“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 youdidn’tdo. 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.”
