My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (2 page)

Fat chance, but hey, it’s worth a shot.

I round the corner, and a dark army-green tent catches my eye, its front flaps fluttering in the breeze. It seems odd—a tent in the middle of the street—but I continue past until two older women walk by and I hear the word
gypsy
over the clanging of church bells.

My ears perk up, and I stop. Maybe it’s Victor Hugo’s influence—Esmeralda, the badass gypsy in
The Hunchback of Notre Dame,
is my favorite character in the novel so far—or the whole When in Rome—er, Florence—mentality, but I decide to be wild for once.

In forty-five minutes, I’ll be having lunch and finalizing plans for a lavish, extravagant, overpriced, stupid,
unwanted
birthday gala where I’ll be forced under a microscope for all the world to criticize. I want—no,
need—
to do something just for me.

Something private and very, very un-Cat-like.

I pull back the flap and enter the gypsy’s tent.

…

Inside, it’s dim, with only a few lit candles illuminating the space. The flap closes behind me, but for the effect, it may as well be a steel door—the outside noise is completely muffled. I take a step, and gravel crunches under my sandals, sounding all the louder in this spooky setup.

I’ve officially walked into the Twilight Zone.

“Hello?”

I stretch my hand out and feel a ledge. Opening my eyes wide, I struggle to read the framed sign perched atop some sort of intricate shelving system. It says to place any bags or belongings on the top shelf, and to take off my shoes and slide them into the tray provided.

I really don’t get how Steve Madden gladiators will interfere with a psychic reading, but whatever. I’m being wild.

Tiptoeing farther inside, following the trail of dotted candlelight, I continue to be amazed at how large the space seems. It’s a freaking tent, and not even a big one at that, yet I feel as though I could walk forever. One side is completely lined with shelves, and from the flickering flames of the candles, I can see rows of teacups, labeled vials, unlit candles, crystal balls, and stacks of cards.

As I drift toward the back of the tent, the smell of patchouli incense tickles my nose, and I see a small card table with a black silk sheath draped over it. Resting in the middle is a large sapphire-colored candle, its flame a spotlight on the woman sitting behind it.

Her entire face is covered by purple veils; only her eyes are visible.

Creeptastic.

“What answers do you seek?”

I jump. Not because I didn’t see her mouth move or the fact that she spoke English. But her voice is not at all what I expected. It’s youthful, cautious, and…Russian?

I lean closer to get a better look, but all I can see is the layers of veils covering her head and mouth. And those eyes. Even from this slight distance, they are hypnotic. A combination of ancient wisdom and sparkling humor, as if she’s peering into my mind and laughing at what’s inside. My scalp tingles, and a shiver of unease dances down my spine, but I refuse to leave. I’ve already come this far.

The woman, or I guess I should say girl, lifts an eyebrow, and it disappears behind a veil. I realize she is waiting for an answer, but for the life of me, I can’t remember the question. I blink a few times and rack my brain, my eyes never straying from hers.

“You fancy a reading,
tatcho
?”

Her blunt question and flat, tired voice shake me out of my trance and remind me this isn’t real. If it wasn’t for the occasional funny beep of tiny foreign cars, this could totally be happening in some back room in West Hollywood. Not that I believe any of this hocus-pocus stuff, anyway. The only destiny I believe in is the one I can control. So I shrug and say, “Yeah, whatever you usually do, I guess.”

The gypsy flicks her wrist, causing dozens of bracelets to
clank
in unison, and motions to the chair opposite her. She continues to stare at me from behind the table, her head slightly tilted, her hazel eyes narrowed. Finally she nods and walks over to one of the shelves, her layers of bright, multicolored chiffon skirts swishing around her feet. She picks up a teacup.

I wonder if I should mention that I don’t really dig tea.

“What is your name?”

Part of me is tempted to tell her if she were a real psychic she’d know it already, but somehow I doubt that’ll go over too well. “Cat.”

She pauses mid-sit and lifts her head. “Cat?”

