Mr. Crawford picked up his menu, oblivious to Cat’s double meaning, and we shared a grin. I remained hopeful and eager throughout dinner about the opportunity, but when we returned home and Cat handed me a few volumes of Shakespeare’s work, apprehension set in.
So here I lie, tucked under Cat’s coverlet with a helpful flashlight, interchangeably obsessing over my need to learn modern jargon to fit in at the high school and poring over Shakespeare’s plays—which actually make much more sense than Cat’s list of gibberish—so I can excel at my upcoming audition. I blink my heavy eyelids in an attempt to stop the words from swimming on the page, and fight to open them again.
Perhaps I will just rest them for a moment.
In the dark, behind my veiled eyes, the maze of confusing words part to make way for a tall young man with dark hair. The features of his face are hazy, but his clothing is quite clear—dark pants I now know are jeans and a tight black shirt.
It’s the boy from the second part of my vision with Reyna.
Though I do not know who he is, it is as if my soul does. All my tightly contained disquiet dissipates, and in its place, peace…and a delicious warmth in my belly.
Clinging to those feelings and my vision of the boy for as long as I can, I surrender to the wave of serenity and drift to sleep.
Chapter Six
Cat hands me a large bowl of multicolored circles drenched in milk and grins over a spoon. “So did you enjoy your marathon shower, Ms. Time-Traveler?”
I bite my lip and cast my eyes to the table. “My apologies, dear cousin. I couldn’t seem to help myself.”
Even my correct contraction usage cannot stir me to look up.
Truly, out of all the modern inventions I have encountered thus far and wish I could bring back with me, the glass box shower is my favorite—even better than the marvelous toilet. Inside the stall, wonderful warm water flows from a silver spigot, like a waterfall bending at my will. After staying up late and waking early this morning so I could study the seemingly endless list of words, the temptation to luxuriate under the spray was just too great.
Unfortunately, my cousin failed to mention the limited supply of warm water.
Wincing, I lift my head. “Is your father quite angry with my tarrying?”
Cat closes her mouth around a heaping spoon of cereal, and the harsh sound of crunching fills the air. She swallows and says, “Nah, Dad’s a guy. He can hop in and out in less than a nanosec, whereas I, on the other hand, got to experience the joy of shaving my legs with goose bumps.” She winks. “Lucky for you, I still love ya. Now eat up. We gotta leave in five minutes if we want to sign you in before first period.”
My stomach knots up, and I push my bowl of untouched breakfast away. Cat reaches over to clasp my hand. “Less, you’re gonna be great. Just think of it as a performance—one big acting gig. If it’s stressing you out, forget everything I said last night. You’re gonna do great.”
I grin at the encouragement, but then bite my lip. “And if I mess up?”
“It doesn’t matter. Today is just the first day back, and it’s a Friday. I bet half the school won’t even show up, and the other half will probably forget anything that happens over the weekend, anyway. So don’t worry about it. Just go in there and have fun.” She pumps my hand. “And if anyone messes with you, you let me know, all right?”
Her gaze narrows, as if she’s already mentally berating invented hecklers, and I cannot help but smile. Signore be with anyone who dares ridicule me today.
Cat leans in and waves me closer, as if she wishes to impart a secret. “A very wise woman once said that no one can make you feel inferior without your consent. That’s my motto, and it’s gonna be yours now, too. I want you to walk into that school today with your head held high, ready to soak up every memory and experience you possibly can, okay?”
My cousin’s impassioned words of inspiration, though a little shocking, achieve their purpose. They embolden me, add a touch of fire to my veins and steel to my spine, and remind me this is why Reyna sent me here. This is what I need—room to breathe again, a moment in time where I can live and search for more, and the grace to make many mistakes as I do all of the above.
I can do this.
I look at Cat again and with conviction say, “I’m ready.”
…
High school is nothing like I imagined. In fact, it is like nothing I could have even dreamed. I had thought the theater where I arrived was chaotic, but this? This is mass hysteria.
