The Kidnapped Smile

by Laurie Woodward

  Pressing his palms into the mattress, Bartholomew tried to keep from bouncing. “All right,” he groaned. “I'm up. I'm up.”

  Both of his friends plopped down on either side of him.

  “It's over, B-three,” Alex said. “We did it.”

  “Cha!” Gwen agreed holding up her hand for a high five.

  Bartholomew started to slap her palm, but the redhead snatched it away. “Hey, you—” Bartholomew's words were cut short when both his friends jumped on his bed again. He laughed. For the first time in months, Bartholomew felt free. The heavy burden of bad grades, getting caught cheating, and the pirate raid faded away.

  Hopping up, he joined in until an angry voice stopped them in mid-jump. “What are you doing?” Michelangelo demanded, both fists jammed into his hips.

  The frozen trio just stared at first, but then Gwen piped up, “We're celebrating. We saved your land, you know.”

  “Mah! Perhaps.” He glared at them and clucked his tongue. “But as such, you could at least respect workmanship. The bed you are romping on was designed for Doge Gritti hundreds of years ago.”

  “Umm … sorry, sir. We didn't know.” Bartholomew apologized, scrambling down.

  “Humph. But you were correct. It is time for a celebration. Venice wishes to honor Mona Lisa's rescuers.”

  In that moment, Leonardo entered. He had a dark robe draped over one arm and held a large bird-like mask with a long-curved nose. Pushing past his old rival, he made his way toward Alex. “Here are your masks for the carnivale. I think you will find an … um … interesting effect when you put them on.” Leonardo suppressed a chuckle.

  Michelangelo approached Bartholomew with another costume. B-three wondered where it came from. He hadn't noticed it before, but he was too abashed to note anything with that crotchety man bellowing.

  “Don these, Deliverer,” Michelangelo said, holding out a tall sugarloaf hat, a pair of loose pants, and a black mask with a hooked nose. “Quickly. The Renaissance nation awaits.”

  Bartholomew took the clown-like pants from Michelangelo and slipped them over his stained slacks. He glanced down at the white fabric ballooning around each leg. Then he slipped his arms into the puffy sleeves and turned to Gwen. “How do I look?”

  “Ridiculous. As usual.” She lifted her eyebrows twice.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don't mention it.”

  Alex put the hat on his head and tied the stays on the robe. He shook his head. “This is spooky. Like some sort of reaper.”

  “Exactly the opposite.” Leonardo chuckled again. “But we will explain shortly. Michelangelo may be gruff, but he is correct when he says people are waiting.” He stroked his long gray beard and grinned broadly at Gwen. “Now for the human girl.” Leonardo put two fingers in his mouth for a high-pitched whistle. Immediately, two painted women in mouthless black masks appeared in the doorway holding some ribbons and a long-ruffled gown between them.

  Gwen took one look at it and held up a hand. “No way. I don't do dresses.”

  “Humans!” Michelangelo raised his arms in exasperation. “Even when it is time to honor them, they argue. Young lady, the customs of Venice dictate girls must dress in female costume for carnivale. Put those on and meet us outside for the celebration.”

  Bartholomew was surprised that Gwen didn't argue. He guessed that even she couldn't stand up to the old grouch. Instead of retorting, she snatched the dress from the closest woman and slipped it over her head.

  “Hey, it doesn't fit,” a wriggling Gwen said when the dress got stuck at her shoulders.

  “You might try removing that…” Michelangelo looked her up and down and cleared his throat. “…ensemble.”

  “But—” Michelangelo's warning step cut her off, and she threw her hands up, told no one to peek, and followed the two masked women behind the silk partition. A rustling of cloth followed by the appearance of a t-shirt and some very stained athletic socks thrown over the screen. “Anybody who laughs gets a punch in the nose,” Gwen said from behind the partition. A red-slippered toe appeared. “I mean it.”

  They didn't laugh; they gasped. In place of a knee-scrape, hair-chopped tomboy stood an elegant young lady. She wore a floor-length gown with a tight bodice and lacy apron. Her red hair was tucked up under a floppy beret. and a black mask covered the bridge of her nose.

  The only thing that made it still look like Gwen was the cuff of her ragged jeans showing just above her slippers. When everyone stared, she gave a sheepish smile and bent over to roll up them up.