Her disbelieving tone irks me. I straighten my shoulders, put on my usual mask of aloofness, and say, “Caterina. You need a last name, too?”

Although I can’t be sure, I think I hear her snort from behind the veil, which just annoys me even more. It’s impossible to get a handle on this girl. The gypsy shakes her head and begins preparing the tea, and I pretend to relax back in my seat. A nervous energy buzzes through my veins. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.

Holding the pearl teacup by its delicate handle, the gypsy pours hot water from a kettle on a nearby hot plate, and then stirs in a heaping spoonful of tea leaves from a tin. Neither of us speaks while the tea steeps. She just sits across from me, her eyes boring into mine. I try to glance around the tent but continue to be drawn back to her gaze, like she exudes some type of magnetic force field. Eventually my eyes grow accustomed to the dark, and I’m able to see hers more clearly. They are strangely beautiful, like a luminous marble, amber colored with specks of russet, jade, and charcoal.

It’s spooky. But I’m completely transfixed.

The spell is broken when she reaches for the cup. She blows on it, holds it out, and says, “You are right handed, so you must take this cup with your left. As you drink, relax and clear your mind. Try not to think. If something does continue to come to mind, however, hold onto it. Meditate on it. Make sure to leave a small amount of tea at the bottom of your cup and try not to consume too many of the leaves. When you’re done, hand it back to me.”

There seem to be an awful lot of rules just to drink some tea and make up a fake fortune, but I’ll go with it. I take a sip. The tea is hot, and the floating leaves are icky and tickle my mouth, but I drink. I try to keep my mind clear like she said, but for some annoying reason, Jenna keeps popping in. Visions of her laughing and constantly trying to give me a hug assault me, then are replaced with equally disturbing ones of my mother. Fuzzy snapshot images from when she was actually around and then clearer, sharper ones from the big screen. Despite my every attempt to do or think otherwise, my mother continues to appear.

In my effort to stop the movie playing in my head and push away all the chaotic emotions those two women bring, I nearly drink the entire cup of tea. Luckily, I catch myself and hand it back. Definitely want to avoid incurring any gypsy wrath. I wipe my mouth and pretend not to be eager to hear her response.

Okay, so maybe I’m the tiniest bit superstitious.

She swirls my cup three times, then dumps the last bit of the tea into the saucer. She keeps the cup overturned for a few seconds before flipping it back over and peering inside.

I tap my fingers on the table and ask, “See anything good?”

The gypsy nods. “
Arvah
. I see a tent.”

“A tent? You mean, like the one we’re in?”

She nods again. “A
tsera—
a tent—is a symbol for adventure. You may find yourself doing something completely different soon. Perhaps travel is in your future.”

Hmm. A tent like the one we’re in and traveling in my future. Pretty convenient, considering I’m a tourist. Aloud I say, “Adventure, huh? Like emancipating myself and relocating permanently to Florence?”

She lifts an eyebrow, and I wave her off. “Kidding, obviously.”

I get up from the table and realize the tent has gotten smaller. No, that’s silly; my eyes must have adjusted to the dim lighting. Either that, or this chick has some seriously freaky tea.

I walk back to my bag at the front of the tent and hear her fall in step behind me. As I stretch to reach into the front pouch to get my wallet, I twist around. “How much for the, uh, session?”

The gypsy’s eyes grow wide, and her brows disappear behind the veil again. I look down, expecting to find a tarantula or some other crazy creepy-crawly to justify her being so freaked, and see the small tattoo on my right hip exposed. I drop my arms and yank down my shirt.

She bolts toward me, staring intently at the cute top now covering my body art. “May I?” she asks hesitantly.

I bite my lip and think. I never show anyone my tattoo. Considering my age, getting one wasn’t exactly legal, especially since I didn’t have Dad’s permission. But more than that, it’s personal.

A reminder.

