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Be sure to come right back to read a snippet of Cateline and Wolf’s story,The NOT Love List.
Chapter 1:Cateline
Concordia is best known for its chocolate cake—three layers of moist deliciousness cushioned by fluffy buttercream and topped with rich ganache.
As someone with what I privately call a “Chocolate tooth,” having easy access to this kind of confection is vitally important. For the uninitiated, a chocolate tooth is like a sweet tooth, but specifically for all things cocoa-related. My dentist does not approve.
The chocolate cake was but one of the pros of moving to Concordia. Another thing this small country is famous for are the sweeping views of the ocean to the south and the lush mountainsides that give way to impressive peaks to the north.
The third are the sunrises. I live for those. Don’t get me wrong, sunsets are pretty, but there’s something especially promising about a new day.
If you’re a night owl, please don’t hate this early bird.
Upon waking, my first thought is chocolate cake. Don’t judge.
My second one is much like a character in a fairytale cartoon, I envision rushing to the window, throwing open the curtains, and letting in the light of what’s sure to be a beautiful day.
However, I don’t dare because I’d risk stumbling over the shoes, clothes in need of dry cleaning, and the rest of my life scattered on my bedroom floor like confetti.
Also, it’s still dark out. Like clockwork, my body knows what day it is without having to look at the puppy-themed calendar onthe wall. I guarantee that if any of my clients wandered in here, they wouldn’t believe this is the headmistress’s room. Like my chocolate tooth, I keep my mess to myself.
I flop back onto the mattress, but something pokes into my side. I dig out one of my many black high heels—this one with scalloped detail on the top line. One of my previous clients noticed that I have an assortment of black high heels—different heights, textures, and styles. All black, all designer, all made to elongate my legs. I suppose some habits don’t disappear after the thirty days they say it takes to break one.
How many years has it been since I gave up what everyone said was a promising future in ballet? Before I can make that calculation, something else pokes me.
I click on the dim light on my bedside table.
The piece of mail is addressed to me, Cateline Berghier. The first one like this came a few months ago and they’ve increased in frequency. I ignored it until last week and was instantly sorry that I opened it.The immigration office regrets to inform me that my work visa has expired and blah, blah, blah.
I’ll deal with that problem later. After I get this school back on track and after I deal with today. Every year, in late March, a tsunami-sized wave of regret and relief washes over me.
Yes, it’s that big. I’m French and have been told I have a flair for the dramatic. Actually, my mother said that. But trust me, when it comes to her, I have my reasons.
To everyone else in the world, I’m calm, reasonable, and have the style and poise that got me the job as headmistress and ranks me as one of the top etiquette teachers in the world.
Take that, mère.
However, it’s my clients who have a flair for the dramatic, evidenced by them messing up their lives in such a way that necessitates character rehabilitation at Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia.
Then again, I’m all too familiar with messes. My private bedroom in the headmistress’s suite notwithstanding—this space is an exception. The main room is tidy and organized, as it should be. My room, not so much. There are only so many things I can stay on top of and this one I can leave behind the closed door.
About a decade ago, my entire life was a mess. I made a vow to be true to myself and have kept my word ever since. But that doesn’t stop me from pulling out the box at the back of my closet once every year to make sure I made the right choice.
After carefully picking my way across the room, and kicking aside yet another pair of black high heels, I open the closet. From the back, I pull out a box and remove the lid. My hand immediately lands on the pale pink tulle tutu. A ripple runs through me, landing deep in my stomach.
I set it to the side and remove the leotard, the tights, and at last, the ballet slippers—my satin pointe shoes. They’re as worn and beloved as I remember. My fingers smooth across the ties and the ripple inside turns into a tug.
As usual, I have a long day ahead, but this is something I get up early for once a year. It’s something I have to do. I owe it to the brave young woman who made a tough decision all those years ago.
There is only one way to confirm that I didn’t choose the wrong path.
As the sky lightens, I clear the furniture from the middle of the spacious main room in my suite. As the headmistress, it’s the largest in the manor and aside from my bedroom, the tidiest. Ordinarily, I feel like it’s a bit excessive, given the financial situation at Blancbourg, but today, it’s necessary.
I draw a deep breath, already feeling warm from rearranging things, and rolling up the rug to reveal the hardwood floor. Apinkish-yellow light like a ripe peach filters into the room as the sun rises.
Next, I pull my hair into a smooth bun—not at the nape of my neck like how I usually wear it when working, nor is it the messy kind I wear on the top of my head when I’m alone—which is the rest of the time.
