“N-no,” I stammer, no longer feeling as though the sneak attack approach was the best course of action. “I go to school with your brother—Austin? By any chance is he home this afternoon?”
Honestly, I am unsure at this point how I wish her to answer.
“Oh, sure, come on in.” She widens the opened door, allowing me to step inside the cool entryway, and takes a few books off the top of the teetering pile. “You know, you really did great yesterday. Totally pissed off Kendal.” She closes the door behind me and sighs. “Watching her fume was totally worth all of the preparation, even if I don’t end up snagging a part. I can’t believe I used to look up to her. And I really can’t believe my stupid brother used to date her. Speaking of which, AUSTIN!”
I jump, at both the subject change and her sharp bellow up the stairs. A door closes somewhere above. Eyes on the ceiling, I swallow down my mounting apprehension. “But you were so good yesterday,” I assure her. “I am certain you will be chosen.” Then, sensing an opening, I add, “Your brother appeared quite comfortable with the material as well. Acting must run in the family.”
Jamie snorts. “Austin act? That’d take way too much time away from surfing.” She glances at the curved stairway a few feet away and then leans in conspiratorially. “But he was good, huh? He must’ve read that scene at least a hundred times helping me get ready for the audition. I knew it would be one of the pieces they’d have us do—I mean, come on. It’s the balcony scene. It’s a given, right? And I read Romeo and Juliet in school this year, so I was kinda gunning for that part. But it’s totally no biggie. I dig Ophelia, too.”
Trying to keep up with Jamie’s excited, bountiful chatter makes my head spin. I grasp the insight buried within her speech and say, “So Austin helped you prepare?”
She nods. “Yeah, he’s so good at languages and stuff like that, and the words in those plays just go right over my head. Man, people talked crazy back then, huh?”
I smile but withhold a comment in reply.
But then I think about Jamie’s words and the fact that Austin supposedly has a talent for “stuff like that,” and I find myself even more confused than I was before my arrival. Cat told me Austin rarely even makes it to class, and when he does, he does not spend that time impressing the professors with his scholastic aptitude. But the boy Jamie describes sounds intelligent and talented.
So the nagging question remains: which Austin is the real Austin?
At the sound of heavy clomping, I lift my head and see the mysterious boy himself coming down the stairs. His hands glide across the smooth banister, stretching his worn black shirt across the width of his shoulders. A wisp of a memory begins to surface, but before I can place it, Austin’s eyes cut to mine. He freezes.
“What are you doing here?”
The accusation in his tone scares any reply right out of my head, but Austin does not—doesn’t—wait for one. Instead, he continues his trek down the stairs and through the adjoining dining room to the kitchen beyond, leaving me with a heavy pile of books and a mouth still open.
Jamie winces. “Sorry about that. He’s not usually so rude!” She yells the last word, but when no reaction comes from her brother, she rolls her eyes and leads me into the kitchen.
Austin lifts his head from the open refrigerator door and takes out two bright red cans of soda, my cousin’s beverage of choice. He meets my gaze and lifts a can in question.
I place the books on the smooth, granite countertop and accept his offering with a smile of gratitude. I take a sugary gulp and nearly choke when he says, “Don’t you look nice today.”
Pleasure flows through my veins. I swallow and begin to say thanks—but then I see the taunting gleam in his eyes and realize he is mocking me.
I glance down at my outfit and suddenly feel silly.
Did I forget the Austin from class yesterday?
I rub the soft fabric of Cat’s cardigan sleeves and hear the sound of Jamie mouth something to her brother before turning on her heel and stomping from the room. As I listen to her retreating footsteps, anger replaces my fleeting embarrassment. Just because I don’t dress like my modern-day peers does not give him the right to disparage me for it.
A true gentleman, at least one from my time, would never treat a lady in such a manner.
I raise my head to tell him that very thing and am startled to find Austin’s face so close to mine. The words die on my lips.