But the girl seems so fascinated, and it’s not like I have to share its meaning or anything. If she’s a real psychic, she’ll know. Very slowly, I lift the hem of my shirt to uncover my upper right hip. Her fingers flex as if she intends to brush them over my stomach, and I flinch. Gingerly, she draws them back.

“The painted pear.”

Chapter Three

The gypsy’s voluminous outfit of veils tickles my arm. We’re the same height, so I have no problem looking into her eyes. The skin around them crinkles, and if I thought she looked intense before, it was nothing compared to this enthrallment. She’s practically humming. I lower my shirt again and say, “Uh, yeah. It’s from my favorite Renaissance painting.
Madonna and Child with Apples and Pears
?”

I’m normally not one to turn my statements into questions, but the girl is kind of freaking me out.

She nods and then claps her hands, and I get the distinct impression that I’m missing something. “The
ambrol.
The Renaissance.
Misto!
”

A muscle in my eyelid starts to twitch as I slowly follow her to the back of the tent where she’s flitting about. I know I should probably just leave, but I can’t stop watching the scene playing out before me. It’s as if someone flipped a switch—all reserved gypsy mannerisms have completely been thrown out the window. Or in this case, out the tent flap.

The girl twirls and dances over to a shelf containing rows and rows of unlit candles. “It is time,” she says, darting a glance back toward me, a Cheshire cat smile on her face. “I have waited years for this
divano
.”

She runs her fingers across the orange candles, then the white, and hesitates over the yellow before landing on the purple and nodding. She grabs a bejeweled jug and motions me back to the table with a wag of her head.

“Please, stay but a moment more.” Her smile withers when I hesitate with one hand on my bag. “There will be no charge.”

If living in LA has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is ever free. I check my watch. It’s one thirty. It’ll take me twenty minutes to get back to the hotel from here, which means I have ten minutes, tops.

But I’m intrigued.

I walk to the table and sit on the edge of my seat. The girl’s smile returns, and she sets her supplies down. “You may call me Reyna,” she says in a noticeably thicker accent as she carves
Caterina
onto one side of the candle. I want to tell her it’s Cat—my self-involved mother may have named me after her, but only Dad’s allowed to utter my given name—but what’s the point? This will all be over in a few minutes, and I’ll never see this girl again.

Reyna writes something else on the other side, but I can’t make it out in the candlelight. Then she picks up the sparkly jug and pours what appears to be oil onto the candle before setting it down on a mirror and lighting the wick. I jump at the sudden burst of light. The dancing flame, along with the reflected glow, causes elongated shadows to fall across the table. Strange shapes appear within the inky outlines, and I struggle to convince myself it’s just my overactive imagination rearing its ugly head again.

I have definitely seen one too many movies.

Staring into the flames, Reyna chants, “Powers that be, powers of three, let Caterina’s destiny be all that I see.”

She repeats it two more times before grabbing my hands and closing her eyes.

Nothing happens, and I assume whatever voodoo stuff she tried to do failed. Surprise, surprise. I go to get up, and then the table begins to shake.

Reyna’s cool fingers snake up and grasp my wrists.

I try to wrench them away, but Reyna’s grip tightens as she pulls me forward and throws her head back.

Suddenly the flame snuffs out and the room goes black.

Every sense I have goes on red alert as I try to remember any of the moves from the self-defense class Dad made me take. I can see the headline now:
Daughter of Hollywood Murdered by Nutcase Gypsy.

She frees my wrists, and I cradle them to my chest even though they don’t hurt. A queasy feeling churns in my stomach. My skin prickles, and there is a subtle yet undeniable roar in my ears.

I sense Reyna moving around in the dark, and my muscles clench, ready to bolt. She strikes a match, and a spark ignites. When the large candle is relit, Reyna is standing over me, eyes glittering. I spring from my chair, my hand at my throat.

“Dude, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Reyna ignores my gasps for air and nails me with an eerie stare. “Caterina, a great adventure is in store for you. Be sure to keep your mind open to the lessons ahead.”