Boys and girls loiter together in the halls, all without chaperones. Several couples openly engage in scandalous embraces, and exposed skin is everywhere. Odd-shaped brown balls are lobbed from one end to another while all manner of talking, singing, and screaming echoes off the line of metal cages Cat calls lockers. A distinctly strong medicinal smell permeates the air, along with a host of other scents pouring off passing bodies, and as my nose twitches, I fight the intense urge to sneeze and run back to the relative safety of Cat’s bedroom.
Having successfully registered, a feat made easier by a copy of a birth certificate and foreign exchange paperwork that magically appeared in my school file, I now clutch my new schedule firmly in my hands as I follow my cousin through the constant stream of moving bodies. A piercing ring erupts overhead, and I jump at the fresh sensory onslaught.
I shall not miss the terrifying noises when I return to my time.
“That’s the bell,” Cat tells me over her shoulder, winding her way through the labyrinth-like jumble of fellow scholars. “Which means we gotta book it.”
Book it. This expression was not included in Cat’s list, nor was it one of the double meaning selections she explained in detail this morning. Yet somehow I know that she does not mean we must act like the notebooks contained within the satchel on my shoulder. However, what she does mean remains a mystery. I expel an exasperated breath.
Cat twists around, laughs, and hooks her arm through mine. “Book it, as in move it, as in hustle.” She shoots me an amused look as she pulls me forward. “As in we must make haste.”
Ah, a word I comprehend. I laugh and increase my speed to match my cousin’s frantic pace, shouldering my way through the crowd, too, and trying not to notice the appraising looks from both the male and female students. I bunch the brocade fabric of Cat’s long skirt in my hand and sink lower into my borrowed knit cardigan.
Breathe, Alessandra. Just breathe.
Being the youngest in the family—and a girl—I have never been the center of attention. Perhaps that is why I love the theater. But onstage, performers are watched for their characters, the roles they are playing…not because they so obviously fail to fit in.
I glance back, unable to help myself, and end up plowing into my cousin, who has stopped outside an open door. She grabs my shoulders to steady us both, then nods to the room. “American government,” she says. “I wish we had more classes together, but like I said, you’re gonna be fine. Just—”
She breaks off and jolts me back as a massive boy pushes through the door. I freeze in place, letting more of the crowd flow past me as Cat mutters a few unladylike words under her breath. Despite the blanket of tension, I grin.
Staring intensely at the back of his retreating shaved head, she continues. “As I was saying, just remember what I told you. Sit in the back, slink down in your seat, and don’t make eye contact with the teacher. It’ll be a piece of cake.”
Even with the unexplained food reference, I detect the false confidence in her voice.
I take a deep breath, and in the quiet absence of my pounding heart, I realize the boisterous hall has hushed. When I turn, I find it practically empty.
This is it. The moment Reyna may or may not have sent me here to experience—an adventure full of possibilities.
Concentrating on not fainting, I take a shaky step toward the daunting classroom. “I-I shall meet you after?”
“I’ll be right here waiting the second you get out.”
With a nod, I straighten my shoulders and then bound through the door before I can change my mind. Behind me, Cat calls out, “Good luck,” but I do not turn. I can’t. I place one foot in front of the other, feeling every gaze following my movements but refusing to look up, and make my way to the back of the room. Drying my wet hands on the folds of my skirt, I slide into a vacant seat.
I shall not faint, I shall not faint.
I chance a glance up and see more than a dozen pairs of eyes glued to my person.
Or perchance I shall.
Luckily, a young woman chooses that moment to stride purposefully across the front of the room, and I focus on her instead. Small wire spectacles frame her intelligent golden eyes. Although she appears to be not much older than I am, she holds herself with unparalleled grace and poise. My tension ever so slowly sinks from my shoulders.
Then her perceptive gaze travels over the students assembled, hesitating and stopping to rest on me. Terror fills me anew. My cousin warned that I could be called on to introduce myself, and I hastily try to remember the intricate story we created last night.
