A Tale of Two Centuries

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