She nods toward the front of the tent, almost dismissively. I stand there disbelieving—and to be honest, more than a little frazzled—waiting for more. Surely she’s going to explain what all
that
was about.

Or not. Instead of giving any semblance of an explanation for the creepy parlor trick I just witnessed, Reyna just continues to stand there smiling, bouncing on her toes.

Okay, then.

With a shake of my head, I move to the front of the tent. “Well, thanks. For the free reading. That was…interesting.”

I grab my bag and slip my feet into my sandals. As I slide my sunglasses on, I keep waiting for her to say something, anything, but she remains silent.

This chick is two French fries short of a Happy Meal.

I stop just inside the tent, a hand on the front flap, to look at her one last time. Even from this distance, Reyna’s eyes visibly dance with emotion. I give a stilted wave, and she nods again, but as I turn around, she whispers, “
Latcho Drom
, Caterina.”

With chill bumps racing down my spine, I pull back the flap and step outside.

…

My first thought as I take in my surroundings, squinting at the bright sunlight permeating my shades, is that I must’ve been in the tent for a lot longer than thirty minutes. My next thought is that Italians are crazy.

The street is inexplicably filled with reenactors, dressed as if they’re at a Renaissance festival and taking their jobs way too seriously.

I stand there blinking, watching a donkey-drawn cart full of produce roll past me down the narrow road. The clattering of the cart’s wheels on the cobblestones echoes off the buildings, and all of a sudden, I am hit with the powerful stench of animal feces.

Lovely. Definitely time to head back to the hotel.

Stepping away from the tent, I feel soft fabric brush across my leg. Absently, I look down and freeze.

I’m wearing a flowing golden gown.

What the heck?

Flipping my sunglasses onto my head, I whirl back around to interrogate Reyna, but instead of the tent I just stepped out of, I see a goat. A freaking goat. Both the tent and Reyna are gone.

What was in that gypsy tea?

Mystified, I think back to the last half hour and try to make sense of what’s happened. All around me, people are dressed in similar period outfits, without a single badly dressed tourist in the bunch. The buildings look the same but cleaner, and somehow everything seems brighter, the colors sharper. There are no rumbling engines to drown out voices or the rasping
click
of cicadas.

I wander absently down the road, past reenactors hawking food from makeshift stalls, searching for any type of reflective surface to look into—perhaps a sideview mirror of a car or a shiny window—but the
polizia
must have cleared the streets for the weird reenactment. Maybe it’s a national holiday. How that explains my wardrobe change, however, is completely beyond me.

I spin around, disoriented, and my backpack slaps hard across my back.

Normalcy.

I’m not crazy. I have my backpack, my white-knuckled grip on sanity. I stoop down and tear into it, grateful it’s loaded with so much crap. I unzip my makeup case and pull out my compact. When I glimpse my reflection, I do a double take.

The first thing I notice is that my zit is gone.

Hallelujah for small miracles!

Then I notice the scrubbed face. Every lick of makeup that I painstakingly applied a few hours ago is gone. I like to think of the face as just another canvas to paint on, and right now, mine is completely blank. It’s like I’m auditioning for a Neutrogena commercial. Tilting the mirror farther and sliding off my shades, I see my hair is twisted on top of my head in a braided crown, a vibrant red ribbon threaded through it. Definitely not the way I fixed it—I stopped doing ribbons in kindergarten.

Maybe I’m dreaming.

I pinch myself. Hard. “Freakin’ A!”

Nope, not a dream.

Enrapt in the enigma that is suddenly my life, I rub my arm and stare at my backpack, the one thing that still makes sense. I don’t hear the man dressed like a crazed Shakespearean fanatic until he is standing right in front of me. He touches my hand and looks at me with concern. “Signorina D’Angeli?”

My spine tenses, and my teeth clench, but I paste on a sunny smile. Someone was bound to recognize me or see the resemblance eventually. I yank my hand back and open my mouth to inform him he’s wrong—that I’m not my mother—but out comes,
“Vi sbagliate.”

Holy crap!

