brown eyes look as though they want to pop from their sockets. Her mouth gapes, and she shakes her long brown hair as if to clear her head. She looks just as I remember, exactly as she did when I saw her last—except in lieu of the crimson, cut-velvet surcoat she wore then, my cousin has on dark trousers and a loose, flowing tunic. It is much longer than my own. I yank down my top again and meet her startled gaze, and a knot forms in my stomach. As it takes a leisurely path up to lodge in my throat, I cannot help but wonder, Is she pleased to see me?

  It has been two years. Perhaps she wants to keep our time together a happy memory left in the past…or worse, has not missed me at all.

  Forcing a smile on the outside while restlessly twitching within, I say, “Greetings, cousin. I know my unforeseen presence must come as a shock, but I pray the surprise is well met?”

  Cat blinks, either still in awe or severe discomfort, and I twist my fingers together behind my back. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish a few times before she says in a slightly dazed voice, “Well, of course it is. I mean, I’ve missed you sin—” She cuts off and grasps my arm, raking her gaze over me as if she, too, can barely believe this is happening. “Wait, did you just speak English?!”

  Relief pours in, and I laugh aloud, happy and grateful to have a familiar face in the chaos. Pulling her into a hug, I say, “Is that not how gypsy magic works? After all, you do not speak Italian anymore.”

  Cat laughs into my hair. “Touché.”

  I inhale the sweet scent of rose clinging to her skin. Guilt for ever doubting our gypsy girl twinges, but it is hard to hold onto it in the midst of so much happiness.

  After a moment, my cousin pushes me to arm’s length, smiling as she looks over me again. “To answer your question, of course I’m stoked to see you. But how is this even possible?” She shakes her head again. “What in blazing Hades are you doing here, girl?”

  I lift a shoulder and grin. “Is it not obvious? The fates have sent me on a time travel adventure of my own.”

  “Ah, yes. The fates.” Cat smiles, and with an audible exhale, her shoulders visibly lower. “I got a note from Reyna about a half hour ago, telling me to expect some kind of delivery, and I’ve spent the last thirty minutes totally freaking out. I didn’t know what or who was gonna be on the other side of my door, but I have to say—this is my exact brand of gypsy mojo.”

  My cousin’s delightfully strange vocabulary, spoken in her native English, makes me grin like a giddy simpleton. It has been a long time without her.

  As though she can read my mind, Cat’s eyes grow misty, and I feel my own begin to fill. She clears her throat and squeezes my shoulder. “Well, let’s not just stand around gawking on the porch. Get your butt inside, girlfriend.”

  She takes my hand and pulls me back to the open door, but an impatient beep-beep stops us in our tracks. Cat lifts an eyebrow.

  “Ah. That would be the ill-mannered coachman of my yellow horseless carriage. He requires payment for escorting me from the chaotic theater of etched handprints and strange creatures, but I am afraid my new trousers did not come lined with money.” He beeps again. “Any chance you have a deer or goat lying about?”

  A squiggle appears on Cat’s forehead. “Deer or goat?”

  “Hmm, is that not right?” I ask, pulling on my ear. I was almost certain that was what he said. “He informed me the ride was twenty something—I thought he said bucks. Could it have been ducks?” I scrunch my nose. “Are waterfowl a popular currency in the twenty-first century?”

  My cousin’s sudden boisterous laughter is my first clue that I have made a cultural error. The second is the two pieces of green paper emblazoned with the number twenty that she pulls from her pocket.

  Oops.

  When Cat’s merriment ends long enough for her to catch a breath, she says, “No, no waterfowl or mammals. That would be awesome to see, but it’d unfortunately make shopping pretty difficult. Nope, we here in the good ole US of A circa 2013 use cold, hard, boring cash.”

  Her continued giggles trail behind her as she traipses down the paved walk. She hands the cash to the coachman, who in turn gives her a shred of a smile that looks horribly amiss on his disagreeable face. Then he leaves in haste.

  Cat grins as she walks back to where I stand waiting, her
dark eyes surveying my outfit. She throws her arm around my shoulder and says, “You know, I never thought I’d see you in anything so scandalous, Less. Whatever will the neighbors think?”

  …

  Cool air blows from a vent in the ceiling. Cat’s soft mattress sinks below me, and a pleasing aroma wafts from her purple coverlet. A long white pillow lying across a sea of purple declares the bed Heaven…and I have to agree.

  Cat’s room is not what I expected, though truly I had no idea what to imagine. Her walls are a cool shade of green, the wooden floors bare and reflecting the golden light from an array of light fixtures and table lamps (see how well I am learning?) around the room, and a row of glass doors runs along one wall. Her bedchamber is neat and tidy and, surprisingly, not at all shocking.

  My cousin comes out of the huge room she calls a closet, arms folded. “Looks like the extent of my feminine wardrobe, or at least what you’d consider feminine, consists of a handful of fancy premiere dresses, a crazy long skirt Nana got me to wear to church at Christmas, and a frumpy frock that was shoved at the back for God knows why.” Her lip curls in disapproval as she holds out the garment in question, her thumb and forefinger extended as though it were made of poison.

  I actually like it, but I dare not say so.

  “Of course there’s also the dress I wore to my Renaissance-inspired sweet sixteen,” she continues, pulling out a long amethyst gown with clear reluctance.

  I shoot from the bed to grab it, but Cat whisks it behind her.

  “First the rules, Miss Forlani,” she says, eyes twinkling at my new name.

  Once she processed the shock of my arrival, Cat quickly set to work on how my time here should unfold. First on her list was bestowing upon me a new identity. Apparently, if we divulged our familial relationship to anyone, her father would most certainly flip his pancake—whatever that means—so I have been rechristened. I am now Alessandra Forlani, foreign exchange student and budding actress.

  The foreign part certainly fits.