A Tale of Two Centuries

Cat shakes her head and tugs me onward. “You know, as much as I’d love to hear what it is he did to get you all riled up, your next class starts in, like…” She widens her eyes at her watch, then picks up her pace to a slow sprint. “Crap, in a minute. But don’t think you’re off the hook. At lunch, you are totally spilling how all that just happened.”

I trudge along behind my cousin and think, If I am able to make it that long.

Yet somehow, by the grace of Signore, the stars above, or more likely, the lack of Austin in my next two classes, I get through the rest of my morning. Biology proves surprisingly interesting, though I overhear rumblings of an upcoming fetal pig dissection and take a moment to pray it occurs after Reyna returns me to my own time, and then comes British literature—a subject that primarily discusses works created after my time, but I am still able to semi-follow. But through it all, my mind keeps flashing back to American government…or more specifically, to a particular insufferable classmate.

The bell rings again.

I gather my notebook and pen, place them inside my satchel, and follow the line of eager students fleeing through the door. The moment I step out into the cluttered chaos of the hall, Cat materializes near my elbow. “Spill it.”

It takes the entire journey to our midday meal, down the stairs and outside the building, sidestepping gossiping students, for me to share the sordid story of my first high school experience. Pausing outside the large double doors to the cafeteria, I catch a whiff of something delicious. My stomach rumbles. From the corner of my eye I see my cousin’s lips twitch at my tale, and with a huff, I say, “The rest you witnessed yourself in the hallway.”

Cat nods. Her lips twitch again, and in an obvious attempt to transform her amusement into sympathy, she places a hand on my shoulder. “Wow.” She clears her throat. “That was…wow.”

She clamps her lips around her teeth, but unfortunately the gesture does nothing to stop the laughter shining in her big brown eyes. I sigh the sigh of the weary and grin despite my embarrassment. I guess the situation is rather amusing in retrospect.

Cat’s dazzling smile bursts through her composure in answer to my own. “Now that’s what I call a first impression.”

Shaking my head, I strive for the positive. “At least it cannot be said that I am forgettable.”

“Nope, you’re definitely not that.”

She laughs, then tugs open the doors, enveloping us both in an intense wall of sound. I widen my eyes and take a hesitant step inside, openly gawking.

The chaotic maze of hallways has nothing on this room. Bright multicolored papers litter the walls. Undistinguishable foul scents mingle with mouth-watering temptation. Loud music meets a cacophony of yelling, laughter, and utensils clanking, all melding into one elongated roar.

Lining the periphery of the space are various food stations, each boasting their own delectable choices, and each wafting a unique, overpowering aroma. Rows of students stand before them, choosing items before shuffling away laden with trays to the eating area in the center. Here, tables and chairs are squished together for seating, but apparently also for leaning, standing, and in one odd case (and what should be impossible, considering the noise level), napping.

Squeezing my throbbing temples between my hands, I ask, “Where does one even begin in this bedlam? How do you even think, much less choose what to eat or where to sit?”

“Well, I usually just follow my nose, or when I’m lazy, the shortest line,” Cat replies, leading me to a station labeled Panini. “In this case, the line is both short and the choice particularly yummy. Now, as for where to sit, normal people clump together in their group of status.”

Selecting a Sicilian panini from the menu, a fun nod to my homeland, I wrinkle my nose at her word choice. Cat sees my confusion and explains. “I don’t really have a group…or a social status…or even many friends.” She pins me with a look. “Mama Dearest—aka Caterina Angeli, the vixen of Hollywood, and the reigning queen of tabloids everywhere—pretty much kept me friendless until my little time travel escapade. When I got back, I started hanging out with this girl Hayley, but she eats during the second lunch period. So peeps like me kinda just float wherever the spirit moves us. And today, it’s leading me over there.” She points her elbow to a semi-empty table toward the back.

As we maneuver through the confined aisles, I try to process this latest piece of information. I have always envisioned my lively cousin at the center of every room, every party, every possible social sphere. The fact that she is without a large group of peers is astonishing. And yet another modern American occurrence I cannot fathom.

Cat plops her tray onto the table, and I take a seat across from her, cringing as my feet stick to the floor.

“So back to Austin,” she says, shaking her carton of orange juice. “I don’t know what to tell ya. I mean, sure, the guy’s great for a laugh, and he occasionally shocks everyone with a semicoherent thought—when he bothers to even show up—but, dude, I can’t imagine having to work with him.”

She punctures the top of her carton with a straw and slurps loudly. I take a sip of my lovely water loaded with ice and agree with her assessment. I cannot imagine working with Austin, either. If this morning was any indication, prolonged exposure in each other’s company will only lead to inappropriate flirtation, the inability to speak or hold my temper, and most likely, a severe headache.

I take a bite of my panini. Marvelous gooey, cheesy flavor explodes in my mouth. Cat laughs. “Good, huh?”

I nod and take another bite, my eyes rolling back in bliss. They flutter open and land on a group of boys gathering at the table behind Cat. They are all wearing matching shirts with their names written above a bright red number. I am unsure if their clothing marks them as uniformed guards or a band of students unable to remember their own names, but I am fascinated, staring at the writing and dreaming up possible meanings. A boy with the name Daniels written above the number thirty-two slaps the boy beside him on the back, jostling him forward, and I catch a flash of blond curls at the table beyond.

An eerie feeling crawls in my chest.

Bobbing and weaving my head around so I can see past the boy’s massive arm, I struggle to get another glimpse.

“Less?”

Can it be possible?

A hand waves in front of my eyes, and I crane my neck, knowing it cannot be him, but excitement spurs me on nevertheless.

“Earth to Less, come in, Less.”

A faint, familiar rumbling laugh reaches my ears. Cat tenses across from me, then twists her head. The boys take their seats, my line of vision clears, and I gasp.

Lorenzo.

Confusion colors my world. Cat turns back to face me, and I stammer, “H-how is he here?”

She gives me a wobbly smile. “Less, that’s not Lorenzo. It’s Lucas.”

“Lucas?” I shake my head.

“Lucas Cappelli, to be precise. Apparently Lorenzo is Lucas’s ancestor.” Cat’s voice wobbles, and she looks down at her hands. “Freaky, ain’t it?”

I turn back to the boy who could be Lorenzo’s twin and nod. “The word freaky seems to fit the situation amazingly well.”

Lucas is two tables away, but even so, I can clearly distinguish his dark brown eyes, curly golden locks, and the dimple slicing through the bronze skin of his cheek.

Across from me, Cat pulls apart her sandwich, shredding the crispy bread into minuscule pieces. The slight tremor of her hands and the unnecessary mutilation of her food are the sole indicators that she is upset— otherwise her countenance remains as cool and collected as ever.

Unsure if I should pry or leave it be, I take a bite of my still intact panini and wait.

I do not have to do so for long.

“I met him at my sweet sixteen a few weeks ago.” She glances up, and I am struck by the vulnerability in her gaze. My cousin is never vulnerable. “He’s a junior, a year older than us. His family