My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Page 2

  A family of four stands off to the side, huddled close together and looking completely out of their element. The little girl clutching her dad’s leg is probably no older than eight or nine, and their teenage son has earbuds in and an iPod clipped to his jacket. He’s got the whole scruffy skater-boy look going on. He catches me gawking, and I quickly turn away.

  Way to spaz, Cat.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch the conceited grin on Skater Boy’s face and roll my eyes. This is why I don’t date. Well, this and the fact that the guys who do approach me are either wannabe actors just trying to get a meeting with Dad or asshats who expect me to act like my mother. Really, who needs birth control when you have parents like mine?

  A cute elderly couple rounds out the rest of our group. The woman’s serene smile makes my heart hurt for my grandparents, reminding me of the summers I used to spend at Nana’s house in Mississippi, tucked away from the rest of the world. It was the only time I could pretend I was normal.

  But when I glance back at our small group, I realize that isn’t true. Not one of these people has given me a second look. It’s like I can actually feel the weight leaving my shoulders.

  “Attenzione!” Our guide beams at us and points to the golden-brown stone palace behind her. “This is the Palazzo Strozzi,” she tells us in highly accented English, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Besides a few key phrases I’ve picked up in my reading, none of which will be helpful in any type of real-life situation, my Italian is limited to prego, pasta, and pizza. “It was begun in the year 1489 for Filippo Strozzi the Elder, a rival of the famous Medici family, who wanted to create the most magnificent palace in Florence. It was inspired by the Palazzo Medici, but unlike that palace, this one is a completely freestanding structure.”

  I shield my eyes as I peer up at the enormous building. The rough stone façade adds weight to the massive structure, commanding even more of a visual presence in the piazza. What blows my mind the most is that this was actually a house for one family. And not even a royal one. While Beverly Hills certainly has its share of over-the-top homes, the Italians in the Renaissance knew how to do it right.

  Our guide—Paola, I read from her name tag—gives us a few minutes to explore the area before we leave for the rest of the tour, and I slide my digital camera out of my bag. I don’t have time to sit and sketch all these buildings now, but I can cram my memory stick with inspiration for later. Following the other members of our group through the building’s rounded entrance, I snatch a half-dozen shots just of the stone work before turning to capture the pockets of people milling about inside.

  Although it’s crowded and the palace is surrounded by street traffic, the courtyard feels peaceful. Quiet. In contrast to the warm October air and the sun beating against the pavement outside, the interior courtyard is cool. I lean against one of the tall stone columns and close my eyes.

  Behind my veiled lids, I imagine this house is mine and I’m the Italian daughter of a wealthy Renaissance merchant. I picture myself gliding down the stone steps and across the secluded space in a long, flowing golden gown, my hair twisted in braids around my head. My days are spent sewing or reading, living among the artisans of the time. At the age of sixteen, I’m already considered an adult in the eyes of many.

  I’m certainly not forced to host a stupid party I don’t want.

  A hand touches my shoulder, and I open my eyes to the woman from our group, the one who reminds me of Nana. She doesn’t seem to speak English, but she motions to the street, and I nod. I lean my cheek against the cool, smooth stone one last time, then follow her out into the busy piazza.

  Our group congregates around Paola and the flag she holds before taking off at a dizzying pace. Over the next two and a half hours, I pack more facts into my brain than I did studying for the PSATs and load up my camera as the rest of the tour melds into a series of Italian sights, sounds, and smells.

  After a brief stop and sugar rush at a gelato shop, Paola leads us to the Accademia di Belle Arti. Home to Michelangelo’s David sculpture and the reason I took this tour. For years, I’ve dreamed of coming here, seeing up close the artwork and masterpieces I’ve considered friends, and I have to pinch myself to prove it’s real. If my art teacher Mr. Scott could see this, he’d flip.

  I pass the crowd of art students on the ground sketching, wishing I could join them, and stand in front of David. The statue towers over me. I study the detail in his face and neck, his knees and feet. I stare forever at his hands. It’s as if his fingers could flinch at any second. He was carved over five hundred years ago, yet the detail work remains unrivaled.

  It’s strange. I always knew people were people, regardless of time, but seeing the craftsmanship before me, in person, it’s like an exciting wake-up call. Throughout history, while day-to-day life has changed, humanity hasn’t. Renaissance people had the same talents, abilities, creativity, passion, drive, hopes, and fears we have today.

  Or at least close enough.

  Paola walks up and gives me the evil eye. As if waking from a dream, I blink and look around to realize our group’s disbanded and the mob around the statue has grown. She points to the exit, and I take one last glance at David, knowing I’ll be back.

  I follow Paola out into the warm Tuscan air and watch with an almost giddy feeling as she waves good-bye and disappears through the crowded Piazza di San Marco.

  I am alone in Florence.

  A quick check to my watch confirms I have an hour before I need to be back at the hotel, and I plan to enjoy it.

  A couple of guys zip by me on bikes as I turn down a side street, wandering and exploring, following the crowd and my internal navigation system. I end up at an outdoor market and slow my natural stride to match the lazy pace of the other patrons. Stalls are bursting at the seams with leather jackets, purses, and belts, and I make a mental shopping list of all the goodies I plan to come back and buy. At an outdoor delicatessen, a young boy working behind the counter offers me a sample of biscotti, and it literally melts in my mouth.

  The street sign for the Via Sant’Antonino is ahead, and even though it’s only been fifteen minutes, I decide to head back to the hotel. It’s probably best not to push Dad to the limit on the very first day. Plus, if I come back early, maybe he’ll give me a get-out-of-jail-free card on that family dinner later.

  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 eyel
id 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.