“I can see through you, you know,” he says, his voice low, eyes flashing. “You’re not as innocent and perfect as you want us to think. No one is. I can see that you’re dying to break out of the prim and proper prison you’ve built for yourself, but you’re too scared to admit it. You want more.” He pauses. “Don’t you, Princess?”
There is that nickname again, delivered this time with such derision that I take a step back. And in the face of such blatant antagonism, my blood begins to boil with an emotion that is anything but prim and proper, although nothing I have felt since meeting this exasperating boy is.
Breathe, Alessandra. A true lady does not display fits of anger.
I glance at Austin and see red.
Even when the gentleman so greatly deserves it.
To keep from lashing out in an unladylike fashion, I turn to my stack of books, preparing to carry on with my reason for today’s visit…but then Austin laughs.
“What, no comment? No Shakespearean reply?” He compresses his lips into a thin line. “Guess I was wrong. I thought I saw some fire hidden in you the other day, but maybe you are just a sweet, spineless little angel.”
Though he does not mean to compliment, in reality I should be pleased. In my time, those are often the characteristics most sought after in a wife…the very role Mama has groomed me for since birth.
But instead, I spin around and spit, “Well, I see through you, too!”
Austin’s eyes widen, perhaps both by the content of my declaration and the vehemence in which I delivered it. To be honest, I am rather shocked myself. But I press on.
“You like to pretend you don’t care about anything, but I see you. I see how you are with your sister. How you stood up for me in class. And how you were at the audition—I was on that stage with you, Austin. I know you are a lot smarter than you want people to believe. So perhaps I am not the one who is scared! You are the one who is hiding.”
And at that, I collapse against the counter.
A flash of heat erupts under my skin, and my head begins to throb. The edges of my vision darken and the sounds of the kitchen—a slow tick, a low hum, a soft clanging—dim to a faint garble.
Oh, Signore in heaven, what did I just do?
Lifting a trembling hand to my mouth, I look to the boy who is able to bring forth such fervent reactions from me. “I cannot believe I just said that.” I swallow and push against the counter, thrusting my full weight back onto my feet. “My sincere apologies for my lack of manners. No matter how you behaved, it is no excuse for my actions.”
A squiggle appears on Austin’s forehead, and he watches me with shrewd eyes, as if I’m a puzzle to figure out. The edges of his mouth twitch, and then, wonder of wonders, he laughs. Genuinely this time, not in ridicule, and it must be said, the sound is glorious.
He lifts his chin and asks, “You really care about that stupid project?”
My mind spins at his confusing reaction and change of subject, but I nod. “About doing well on it, yes. And I need your help. I grew up in Italy and am unfamiliar with the ways of American government.”
Or even modern Italian government, but I do not say that aloud.
Austin crosses his arms against his chest, flexing the muscles in his strong arms. My mouth goes dry.
“All right, then,” he says slowly. He nods once as if making a decision. “I have a proposition for you—a challenge. When it comes to government I know way too much, but if I’m gonna pick up your slack and actually help you with this, you’re gonna have to do something for me.”
/> He pauses, dragging out the suspense, and I wrack my fuzzy brain for any situation in which he could possibly want or need my help. I bite my lip as Austin crowds me against the counter.
That inexplicable heat builds in my core again, along with a delicious twist in my stomach.
Placing both hands on either side of me, trapping me between the cool granite and the warmth of his body, Austin’s gaze lingers on the lip I am worrying with my teeth as he says in a low, sensual rasp, “You need to loosen up.”
My breath comes out in stilted, ragged bursts, and an uncomfortable giggle escapes.
The right side of Austin’s mouth kicks up at my reaction, but he does not back away. “You need a guide,” he continues. “A tutor to teach you how to take a chance, grab what you want, and not give a damn. And if after a couple weeks with me you’re not convinced you need to break out of that sheltered, prim and proper, fake life of yours, I’ll back off. I won’t say another word about the way you dress, the way you act, or the fact that you sound like an eighteenth-century novel.”
