Rachel Harris - A Tale of Two Centuries

“Whoa.” Cat throws up her hands to halt my outburst. “Chill, chica. I come in peace, I promise.” The strange phrase diverts me, as was probably her intention. She smiles softly. “You’re right, you do speak correctly. And personally, I love the way you talk—you’re like my very own BBC special come to life. But see, that’s my point. If you go to school tomorrow and talk like that, you’re gonna be the only one…well, except for a couple stuffy English teachers. Those half words you say I use? They’re called contractions, and that’s the biggest thing you have to learn.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Contractions?”

Sometimes it is as if Cat speaks her own language—beyond the English I can now somewhat comprehend. Listening to her talk has always been a touch unsettling, but back in my own time, I could brush off her nonsensical comments as mere rubbish. Here, in the future, where everyone I have encountered seems to utter the same words and phrases, it is a mindboggling struggle to feign understanding. It is as if there is English…and then another unique dialect, reserved solely for locals.

“It’s a way to take two words and combine them so it’s quicker and easier to get out.” She shrugs. “What can I say? We’re Americans; we’re lazy. But no one goes around saying things like cannot , or it is I , or even going to anymore . We say can’t and I’m and gonna. ”

While the concept of shortening words is nothing new, the general practice has never been encouraged, much less the expected norm. I roll my tongue around the word gonna and cringe.

Cat nods in approval, apparently having missed my distaste. “I’m jotting down a quick list of the most important stuff before my dad comes home. You can begin trying some of these out tomorrow, and then you’ll have an entire weekend to learn them before Monday.”

My gaze shifts to the writing on her lap where a thick line divides the writing on the page into two neat columns. At the sheer amount of blue ink on the page, my eyes grow wide.

Can language truly have changed that much?

My cousin glances up and, misunderstanding my shock, rushes to reassure. “Less, I swear it’s not that I want you to change or even think you need to. I think you’re a bag of awesome just the way you are…but if you really want to fit in here, I’m just saying, you might wanna work on the speech a little.”

I concede with a nod and plop onto the springy bed beside her. Tucking my legs under my gown, I eye the growing list in her hand. “I shall endeavor to learn these contractions before nightfall. Is there anything else?”

Cat chews on the tip of her pen and narrows her eyes in thought. “Well, we do need to work on getting you an acting gig. When Dad gets home, I’ll see if he has any hookups with auditions. Judging by how long my time travel adventure was, I’m thinking something smaller. Maybe a commercial or walk-on part, at least to start with.”

I circle my head in a nod, pretending to follow the jargon. “Will your father be angry that I am staying with you?” I pause and squint at the page, attempting to read upside down. “I mean, that I’m staying with you.” Cat flashes me a grin in approval. “Will he not find it strange that a foreign exchange student is unexpectedly living in your home without prior warning?”

“Are you kidding?” She gives an exaggerated shake of her head and laughs. “Jenna’s got him so twisted up with wedding plans he’ll assume he just forgot. Honestly, the timing couldn’t be better.”

Cat turns again to her list, and I lean back onto my elbows. Despite her kind assurances, my stomach of butterflies remains in full flight. According to her, Mr. Crawford will arrive any minute expecting to pick up his daughter for a nice, quiet dinner, and instead will discover me—an extra mouth to feed and another woman he has to shelter and protect.

Could it really be as simple as my cousin believes? Will he just welcome a total stranger into his home and family?

To distract myself from thoughts of being turned away, or worse, becoming an inconvenience, I scan the expanse of Cat’s walls and catch sight of a painting tucked to the side of her bed. I gasp as a feeling of home envelops me, and I lean closer, sure that my eyes are playing tricks.

The rushing waterfall. A woman wearing a crown of daises and white linen. The folds of the fabric draped around her slender body, gathered and dipped in such a way as to expose a mysterious pear tattoo on her hip.

“Lorenzo’s painting,” I whisper in awe.

Beside me, Cat stiffens. She swallows visibly and focuses on the faded masterpiece before us. “I found it…the day Reyna sent me back.” A small smile plays upon her lips. “You don’t even want to know how much buying this set my dad back—or the creative linguistic gymnastics I had to pull off to explain why the girl looks so much like me…” Her voice trails off then, and her gaze turns wistful.

Not wanting to open what I hope is a healing would, I temper my voice and say, “I remember when he completed it last year. A year after you left,” I add, a gentle reminder of how long it has been. For her it has been but a mere handful of weeks, but for those of us she left behind, it has been considerably longer. “Lorenzo poured his entire heart and soul into that painting, Cat. He has never forgotten you.”

Pain washes over her face, and her eyes close. After a moment she whispers, “Me neither.”

For someone who seldom enjoys sharing her emotions, Cat’s are written all over her face . I turn away, disconcerted at the rare display, allowing my cousin her privacy.

The door to Cat’s room vibrates, followed by a hollowed thump down the hall. A loud male voice calls out, “Peanut?”

Cat starts, as if coming out of a daze. “In here, Dad!” My hands fly to my hair, smoothing and flipping the loose strands, and she plasters a grin upon her face. Winking at my sudden wide-eyed panic, she shoves the tablet under her pillows. “Just showing my roomie her new digs!” Quieter, she says to me, “That should get his attention.”

Sure enough, a tall man with dark blond hair and kind, quizzical brown eyes materializes at the bedroom door. “‘Roomie’?”

Forcing my feet not to bolt in fear, I swallow down the lump of guilt for my part in the upcoming deception, for Cat does have a point. The truth is hard to believe. Plus, I have never been very good at denying my cousin anything.

“Yeah, you remember, don’t you, Dad?” she asks, confusion wrinkling her brow. And she says I am the actress? “The semester foreign exchange program we signed up for? You said it’d be okay. I did forget to mention Alessandra was arriving today, though. I hope you don’t mind.”

To be honest, watching the deceit roll off her tongue so effortlessly is both awe-inspiring and a tad worrisome.

But Cat’s father should be commended for his agreeable nature. His look of puzzlement deepens for a brief moment before smoothing out into a welcoming smile. “No, of course I don’t mind. Alessandra, is it?” I nod, and his smile broadens. “Glad to have you here. Where is it that you’re from again?”

Oh, about five hundred years into the past. “Florence, Italy, sir.”

His mouth opens in surprise. “Is that right? Did Cat tell you we recently returned home from a visit to Florence? Beautiful city. What an amazing coincidence.”

Coincidence indeed.

I nod in response, biting my lip, not wanting to ruin the ruse for my cousin. I have never been proficient at maintaining falsehoods. Cipriano stopped telling me about his illicit exploits long ago in well-deserved fear I would let something slip to our parents.