Chapter 22 Cateline
CATELINE
Now Connor knows my dirty little secret. Well, not dirty. Messy. I’m a mess and use notes to keep my life organized. My head in order. I close the door to my room to keep the chaos hidden.
But I cannot be mad at him. Okay, maybe a little, because he really leaned in hard with the teasing when it came to the not-love list.
He’s such a butt. Not the GOAT or even a goat. They can be cute. I mean an actual butt. “Connor Wolfe is a big butty butt head.”
I kick the pile of socks he made and flop onto my bed. My hair is loose and stringy after leaving the towel on for too long. My skin is dry because I didn’t moisturize after he barged into my pig pen.
Maybe I am a guinea pig after all.
Typically, Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette offers one week of training.
However, the commissioner insisted we shadow the football players in real life for several weeks to make sure they’re applying what they learned.
Without students booked for the remainder of the month, I accepted because it meant more money for the school.
When we made this arrangement, I figured I’d be a glorified babysitter. Now, I’m not sure what it means. Something shifted between Connor and me.
His expression when I walked out of the bathroom was beastly...but like he saw Beauty—Belle. Me, for the first time. That sounds silly, but I don’t know how else to explain it.
However, if I were a Disney princess, I’d probably be Mulan or Jasmine, given my dark hair and high level of independence. Without a doubt, Maggie is Cinderella. Pippa reminds me of Snow White in every way except her general appearance. As for Everly, she’d definitely be Belle.
But here I have my head in fairytale clouds. I should know better.
Whatever happened in here just minutes ago seems like something out of a fantasy. Especially when we fell and I landed on top of Connor. The way his gaze drifted to my lips like they were the most delicious thing he’d ever seen made my heart race.
Then again, he goes by Wolf.
A pesky thought pokes me in the ribs. Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, kiddo.
Maybe I will. But the fact of the matter is, Connor Wolfe and I are incompatible. End of story. It’s written in ink, for goodness’ sake.
The letter from the embassy that poked me in the ribs last week sticks out among the rubble and ruins of my wardrobe. I really should read it. Do something about it.
But for the first time in a long time, I’d rather clean my room and fold my clothes.
The next day, Connor and I depart Blancbourg to travel to the United States. I leave the school in Arthur’s care, knowing it’s in good hands. On the way to the airport, I pray I’ll have a flash of insight into how to come up with the additional funds needed while I’m gone.
I’m sure Connor will be busy at times, so I’ll be able to create the calendar, which I can sell online. That should help some. But what else can I do to raise the necessary money?
When we get to the airport, we check our bags and then head over to security.
“Do they still say the United States is the land of opportunity?” I ask Connor while we wait in line.
“I’d like to think so.” His lips curl with a private smile. “Though I typically think of a place like France or Italy as having more of a romantic vibe.”
While the guards check our bags, I hiss, “That’s not what I meant. I’m struggling over how to save my school.” But I don’t think he hears me because a uniformed man with a bald head and bulldog-like jowls interrupts.
“Miss Berghier, please step over here.” The security guard gestures to me.
My eyebrows pinch together. “Me?”
He nods.
Picking up my things, I follow the guard to a small room. Connor remains by my side.
“I obeyed all the guidelines for packing cosmetics. Don’t have anything forbidden...” I mutter, running through a mental list of flying rules.
“Cateline Berghier, may I please see your passport?” the guard asks.
“I showed it back there and was allowed through,” I thumb over my shoulder.
“Yes, some information belatedly came to our attention. The computer system has been misbehaving today.”
Panic wells inside. “Am I on a list? I’m not on a list. I promise I am not a criminal.
” I turn to Connor and hit a brick wall, er, him.
He stands so close, I’m pressed against his firm chest. He’s on my list, but that’s not what I meant.
Perspiration dots all the places I can’t politely scratch in public.
Gripping my elbows and gazing into my eyes, he calmly says, “I highly doubt you’re on a list.”
“She’s on a list,” the guard confirms, consulting his computer. “It’s the final step before she’s issued a deportation order.”
I turn back around and press my hand to my forehead. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”
“As a matter of fact, it is what you didn’t do. Miss, it seems that your work visa expired and you didn’t follow the proper channels to remain in the country. I regret to inform you that you may not return to Concordia until you become a resident.”