My mind goes blank.
I wet my lips, knowing it had something to do with being an exchange student, but for the life of me, I’m unable to recall any of the specifics, when the instructor blessedly nods, a small smile playing on her lips, and continues her appraisal of the class.
I cannot—can’t—contain my sigh of relief.
This may not be so bad, after all.
She concludes her survey of the room and sashays over to close the door. Upon her return to the desk, she leans a hip against it, eyes alight with amusement. “Good morning, everyone. And welcome back. My name is Miss Edwards. Your former teacher, Mrs. Spano, is on maternity leave, and I’m happy to be taking over her classes for a few months. I trust you are all eager to dive right in. This semester—”
A young man bursts through the doorway, stealing the rest of her words…and the collective air from the room.
With nary a care for disrupting the instructor’s lesson, he tromps in, his heavy boots thumping against the tile. He lifts a chiseled chin in prolonged greeting as he crosses the room, and I find that I am unable to drag my gaze away.
Our young instructor folds her arms, and the boy brushes past, barely managing to avoid whacking her with his tattered green pack. He pauses to select and then maneuver down the long aisle beside mine. He has yet to look at me, but as he draws nearer to where I sit, I feel my pulse rate increase in tempo, contrasting with his controlled, leisurely stride. And when he comes to a full stop at the empty chair to my left, my breathing outright stalls.
My skin feels flushed and tight, my mouth parched. Restlessness stirs within, and I find it difficult to remain still.
I have no idea what is happening or why, only that every sense I have seems to be attuned to this beautiful boy. And he has yet to even acknowledge my existence!
Look up, I silently plead, sneaking glances at him through wisps of my hair. Notice me.
He plops his pack on the ground, and a stripe of something blue tumbles out the open flap. I lower my gaze to a messy writing pad littered with haphazard papers shoved inside, the name Austin spelled out in bold black writing on the cover.
Austin. A derivative form of Augustine, yet the boy before me bears no resemblance to the great saint and man of faith. If anything, he resembles one of Lucifer’s tempting, sinful brethren with his disheveled raven hair and mischievous, beguiling eyes.
Austin folds his long legs under the desk and leans back to slide his hand into the pocket of his dark jeans. He withdraws a pair of earbuds, much like the ones Cat brought during her time-travel stay, and soon the faint sound of music floats in the air.
Our instructor calls out, “That was quite the entrance, Mister….” She pauses and stares at the boy beside me.
“Michaels.”
She consults a paper on her desk and nods. “Oh, yes, Mr. Michaels,” she says, not sounding at all impressed—or surprised. “Well, I’m Miss Edwards. Maybe the next time you join our class, you can add prerecorded fanfare to spice things up.” Austin lifts two fingers to his forehead in a mock-salute, and she sighs. “Now, back to American government…”
She turns to the large whiteboard behind her and begins writing. Austin places the buds in his ears, bobbing his head to the beat, completely ignoring her…and me. I slump farther down into my seat.
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I do not want attention from someone who feels the need to be so disruptive, regardless of how beautiful he is—but I don’t believe myself. Pushing thoughts of my rude neighbor away, I try to focus on foreign words like electoral college and congressional district, anything other than the frustratingly rude boy beside me, but my gaze keeps flitting back. His bouncing knee rattles the desk, dragging the metal feet along the hard tile, and the pen in his hand taps rhythmically to the music seeping from his ears.
How can anyone concentrate with such boorish behavior around?
Indignation on behalf of my instructor—and all right, perhaps a bit over my bruised pride for failing to elicit even a neighborly smile—churns inside me. A mixture of heat and odd tingles flows up and down my arms and legs, and I clench my hands into fists.
Tap, tap, tap-tap. Tap, tap, tap-tap.
The skin on my scalp itches and I shove a section of hair behind my ear. A girl in front of him turns, and a grin stretches across my face. Good, she is annoyed, too. She’ll tell him to be quiet, give a scathing remark like Cat is always able to deliver, and he will be thoroughly chastened.