  Bartholomew couldn't help but admire her perfectly formed chin and pouting lips. If he'd ever thought about girls, which he hadn't, he would have got a full-on crush right then.

  “Gwen, you're beautiful,” Alex gushed.

  “Shut up. You're making fun of me.” She shook her fist.

  “He's not,” Bartholomew said. “You look like someone in a movie. Like a model or something.”

  Gwen's nose did its rabbit imitation, making her mask twitch up and down. “But I'm not a girly-girl like my mom,” she said. “I'm … different.”

  Leonardo approached behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “Your differences are what saved us. Now, go.” He pointed her toward the doorway and gave her a gentle push. Then he looked over his shoulder at Bartholomew and Alex. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  The boys exchanged a glance and shrugged. After fitting his mask over his face, Bartholomew surveyed his friend's costume. Alex looked like a cross between a short monk and a vulture. The effect was kind of scary. Bartholomew wished he had a mirror. He wondered if he looked like a clown. Of course, they'd give me the goofiest costume. They think I'm a joke.

  Following Leonardo, the group went down the ornate staircase with the gold leaf and stucco figures in the ceiling. The sculptured people above bowed as they passed.

  “Thank you, Deliverers,” they trilled.

  “You're welcome,” mumbled Gwen adjusting her black mask for the seventeenth time.

  Bartholomew smiled and waved, while Alex stared straight ahead.

  Leonardo returned their bows before leading them through a labyrinth of passageways to a huge carved door. “Prepare yourselves,” he said resting an ancient hand on the door jam. “Wonders await.” He pulled on the iron handle, and the door creaked open.

  What an understatement. It was more than wonderful; it was a menagerie. White masked men in tricorn hats and black cloaks ate delicacies from silver trays. Ladies in harlequin dresses with variegated colors chatted, while men in feathered caps and tights volleyed slingshots filled with perfumed eggs. Everywhere, acrobats juggled and magicians tricked amid fire-eaters blowing flames overhead.

  A chariot led by clip-clopping stallions parted the crowd. At the reins, Apollo wore his own carnivale costume. He had leaves in his curly hair, and his stone body was draped in rough patches of fur. Next to him, stood the beautiful Mona Lisa, her gentle smile feeding the crowd.

  Apollo turned his steeds toward them and threw his head back with a howl. “Owoo! I am the wild man.”

  “Owoo!” the revelers repeated.

  “I represent the joy returning to our land.”

  “Owoo!” the crowd howled.

  “The Deliverers not only saved our dear Mona Lisa … they have also driven away that scourge on our seas, Redbeard.”

  The crowd hissed.

  Two lightning bolts flashed from above, revealing Zeus and Hera floating hand-in-hand on a fluffy cloud. As they waved, Hermes zipped around them, his winged sandals glowing like fireflies. All three glided to a landing in front of Apollo's chariot.

  Cheers grew to a frenzy.

  “Let the parade begin!” Zeus thrust a fist upward as Hera beckoned Bartholomew and his friends to join Mona Lisa in Apollo's chariot.

  Alex hopped in quickly, but Gwen who usually was a lithe cheetah, stumbled. After tripping over her dress several times, the groaning girl gathered up the skirt and tiptoed into the carriage.
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  “Loving that dress, huh?” Alex gave her a shove.

  Gwen lifted her chin and curled her hand into a fist. “Shut up, or the only thing you'll be loving is your one good eye.”

  Bartholomew adjusted his hat before stepping onto the golden floor. He felt a little shy at first, but when he realized no one could see him blushing behind his black mask, he puffed up his chest and waved his arms windmill fashion. He was surprised when the throngs threw their heads back in laughter.

  Me … making people laugh?

  “Apollo advance,” Zeus's voice boomed through the crowd.

  With a snap of the reins, the stallions trotted forward. While the sun god maneuvered them past St. Mark's Square, a winged lion roared at them from his perch on the column above.

  Mona Lisa waved, and Apollo howled. Feeling bold, Bartholomew raised an arm in a disco pose much to the delight of the Venetians waving from every window.

  More masked revelers joined in their parade, while the horses quick-stepped over bridges, pranced across canals, and leaned into sideways gaits through streets. It felt like the entire Renaissance nation was behind them.