The words rush at me and this room is suddenly too small, claustrophobia pushes the walls against me. “But I live here. I work here.”
“You’ll be getting on that airplane and may not return until—”
“May I speak to an official?”
He grunts. “I am an official and you had ample opportunity to discuss this with an immigration case worker. Says here they started sending you letters to your personal address and place of employment nine months ago.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“The good news is you have an additional three-month grace period to become a resident of Concordia or a reciprocal country, including the United States and Greenland—we have a shared interest in certain rare resources. Otherwise, you’ll have to remain out of the country for twelve months.
Think of it like probation for not following our immigration rules.
After that, you’re welcome to return and begin the process. ”
“I can’t. I have to work.” I have a school to save. “My whole life is there, er, here.”
“Well, you had a chance to get this sorted out. The postal service verified the delivery of the notices. It appears you’ve been ignoring them.”
I sink a little because he’s right. “How do I become a citizen during the three-month grace period?”
He flips to a page in my passport and then looks at something on the computer. “First, you become a permanent resident. That takes eight years, so you’re good there. Then you either begin the process with a series of tests, verifications, and of course, renouncing your native nation’s status.”
“How long does that take?”
“Six months.”
“But you said I only have three.”
“Correct.”
“Then what do I do?”
“A husband would help.”
“I’m not married.”
“If you’re married to a citizen of Concordia or one of our reciprocal countries, you’ll be able to squeeze back in and apply for a green card.” The guard’s lips lift in a barely-there smile.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Stay in the United States or get married and come back. Other than that, your only option is to return to France,” the guard says succinctly.
“But—” But I don’t know what to say or think or do. How did I let this happen? Oh, that’s right, I hid the truth of this situation in my room along with the rest of my internal clutter and things I’d like to pretend don’t exist. Oh, what could that be? Occasional loneliness and regret?
The guard flattens a page in my passport and stamps it with a big, red X. And under that, another with the date, but in black. The pounding of the stamps falls in time with the words loneliness and regret echoing in my head.
He grabs the papers from the printer and passes them to me along with my passport. “You’ll find the information you need printed out. Now, please excuse me, I have more people on lists to deal with.”
I can’t look at Connor. This is humiliating. He’s my student. I’m his coach. I’m supposed to be setting an example of how to live responsibly.
Keeping quiet until we get on the plane—he upgraded me to first class to sit with him—I do everything in my power not to fall apart. Not to sob. “What am I going to do?”
A large hand lands on top of mine, gripping the armrest. Another tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his copper eyes.
I realize I’d been sitting as if bracing for a crash landing. Nope, that just happened, and publicly, I might add.
“Hey, you’ll figure it out. You’re a teacher at the former Concordian royal palace, maybe they can help. Or your parents. Or—”
I shake my head slowly. “No, Connor. There’s no one. But I don’t want to think about it right now. Can we just pretend that didn’t happen until, well, for a few days so I can think it through and get some more information on my options?”
“Of course.” He pats my hand, but instead of pulling it away, keeps it there, giving a little squeeze during takeoff.
While Connor watches a movie and then dozes, I scour the internet for information about my situation.
Unfortunately, the guard was correct. I have two options.
Return to France for twelve months and a day, then reestablish residency in Concordia, essentially starting the eight-year residency clock all over.
My fear is that Blancbourg won’t be there when I return.
Alternatively, I could get married to a citizen of Concordia, Greenland, or the US in the next three months and obtain a green card, which would start the process of citizenship and allow me to remain in Concordia.
Connor was right. Arthur is taken and he’s too old, not that he was an option. But I don’t know anyone from Greenland. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from Greenland. I’ve always wondered why it’s called that, considering it’s often covered in snow, which is not green.
Focus, Cateline.
That leaves me with the United States. I puff my cheeks on an exhale. Before, I was thinking that I might figure out a way to save the school in the land of opportunity. Maybe I’ll find a husband too.
I let out a laugh. Looks like I’ll be going back to France in three weeks.
I’d like to say I welcome a homecoming. Instead, something fissures and cracks inside like I’m straddling a ravine, torn between falling back or moving forward.
Sadly, it seems like the immigration office will be making the choice for me.