Chapter 10 Maggie
MAGGIE
Ididn’t see a chance of rain in the forecast today, but I am drenched, and not too pleased about it either. I want to be mad at Declan for blasting me with the full force of his water guns, but my head fills with clouds.
Big, fluffy, confusing—cumulus, sink right in and fall straight through swoony, blissy—clouds?
No. No, no! This is so not fair.
I’ll admit that I was being prickly and closed off because of the grand entrance.
Declan doesn’t understand that beneath the clouds, there isn’t a safety net to catch me.
Not only have my parents not reached out since I attempted to inform them of my job overseas.
But I also can’t take a handout from them and it’s not because of pride.
It’s the expectation of payback. Not with an IOU.
They’d want me to beg, grovel, and record it all on film for the grand return of Honey Holiday, aka their shamefaced daughter, after the stunt they pulled.
It depends on which option they think will garner more views and money.
However, there’s another part of me that’s more than thrilled at the return of my best friend to my life, front and center, big and bold. There’s no one like Declan Printz. The Declan Printz.
And maybe that’s the problem. The clouds remind me of what Etta Jo was saying. Perhaps she wasn’t wrong.
But she has to be, because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that these kinds of clouds are like bubbles in a bubble bath. Wait long enough and they’ll pop. Disperse. Leave as everyone else in my life has always done.
I could stand here, dumbstruck, all night. I could dwell on what I’ve gotten myself into. Or I could just keep ‘er moving as I’ve always done.
But as I step into the Blancbourg Academy hallway with its plush carpet, cream-colored walls with wood detail, and glowing sconces, everything has happened so fast that I spin in a circle, not sure which way is up or where to go.
Literally.
No matter how many turns I take in the winding, labyrinth-like halls of the manor, I can’t escape my thoughts. I’m right back where I started. Declan is here. What is Declan doing here? Never mind, I know the answer to that question, but DECLAN IS HERE.
And I don’t know how to feel about it. I may not be Cinderella, but her bluebirds seem to have taken up residence in my belly. How do I know? They flapped excitedly when Declan showed up.
Our periodic phone calls and regular texts were like cookie crumbs, the kind with a little chocolate chip in them, a trail leading us to someday being in the same town at the same time.
But now that time has come and it’s like a full cookie jar plus an assortment of cupcakes, pastries, and brownies. All of it all at once.
However, this is a different kind of sugar high altogether.
I’m overwhelmed with I-don’t-know-what. It won’t settle inside long enough for me to identify its meaning or purpose.
Over the years, I’ve watched just about every one of Declan’s games. But he was mostly hidden under all his gear, which was good, because not seeing much of him lessened the ache of missing my best friend. Wide receiver number forty-four was more of an abstraction streaking across the field.
After the squirt gun shower, my insides went swirly. My thoughts went twirly. I’m whirling and spiraling and I don’t-know-what-ing. But I have a job to do and can’t let our reunion cloud that.
Nor will I think about what Etta Jo said about clouds. Nope. My feet will remain planted firmly on solid ground, thank you very much.
All the same, I text her because I can’t very well text Declan with this news.
Maggie: There’s been a bit of a development. Do you have a minute?
Etta Jo: I’m up to my elbows in moving supplies for the new studio, but I’m all ears. Do tell!
Maggie: On the flight over, I’d vaguely imagined the finishing school consisted of wayward adults wearing uniforms—the girls in plaid skirts and knee socks and the boys in tailored jackets. I did not picture the beast of a man who also happens to be my best friend.
Etta Jo: Elaborate on what you mean by beast who also happens to be your best friend.
Before I can, footsteps click down the hall toward me. There must be marble floors somewhere in this building.
Maggie: Can’t talk now, but PLEASE not a word of this to Giselle.
A willowy woman with dark hair and the posture of someone who’s spent plenty of time balancing a book on her head as she walks down a set of stairs (also my imagined version of finishing school) turns the corner at the other end of the hallway.
Her hair is in a bun and she wears a white blouse with pearl buttons, a stylish red scarf, and a black pencil skirt. With sharp eyes, she surveys me, disheveled and drenched as if I’m someone in need of etiquette training. “May I help you?” She has a French accent that’s stronger than Giselle’s.
“Yes, you may,” I say pleasantly. “I’m a new employee. You must be Cate.” A moment too late, I realize I should’ve addressed her more formally and not by Giselle’s nickname for her cousin.
Her eyebrow lifts sharply like a guillotine before it drops. “I’m Cateline Berghier, the headmistress at Blancbourg.” She holds out her hand to shake. It’s cold. So far, it matches her personality.
“I’m Maggie Byrne. It’s nice to meet you. I’m friends with—” I’m about to say Declan, then ask about a dozen questions or possibly quit, but Cateline interrupts.
“You’re Giselle’s friend from Florida.” She saves me from blowing my identity.
I nod. “That’s right. I want to thank you for this opportunity,” I say, proof positive that despite my appearance, I am not a candidate for the lessons Blancbourg has to offer.
Cateline’s eye twitches slightly and stress tugs her features. “We’ve been in desperate need of help.” She pauses as though debating whether to elaborate.
“I’m happy to be here.”
“It’s our mission to make celebrities, prominent figures, and even football players classy again.