More like sixteenth, I almost say, but I stop myself in time.
The part of me that is insulted at Austin’s classifying my life as fake is lost in a rush of excitement, curiosity, and a voice screaming in my head that this is what brought me here—my cry, my need, for adventure. Austin lifts an eyebrow, challenging me to reach out and take this adventure, to experience all that the twenty-first century holds. My pulse pounds in my chest, and I fight for breath.
I don’t know if I do it to get space or to see if I affect the boy before me anywhere near as much as he affects me, but I boldly place a hand over Austin’s heart and smile when I feel it beating just as fast as my own.
Absorbing his intoxicating heat and his promise of more, I grin and say, “Deal.”
Chapter Twelve
“The string goes where?” I ask incredulously, dropping the garment from my fingers as if it holds the plague. My heart pounds in my ears, its pulse already heightened from my shocking meeting with Austin earlier and the crowd in this land of chaos my cousin calls a mall. It is Saturday, apparently the day teenagers descend upon this enormous building, and we are shopping for clothes for me that will somehow strike a balance between what she calls dorky and what I call common courtesan attire.
“You heard me,” Cat says with a wicked smile and a pointed look to the scrap of fabric. Heat creeps into my scalp, and if it were possible for hair to defy all wisdom and burst into flame, mine would. Holding this conversation in public as people bustle past us is horribly and wholly improper.
“It’s called a thong,” she clarifies with glee, “and by putting the string up there, you avoid ugly panty lines. Trust me, no one wants to see that business.”
I take a hesitant step toward the overflowing bins, peering down at the perplexing items again. “But surely it is uncomfortable to be lodged…in such a…spot?”
Cat shrugs. “You learn to live with it.”
That is where my dear cousin is wrong. Despite my agreement to wear modern attire, I certainly do not plan to learn such a lesson.
Nevertheless, I cannot keep my twitching fingers from lifting another offending thong, either, this one with the words No Chance emblazoned across an area no one should have access to read. I wrinkle my nose.
“But if it does not even cover the entire, um, bottom area,” I say in a choked voice, “why bother wearing one at all?”
Cat laughs and snatches the thong from my hand, replacing it with a brightly colored one with (thankfully) a tad more material. This latest selection declares the wearer to Love Pink.
“Less, I know you don’t have this stuff where you come from, and I get it. That was a big adjustment for me, too, when I was in your time—walking around commando. But here’s the deal: if you don’t want to inadvertently cause a Britney Spears TMZ incident, these things are a must.” Then she grins again and lifts an eyebrow. “Just remember: corset.”
Again with her self-declared new mantra. Ever since we stepped foot inside this land of chaos, she has been repeating it, reminding me of the constrictive undergarment she had to wear while visiting my time, and brandishing it as her one-word form of instant guilt.
I roll my eyes but clasp the thin fabric. The intimate item is unbelievably tiny. And handling it in view of the other patrons is without question inappropriate. But as I rub my fingers along the delicate fabric, I must admit it feels luxurious.
“Very well,” I say, snagging a nail on the wide lace band. I disentangle myself, then grab a few pairs in bright animalistic patterns. “I shall wear the undergarments. As long as they remain hidden by something much more appropriate for public viewing, you shall win this round. But,” I quickly add before she can gloat much more, “I refuse to wear that.”
Her gaze follows my pointed finger to a headless human form wearing a pair of dark trousers similar to the ones I was in when I first arrived, but these appear to have met with an unfortunate dagger incident. They are ridiculously short.
“Yeah, I already figured that one out. Don’t worry—I have a whole other store in mind for your Pollyanna attire. We’re just working from the inside out. A little faith, if you please, Miss Forlani.” She grins and with a playful shove, steers me to the front of the store where a small line has formed.
Two girls stop chatting to sneer at my “dorky” attire, and I fidget with my sleeve. My cousin’s cool hand closes around my squirming fingers, and I recognize the squinty, overprotective look in her eye. It is the same look from my vision in the courtyard, when I imagined her confronting the disloyal Marco and wretched Novella.