Do I know what I said? I think for a moment and realize I do. I’d said,
“You are mistaken.”

Since when do I know Italian?

He gives me a puzzled look and motions with his cane toward a carriage that is sitting on the side of the narrow road. I look at the people traipsing about and realize I’ve become the center of attention—as if
I’m
the weird one!

My worst nightmare is coming true, standing in the middle of their scrutiny with no place to hide. Having one parent in front of the camera and the other behind it, you’d think I’d relish the attention. Or at least be used to it.

I hear their muffled whispers and understand every Italian word. Every witty comment made at my expense.

It’s like my brain is automatically translating.

I bunch the soft fabric of the dress in my hand and then reach up to feel the ribbon in my hair. I lightly skim my fingers over my chin and feel my lack of zit. I take in the costumes of the crowd, the stench of the animals, and the Italian I can now speak and understand. And suddenly it hits me.

Reyna must have pulled some kind of gypsy mojo.

Maybe this is one of those nifty “change your life” magic scenarios like in the movies. I mean, mostly I’m still expecting to blink and be right back in the midst of overpriced, gaudy tourism, but for now, the gypsy-time-warp explanation is infinitely better than thinking I’ve lost my mind. As I decide to go with that option, I feel my frantic tension melt away.

The growing crowd seems to notice my change in demeanor and begins shooting one another amused looks, but I don’t care anymore. A smile stretches across my face. Evidently I was wrong earlier; Reyna
is
a psychic mind reader, because if this is her special brand of bibbity-bobbity-boo, than she made my exact daydream from earlier in the courtyard come to life.

The long gold gown, the braided hair, the Italian merchant’s daughter, the time period. I am in Renaissance Florence.

I stare dumbly at the ground, the words and reality sinking in.

I’m in Renaissance Florence!

Cane Man clears his throat and points toward the carriage again. I glance at my surroundings with new eyes and suddenly remember Reyna’s words. It’s as if they float in the air around me.
Caterina, a great adventure is in store for you.

A maniacal laugh escapes, and I don’t even try to stop it. The man shoots me a look of terror, and I wave him off. Reyna was right, this is an
adventure
, and there’s no way I’m letting it pass me by without reveling in it. Gypsy’s orders.

Part of me wishes Dad could be here, too. He’d probably come back with killer ideas for a new historical or something. But being without Jenna for twenty-four whole hours (or I’m assuming, anyway, since that’s how long fairy-tale magic usually works, the whole stroke-of-midnight thing)? A mini-vacay from being the third wheel in my own pseudo-family? Yes, please. Sign me up for that kind of gypsy voodoo.

Nodding at the man, I take a step toward the carriage. There has to be some type of timer set on how long the magic will last, and I don’t want to waste another second. His shoulders visibly relax, and his anxious expression clears.

Then he shoots a pointed look at my backpack—obviously not the usual Renaissance accessory.

To distract him, and to figure out exactly what I’m dealing with here, I ask him in Italian, “Excuse me, but can you tell me what year it is? For the life of me, I just can’t seem to remember at the moment.”

The man’s anxious expression creeps back, and I stifle a laugh. He hesitates, as if he’s hoping to see I’m joking, and then replies, “It is the year of our Lord 1505. Are you ill, Signorina?”

I laugh and throw my arms around his stiff shoulders. The year is 1505! Michelangelo finished
David
in 1504. He was still in Florence in 1505, along with Leonardo da Vinci and Raphael. The artists at the heart of the Italian Renaissance, my idols, are walking in the very same city I am at this very moment. I look around eagerly, half expecting to see one of them pass by with an ancient paint set and easel.

The man steps back, seemingly scandalized by my overzealous behavior. I’m thinking hugging servants isn’t exactly par for the course in the sixteenth century, but I’m too giddy with excitement to worry about details. I take the man’s hand and practically drag him back to the carriage. People around us continue to stare, but I just smile and wave. Let them look; I don’t care.

I’m in Renaissance Florence, baby!