  Surprised by how much he enjoyed the attention, Bartholomew waved at the crowd and tipped his sugar loaf hat at the painted ladies in the windows. “Ha! Take that,” he cried tossing a perfumed egg at the Mattacino clown capering around them. Splat! It hit the guy's multi-colored tunic, and the scent of rosewater filled the air.

  Bartholomew breathed it all in with a smile.

  Chapter 76

  Alex wasn't enjoying leading a parade quite as much as Bartholomew seemed to be. The bird mask was hot and made Alex's face slick with sweat while the wax-covered tunic that covered him from head to toe blocked any breeze. He wanted to rip the whole costume off, but he thought it might offend his Renaissance nation friends.

  And the beak! Ugh. It was filled with strong herbs. Every time he took a breath, pungent garlic and rosemary filled his nostrils, reminding him of Mom's kitchen when she was experimenting with tribal recipes. He may have ribbed her a lot, but he really thought it was cool how his mom cooked up things like Ziggurat pancakes with grasshopper topping.

  How was she? Was her heart worse because of what he'd said? Or did she know he had only been angry? Soon, he'd be home, and then what? He had no clue about what he'd say or do. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, his temper got in the way.

  “Hey, Alex! Watch this!” Bartholomew cried, tossing a perfume filled egg at the crowd. “What do you think? Should I try out for the baseball team?”

  Alex snorted. He thought about teasing Bartholomew but remembered how Richie was being pulled out of school anyhow.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Hey, just because I have a dress on doesn't mean you can leave me out of the fun. Give me one of those.” Gwen took an egg from Bartholomew, glanced around at the cheering people, and took aim at a fat captain. When it exploded on his big belly, she raised a ruffled arm in victory.

  * * *

  After passing through what felt like every street in Venice, they returned to Saint Mark's Square where a platform had been set up in their absence.

  Atop it were all the people they'd met on this journey. Venus stood with one arm around Vulcan. The other rested on Pico's head. Leonardo and Michelangelo were arguing again, while the sculpted David tried to part them with his marble hands. Flanking them, Mars and Athena raised shields in salute. In the center, Zeus and Hera sat on golden thrones, their togas shining in the afternoon sun.

  “Whoa, easy now,” Apollo said. He pulled back on the reins and shook his wreath crowned head. A single laurel leaf came loose and flew off to land atop Bartholomew's ridiculous sugar loaf hat.

  With atypical flair, Bartholomew took off his cap and pretended to stare at the leaf. Then with exaggerated motions, he jiggled the hat, and the leaf fluttered down to his balloon pants. When he brushed it off, it settled onto his oversized shoes, and he kicked his clown-like feet in the air. As the crowd giggled, Bartholomew did a clumsy cartwheel right out of the chariot.

  The masses loved it, chortling and chuckling as Bartholomew tripped again and again. When the roar of laughter reached its peak, a bronze statue dressed as a peasant girl timidly stepped forward and offered to help him up. He leapt to his feet and bowed dramatically.

  Alex couldn't believe his eyes. Who was this stranger?

  Suddenly, Zeus snapped his fingers, and the sound of thunder filled the air. “Let the dance begin!” he said.

  In a flash, the organ-playing Landini appeared. The bronze girl led Bartholomew into the square, while Mona Lisa held out a finely-painted hand to Alex. He shrugged. He'd never really danced with a girl before, but technically Mona Lisa was a painting, not a girl, so he guessed it didn't count.

  He let her lead him next to where Bartholomew and the peasant girl were waltzing over the tiles. Awkwardly, he grasped Mona Lisa's hands. “One, two, three. Forward, side, together,” she instructed as Alex tried not to step on her dark gown.

  To his left, Gwen swayed arm-in-arm with that handsome Apollo. Alex suddenly felt even hotter under his mask. Why did Gwen have such a dreamy look in her eyes? Because Apollo had big muscles?

  He shook his head.

  Landini's organ grew louder, and others joined them in the square. Meanwhile, delicious looking dishes were placed on tables at the outskirts of the piazza. Alex's mouth watered at the sight of such a glorious feast. “Umm, Mona Lisa?” he asked, slowing his waltz.

  “Yes, young one?”

  “Could we take a break?” He tilted his beak toward the tables.

  “Of course.” She gave him a tinkling laugh. “I think Father is waiting for a dance.”