A jolt of pain lances through my chest.
Could that really have happened only two days ago?
I wince at the memory, and Cat’s fingers tighten around mine. I cannot bring myself to tell her the true reason for my distress, so I watch, somewhat guiltily, as she waves her free hand dismissively at the girls in front of us, leans toward them, and hisses like a cat in their faces. “Turn. Around.”
Their collective eyes bulge, and their heads snap forward.
Cat winks and continues as if nothing happened. “I’ll spare you the dressing room experience here—I’m pretty sure I can guess your size, and Lord knows if you get spooked seeing yourself in this stuff, I’ll never get you in the mall again.”
The woman behind the booth calls, “Next,” and the girls in front of us leap in their haste to get away. Cat’s amused gaze meets mine, and I stifle a giggle. It is comforting to find my fearless cousin audacious as ever.
After several hours and rejecting more than a bazillion selections, we at last make our way home, bags brimming with a half dozen dresses and an array of ankle-length skirts. Our quest to find items that cover both my calves and elbows proved to be a tad time consuming, but the true reason for our extended excursion was my complete and utter awe over the vast display of ready-made clothing. Modern women no longer have a need to select fabrics and patterns and hire a tailor—they simply step inside a store, choose an item off a rack, and bring it home. Preparing for a ball or dinner party in this era would be effortless. It is too bad I cannot bring this marvelous improvement back with me.
Traipsing through the atrium of Cat’s beautifully modern decorated home, I slurp the final remains of my creamy beverage and grin. On the way home, my cousin insisted that she needed a “sugar fix,” so our kind driver stopped at a building with bright yellow arches filled with all sorts of delectable delicacies. A chill seeps down my throat, and I close my eyes at the blissful sensation.
This is a recipe I must have Cook try to copy.
Of course, thoughts of Cook turn to thoughts of Mother. And Father. And Cipriano. How much they would enjoy this modern delicacy and how much I wish they could be here experiencing this with me. My longing for them is the one thing hampering my joy. It feels as though it has been forever since I left home—so much has happened, yet it has been merely a couple days.
A warm, e
nthusiastic voice calling my name pulls me from my homesick ruminations.
“Yes, Marilyn, she’s right here.” Mr. Crawford holds out the telephone, eyebrows lifted and smile matching the one splitting my cousin’s face. From their mutual expressions, I decipher that the gatekeeper of my one and only dream calling is a good thing, but I hesitate to take the device from his outstretched hand.
I have never used a phone before—other than to play one of Cat’s magical movies during her time-traveling jaunt, that is. But when Mr. Crawford’s eager smile turns curious over my hesitation, I gather my wits, figuring there is no time better than the present to learn. With a nervous glance in Cat’s direction, I mimic what I have seen her do so many times before and speak into the air, “This is Alessandra.”
As if by magic, Ms. Kent’s voice rings in my ear, saying words I never thought I would hear. “Congratulations, Miss Forlani, you have been selected to play Juliet in this year’s winter workshop!”
If Shakespeare himself had delivered this message, I could not be any more shocked. Or elated.
Only my family’s noticeable absence keeps this from being the best moment of my life.
If only I could share this accomplishment with them. I close my eyes, and it’s as if I can actually hear Cipriano’s booming, euphoric laughter. I can imagine Father’s face glowing with pride. And as I wrap my arms around my middle to hold my warring emotions within, I can almost pretend it’s my mother’s slender arms clutching me in delight.
The rest of the conversation flies by in a blur of dates, requirements, and information. I learn that I am to return to the Playhouse in the morning to retrieve my script and be fit for my costume, and that Reid Roberts, an up-and-coming—whatever that means—teen actor, will be playing opposite me. I hand the phone back to Mr. Crawford in a daze of disbelief, and my cousin grabs me in a bone-crushing tackle hug.
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