And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 43: I've Got My Own Sophia Loren, Sorry

Meow.

Something licked my nose. My eyes opened to meet a kitty's green eyes, looking at me in curiosity.

"I should be used to this by now," John muttered from somewhere to my left. "Hello, kitty," I smiled, getting up from my fallen position on Mimi's carpet to stroke its head.

"I wonder why the book dropped us off exactly where we left," John laughed; our third journey seeming so familiar now, like it was a bus ride. I smiled back at him, speech and noise faded and I crawled close to him and kissed him gently. "Come here, Cora," he whispered.

I nestled against him, stretched out on the floor. "Look at this. So similar yet so different from when we first left. And it's morning now." I glanced out the window; the sun was floating through, leaving a patch on the floor where the cat decided to lie.

We lay still for a moment; I suddenly murmured, "What if this is all a dream? What if this time travel—what if I'm lying on a hospital bed in reality—"

"Don't," John breathed, slipping a hand under my shirt and rubbing my lower back. Grateful for him stopping me, I dropped my head on him and listened to his heartbeat.

"As nice as this floor is, I know a place that's even better," John said slowly, the sun tuning our movements sluggish, and I got up with some effort. "Show me your room," I laughed, pulling him up. "Where is it?"

"Up here," he yawned, making his way towards a staircase. On the second landing he paused by his door and turned back to me. "Wait a minute," he said, slipping inside and shutting the door behind him. I gave him a good two seconds before I turned the doorknob and entered the room.

Pages and pages of what seemed like writings and drawings littered the floor, along with the typical teenage boy habit of not knowing where or what a hamper was. John's back was against me, quickly picking up clothes. I watched him open his closet, where a few shirts and the Edwardian jacket hung, but the rest was piled up in the back. He put the heap in his hands on the top shelf and turned around to see what else to do when he spotted me.

"I like this one," I said, reading out from a paper before me. "The Daily Howl."

"Give me that," he snapped, attempting to take it out of my hand. "I thought I told you to stay outside."

"What, and miss all the fun?" I laughed, nimbly leaping out of his way. "Not a chance."

"You're not getting away that fast," he said, walking towards me. I squealed and looked around; there was the window or his bed, and I landed on the bed and pulled the bedclothes around me, holding The Daily Howl close to my chest. "Can't get me under—argh!"

He had pulled the whole comforter off the bed, leaving me and a couple of articles of clothing. "Give me that," he repeated, sparks of laughter in his eyes. I shook my head and curled myself around the bit of paper that symbolized his juvenile talent. "It's mine now."

"Well, you've got to give me something in return," he gave up. I sat up, putting his paper to my left side away from him. "I'll draw ye something."

He scrabbled round for a piece of paper and a pen on his messy desk, and handed them to me. "I'll draw right here," I told him. "Don't look." His empty bed felt like an ocean; I was the one lifeboat inside the sea of his blue sheets. I stuck a tongue between my teeth, deciding what to draw. Ducking my head, I gave the pencil a few strokes until they resembled a certain scene back in Germany.

"Is that supposed to be me?" the voice came from behind me.

"I thought I told you not to look," I rolled my eyes.