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 sayDeclan,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 from110 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 astink 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.”
