roared.
Sam was off. He was small, but he was fast. Years of dodgeball had made him flexible, and at this point, his fear was greater than Dylan’s anger. The chase was on.
There was no place to hide in Millard Fillmore High. If Sam’s time there had taught him anything, it was that. His best move would be to head to the office, but the code of kids everywhere was written in his DNA: “Don’t Squeal.” So he ran, with three pairs of feet thundering behind him.
Then he saw it: “Danger. Keep Out.”
It was an ordinary door, just another classroom. Sam didn’t know what the Danger could be. He knew that Dylan and company wouldn’t Keep Out because of a sign. But he was pretty sure that they would think that he wouldn’t go into a room marked Danger Keep Out.
So he did. He opened the door, and dashed inside.
And then he was falling.
TWO
Then
THUD!
Sam was face down on a stone floor. He tried to pop up as if nothing had happened, but his body wouldn’t respond. His head was spinning and his arms were rubber. The fall had knocked the wind out of him, helped in no small measure by the weight of his backpack. “Idiot, idiot, idiot,” was all he could think. He had left the door wide open behind him, and Dylan and the Goon Squad were bound to be on him in a minute. With an effort, he sat up and caught his breath.
As he looked around himself, he thought, “Where am I?” He then thought, “That’s what everyone says.” But the question was reasonable.
The room was unlike anything he had ever seen at MFHS. It seemed to be a combination shop class, science lab, and art studio. The tables—there were several—were cluttered with paper and canvas and inkwells and . . . inkwells? Books were scattered around the room, and they were definitely old school. Their pages were uneven, and they were bound in leather or just tied together with cord. There were several paintings, mostly unfinished, and little wooden models of fantastic machines. The windows weren’t the simple panes of glass he was used to, but were works of art—diamonds of glass enclosed by strips of metal. Some of the glass was colored, making the light seem alive. Some of the windows were open. The windows were never open at Fillmore— did they even open? But these windows were open, and the air was different. Fresher somehow.
“Well?”
The voice startled Sam. He hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the room. He scrambled to his feet and said, “Sorry sir,” almost out of habit. “I know this room is off-limits, but . . .” Sam’s voice trailed off as he saw the figure in front of him. The man was old, but still full of life. His face was angular and surrounded by long white hair and a beard. He was dressed in a flowing sleeveless smock, which covered a loose shirt and heavy pants that barely passed his knees. Sam knew this guy—it was Dumbledore. “OMG I’m in Harry Potter,” he thought. “How hard did I hit my head?”
“Don’t just stand there. Did you bring the vitriol?”
“Excuse me?” Sam said. Vitriol was one of those words he had heard before but didn’t know what it meant, and now that was going to bite him on the butt.
“The lead. For the ink.”
Sam didn’t know what to say. Dumbledore was looking at him as if he had three heads and none of them had a brain. “I’ll just go back the way I came,” he thought. Facing the Goons was looking more attractive. He turned to the door. It was definitely not the door he had come through. It was heavy and wooden, with a latch instead of a doorknob. He wrestled it open and stepped into the hallway. This was not Millard Fillmore High. The passage was long and dim, hung with tapestries instead of Emergency Evacuation Procedures. Sam’s head was starting to spin again. He turned back and smiled weakly. “Where am I going again?”
“Oh, how he torments me!” the old man cried, raising his hands to heaven. He grabbed a brush and attacked the painting in front of him. It was a woman in a black dress. She had a slight but immediately recognizable smile.
A light switched on in Sam’s brain. He knew the painting. It was the Mona Lisa.
Which meant the man wasn’t Dumbledore at all. He was Leonardo da Vinci!
But how?
“Excuse me sir,” Sam said meekly.
“Go away! Tell them to send me a new assistant.”
“I’m not your assistant,” Sam replied.
“I know you’re not. I just fired you.”
“No, what I mean . . .”
“What! What what!” the man snapped at Sam. “What . . . what are you wearing?” For the first time, the old man looked at Sam. Really looked at him. “You are not from around here.”
“No sir, I’m . . .”
“Quiet!” Leonardo studied him. “This hair. Very short.” Sam drew back as the old man rubbed his head. “And this outfit. Strange. Definitely foreign.” Sam jerked as Leonardo reached out for him. “Stand still!” The old man was used to getting his way. He grasped Sam’s jacket and rubbed the cloth between his gnarled fingers. “What is this material?”
“I don’t know,” Sam answered. “Some cotton-poly blend.”
“Cotton Polly. I don’t know her.”
“Excuse me, Mr. da Vinci . . .”
The old man barked out a laugh. “Mr. da Vinci? Who is Mr. da Vinci?”
“I’m sorry, you look like Leonardo da Vinci.”
“That’s because I am Leonardo da Vinci! At least you know that much!”
“So Mr. da Vinci . . .”
“Enough! Mr. da Vinci is nonsense. I am Leonardo.”
“I was just trying to be polite . . .”
“Polite has nothing to do with it. Da Vinci is not my name, da Vinci is where I am from. Where are you from?”
“Chicago.”
“Never heard of it. It must be very small.”
“No, it’s very big. It’s the third largest city in the United States.”
“The United States! Ha!” Leonardo barked out another laugh. “The Italian states will never be united! Not as long as Florence wants to tear out the heart of Naples, and Bologna would trample Venice. Meanwhile Rome sits in the middle, puppet master to it all. No, as long as the Borgias and the Medicis and the Sforzas are constantly at war, Italy will remain a divided nation, joined only by the genius of Virgil and Dante. And Leonardo!”
The old man really liked to hear himself talk.
“No, you don’t understand,” Sam tried to explain. “The United States of America.