  Sure enough, Leonardo was on the sidelines, a wide grin splitting his beard. He raised the half mask on a stick to his face and bowed when they glanced at him.

  Thanking Mona Lisa, Alex dashed to the table and grabbed a plate. Mouth still watering, he surveyed the feast in front of him before piling on the grub. First, he scooped up some translucent meats in salty slices and covered them with caramelized onion. Next, he got big helpings of guinea hen in black pepper sauce and something called polenta.

  Sitting down at an empty table nearby, he cut off a piece of meat and raised the fork to his mouth. Then he realized. Oops. He still had his mask on. Carefull,y he untied the silk stays and placed it next to him. The breeze cooled his sweaty face.

  Alex hadn't realized how hungry he was until he dug in. Oh, yum! He stuffed one bite after another into his mouth, shoveling the food in until his plate was as clean as one of Mrs. Borax's floors. Then he dashed to the banquet table and piled it high again.

  When he returned, Gwen and Bartholomew were opposite each other, munching away. Both faced dishes that matched their personalities. Gwen, ever the health nut, had a plate of arugula and radicchio salad topped with olives and raisins. Bartholomew's plate was arranged neatly with bite-sized morsels of stir-fried fegato and zucchini flowers which Alex knew he'd chosen to keep from spilling anything on his clothes.

  “Hey, Alex, you have to try this,” Gwen said holding up a spoonful of whipped fig pudding.

  Alex leaned in for a bite, but when he saw how Gwen's eyes sparkled like sea glass, he froze. She was truly beautiful. Unmoving, he gaped at this stranger sitting across the table.

  “Earth calling Alex.” Bartholomew gave him a shove.

  “Huh?” Alex blinked.

  Gwen giggled.

  “Hello? Are you going to try the zambaglione or not? It's a traditional Venetian dish made with egg yolks, cream, and figs. It was often—”

  “Okay, okay. I don't need a history lesson.” Alex grabbed the spoon from Gwen and gulped it down in a noisy slurp.

  “Oooh, gross, Alex. You'd think you'd have a little more class at a place like this.” Gwen wrinkled her nose.

  “You want to see class?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Bring it on.�
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  “All right. You asked for it.” Alex sprinted to the banquet table and scooped up a bowl of zabaglione. As he strolled back to his friends, he slowly stirred the pudding. “Now, class, I want you to listen carefully. Whenever you're at a fancy party, the first lesson you must learn is not to play with your food.” He flicked a spoonful at Gwen.

  Buttery yellow pudding splattered her face and dress.

  “Hey!” Gwen cried, wiping the cream from her eyes. She glared at Alex and chucked a fig at him. It bounced right off his wax-covered tunic.

  Alex wiggled his ears at her.

  Bartholomew leaned forward and gave her a conspiratorial glance. “I do not think he has learned his lesson yet. Perhaps some tutoring?”

  Grinning, Gwen pushed away from the table and came around to Alex's side. She stood over him, lifting her bowl up and down as if testing its weight. Meanwhile Bartholomew held Alex's arms behind his back.

  “Now, guys, think about it. You don't want to do this. We're at a party. Not the beach.”

  “We don't?” Gwen batted her light green eyes. “Bartholomew?”

  “Maybe we shouldn't.” Bartholomew smirked.

  Alex heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Not!” Gwen cried and dumped the entire bowl onto him.

  Alex shook his head to splatter both his friends. At the same time, he scooped up a handful of polenta and ground it into Bartholomew's tie. B-three cried out and immediately mashed a zucchini flower into Alex's hair. Soon, all three were lobbing grapes, pasta, and spinach pie at each other.

  Alex had just picked up another handful of rice, when he felt a long stream of water showering down on him.

  “What the?” he sputtered, looked up.

  Towering over him, the eighteen-foot David, held a bucket in one huge hand. Shaking his head, he poured the rest on Bartholomew and Gwen.

  Bellows in hand, a tongue-clicking Vulcan shuffled to them and pumped a few puffs of air at them. In a matter of seconds, they were perfectly dry, their costumes as clean as before.

  “There,” Vulcan said. “Now you are presentable. Follow me.”

  “Bartholomew and I might look good, but I don't know about you, Alex,” Gwen teased as they climbed the stairs toward Zeus and Hera's thrones.