There was a time, not long ago, when people would get dressed up for dinner, to board an airplane, or just take a trip to the post office.
There, they’d hold the door open, greet strangers, and use proper manners.
Now, we have a bunch of zombies, hobbling around the world with crumbs in their beards, sitting while a pregnant or elderly woman stands on the bus, and ignoring social graces. ”
Nodding, she’s not wrong. “It’s unacceptable,” I say in a scandalized tone when she pauses. While I agree, I’m discombobulated and taken off guard by her strong opinion (and to be honest, scary delivery). I guess my acting chops still come in handy.
“Would you believe that the last time I was in Boston, where these football players are from, I went out to dinner with an associate and every single person in the restaurant was on their phone at the table? Rule number one is no phones at the table. I believe your President Washington popularized rule number eighteen from 110 Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation. There may not have been cell phones in Revolution-era America, but by golly, there were manners.”
“I completely understand your concerns.” I take the cue to simply agree with this woman, whatever she says, or risk being at the wrong end of a verbal lashing.
“But where are my manners? Have you been to your room yet?” she asks.
“My room? Do you mean the meeting with my student, er, client?” I’m hesitant to reveal to her how dreadful Declan was.
Not only would that break our friendship code of conduct, but likely Blancbourg’s rules for opposite reasons.
He and I agreed to a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Declan Printz and I fake don’t know each other.
We’re fake strangers. Not best friends. We’ll pretend we’ve never met until today.
Her nose wrinkles in what Declan and I used to call a stink face—it’s part condescending and partly disgusted at what she’s sure to call these football cavemen we have the unfortunate social responsibility to refine and tame.
I shake my head. “I mean, yes, I’ve been to my room to meet my client, but not the room where I’ll be staying here at the manor.”
Cateline starts down the hall, motioning for me to follow.
Note to self: pay attention and keep up with this woman.
“At the moment, we’re short-staffed, so you got lucky and will have a larger suite than what we normally offer new teachers.”
We make several turns down various halls and up flights of stairs. The building has a classic, palace-like feel with lots of rooms and accessways. I lose whatever remains of my sense of direction. At last, we stop in front of a door with a brass plaque that reads Regency Suite.
“Here we are.” Cateline opens the door. Late morning light floods the space.
She gives me a second and appraising look in question now that we’re not in the dim hallway.
“I take it you understand the importance of appearance at Blancbourg. I deduce that what we have here,” she gestures up and down my body, “is a result of you meeting your new client. Not surprising, given the bad-boy football players’ reputations.
I want a full report on him. He may try to charm you or convince you not to be forthcoming in your evaluations, but I want every detail.
” The glare of warning she gives could sever heads.
I clear my throat. “Sure thing. He was a beast of a man-child, but I have no doubt Blancbourg’s methods will get him in shipshape.
” My voice cracks because my fib telling could use some work.
Also, man-child, shipshape, who uses those terms?
Oh, right, me. Little Miss Liar McLie-y Pants, who never met her client until today.
Cateline’s eyes flash. “Let me guess, a bucket of water over the door? Water pistols?”
I give a sheepish nod, feeling scrutinized and like I might get a scolding by association. I don’t want Declan to get into worse trouble, especially if Cateline is reporting to the commissioner.
“I’ve seen it all and will be keeping an eye on Mr. Printz. Please report to me if you need anything or if his behavior gets worse.” She practically growls.
“Of course. This is a lovely school and I’m honored to be here,” I say as if reading from Emily Post’s script of polite conversation. “Thank you.”
“It’s our pleasure and you have my apologies for not offering a formal orientation.
” The grandfather clock chimes from downstairs.
“I am running late, but I’ll quickly sum it up.
You will start with coaching, practice, and then the application of our lessons.
Since we’re dealing with football players, I recommend game-ifying it.
While you want Mr. Printz to be a civilized human being and not a caveman, you want him to win.
But remember, you are always playing offense.
You want to be several steps ahead and plan preemptively. ”
I would not want to see what this woman would do if I lose.
“Oh, and most importantly, our lessons will culminate in The First Annual Boston Bruisers Charity Ball, where we will get these boys out of their sweats and into three-piece tuxes.” Cateline’s voice drops and turns breathy.
“Have you ever seen a man of stature in a tuxedo? It’s a sight to behold. ”
“I know—I can imagine.” I correct, because I recall Declan wearing a black and white suit with a bowtie at our private school’s prom.
We didn’t go as friends but had other dates.
Strangely, we ended up together that night anyway and went out for pizza, all dressed up, and in the rain.
Then again, he’s certainly filled out with racks and racks of muscle since those days.
If I’m not mistaken, her cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink. Mine too.
Strange, because it’s drafty here in the hallway outside the regency suite.
“That said, personal interactions with pupils are not tolerated and result in immediate termination. As for The First Annual Boston Bruisers Charity Ball, you might say it’s the big one. A Super Bowl of sorts. Details to come.”
I tread water, trying to keep up with all this information.
“Thank you for your time, Miss Byrne. Best wishes in the coming weeks. If you’ll excuse me, my new client is tardy. This shall be interesting,” she says, turning on her heel and storming down the hall as though preparing to go into battle.
Given the water guns and how confusion about Declan drenches me, I better gear up for a fight too.