Righteous triumph builds in my chest as I lean closer to hear.
She bites her lower lip and rolls her eyes—but not in a mean way. She does it playfully, with a smile, as though Austin is an adorable pup or childish imp. Austin lifts his chin, tossing the girl an impudent wink and saucy grin.
And that is when I snap.
Before my movement registers in my brain, my hand is across the aisle, snatching his pen from his tight grip and flinging it across the room. My elbow accidently hits the book on his desk and sends it clattering, loudly, to the ground.
Now I have his attention.
Austin finally turns to me, treating me to the slow once-over he just gave the girl in front of him. She turns, too, curling her lip as if she has discovered something disgusting on the bottom of her shoe. My skin burns under their joint scrutiny.
“Problem, Princess?”
I jerk my head back, eyes wide. Not so much at Austin’s words, though I can tell he does not mean the term affectionately, but the way he delivers them—scornfully, tauntingly.
“Me?” I squeak in protest. On some level, I realize the room is strangely quiet, but I have yet to gather why. My faculties are wholly consumed with the infuriating individual before me. “I’m not the one causing the problem!”
My voice echoes off the tile below our feet. Austin lifts a dark brow…and suddenly, I realize that I am.
Panic sears my cheeks as I look around and notice all prior conversation, even the young instructor’s lecture, has halted.
The girl in front of Austin purses her lips in a cruel sort of grin, and I see the instructor watching me, waves of disappointment pouring off her. Every eye in the room is turned in our direction, which for some reason ultimately prompts Austin to give me my coveted grin.
My mouth goes dry.
I have never—never—held myself with anything other than complete decorum, public or otherwise, yet spending less than five minutes in Austin Michaels’s presence has led to complete and utter depravity.
“I-I’m s-so very—” I begin, only to feel Austin’s warm hand close around mine.
“My fault, Miss E. Pen slipped.” He looks to the floor and grins. “Book, too.”
Miss E’s dark brow hitches heavenward as she studies us. After what feels like an eternity she says, “While I have no doubt that you somehow share the blame, Mr. Michaels, I will still need to see the both
of you after class.”
All I can do is nod, my cheeks and neck burning in humiliation. The fight, my anger, and all perplexing bodily reactions have left me. In their place remains nothing but a surreal feeling of disbelief. Miss Edwards sighs, and the class continues.
“That’s some sexy accent you have there,” Austin says in a hushed voice—but not that hushed. A few people around us snicker at my evident discomfort, which of course only serves to spur him on more. “Italian, right? Mmm. Say something else—how do you say blush in Italian?”
When I ignore him, he says, “You sure do have that rosy glow going on. Normally I have to work harder to inspire something like that. Like what you see, Princess?”
“D-don’t call me that,” I stammer, blushing all the more from his brazen question. “And I do not blush.”
That earns me my wink. “Sure you don’t.”
Austin looks to the front of the room, and I follow his gaze. The teacher has her back turned, drawing what appears to be a map of sorts on the whiteboard. My eyes flick to the large clock mounted on the wall. Class is nearly over, and I have managed to follow exactly nothing of the lecture.
Alas, my experience thus far as a modern-day student has not been exemplary.
Though I do not wish Austin to know the effect he has on me, I cannot keep my eyes from snapping back. And when I do, I find him practically in my seat. His long torso is stretched across the aisle, and his face is ever so close. Warm breath fans across my cheeks, and I catch the scent of mint. Soulful blue eyes drill into mine as he dares to touch a lock of my hair, twisting it around one long, tanned finger. My heart pounds at his blatant familiarity.
This must be what rage feels like.
Under his breath, Austin says, “It’s too bad that wasn’t a blush. I thought it was kinda hot.”
A shocked puff of air and saucer-like eyes are my only response—having learned from Cat’s list of words the double meaning of the word hot—and the left side of Austin’s mouth lifts in a smile of victory. He settles back in his own seat and reinserts his earbuds. The pen tapping begins again, only this time louder and with more force.
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