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I look helplessly at the guard. He stares back, his face blank. Beyond him, I can see the other guard speaking with the woman. As he tries to calm her, the child’s father arrives, pushing the luggage cart with one hand. He extends the other toward the child, offering her an ice cream cone. The girl shrieks, drops my scarf, and makes a beeline for her father. She grabs the ice cream, nearly taking off his hand in the process. The mother says one last, sharp thing to the haggard security guard, then turns on her heel, grinding my poor Barney scarf into the tiles, and stalks away.
“Junge Dame, you must come with us.” The security guard’s voice is cold. His partner, abandoned by the crazy woman, closes in on my other side, silent.
“But I didn’t do anything!” My face burns with anger as I fling my hand at the scrap of fabric now being trampled under many feet. “She attacked my suitcase and wouldn’t let go until I let her have the scarf.”
“That is your scarf? Littering is a grave offense. Large fine.” He sounds even less sympathetic now.
“I didn’t litter!”
A militant glint appears in his eyes as he points at the dirty remnant. “Is that yours?”
Mutely, I nod. I can’t afford a fine. Or jail time. I’m a student on a study abroad visa. They’ll probably deport me if I get arrested. “Gimme a sec. I’ll pick it up.” Abandoning my luggage with the guard, I swerve through the crowd to the scarf. In the few seconds it’s been on the floor, dirt from countless shoes has been ground into it, no doubt assisted by the venomous spittle of that demon child. I lift it between two fingers and deposit it in a convenient trash can.
Dusting my hands together, I stomp back to the security guy. “Problem solved.” Then I cower under his cold glare. Does this guy enjoy doing paperwork?
“You still need to file the forms.” He grabs the smaller of my two suitcases and stalks away.
“Was that recyclable?” the silent partner asks. “Putting trash in the recyclables is—” I shoot him a death glare, and he snaps his mouth closed. After a second, he waves one hand at my remaining suitcase and the other at his partner’s retreating back. “After you, Frollen.”
Chapter Four
TEO
Hans drags me into the Arrivals concourse and across the black and white tile floor. “There!” He points at a pair of uniformed men retreating to their office, a blue-haired girl between them.
Eva.
My heart jerks in my chest. Hans told me why he dragged me inside, of course, but seeing her makes it real. I’ve had a thing for Eva Hertzsprung since high school. I’ve known of her since my first year at Rotheberg. It’s a small school and everyone knows everyone. But she was a year younger than me, so I didn’t pay her much attention.
Then, during my sophomore year, she danced at a school talent show, and I was smitten. I started stalking her social media and looking for ways to infiltrate her social circle. I joined every volunteer effort she participated in. And then I hit the jackpot when she started working for my family’s Christmas ornament company. We have a stand at every town fest from November through Christmas—it’s the sole reason we go to Oregon. Since I’ve reached adulthood, I’ve looked for every opportunity to extend our presence in the state.
That sounds kind of pathetic, and it isn’t only because of Eva, of course. Like my father, I do what’s best for Feltz Ornaments. Increasing business in our foreign stronghold makes sense.
I won’t deny it’s given me the chance to build my friendship with Eva—little did I know that would mean I’m stuck in the friend zone. But now she’s here—where I can help her see me in a different light. I knew she was coming to Freiberg but knowing that and seeing her here are two different things. I grab Hans’s arm. “Tell me again what happened? You weren’t making sense.”
As we jog after the trio, dodging tired people dragging mountains of luggage, he pours out a garbled tale of a little girl and an angry American woman. And something about a purple dinosaur. When we reach the glass door under the sign “Bundespolizei,” I lift a hand. “Please, Hans, let me do the talking. Your German is fluent, but not very…”
Hans grins, clearly more excited than concerned. “My Deutsch sucks. My oma complains about my grammar all the time. She says I sound like a drunk Austrian.”
“You don’t sound anything like an Austrian.”
“Yeah, but Oma doesn’t like Austria. Football, you know.”
I pull the door open and stride in. I consider pulling out my Freiberg passport which clearly identifies me as a member of the royal family, but it might be better if they think I’m a local. “Excuse me. My friend was just brought in here.”
The woman behind the desk looks up. She gives me a long once-over, then does the same to Hans. Puzzled, she looks at the door behind her. “The American girl?”
I nod. When impersonating a commoner, best practice is to say as little as possible. I learned that from countless adventure novels. And that Barbie movie my sister made me watch.
She picks up her phone, waits for it to connect, then says something too low to understand. After listening, she hangs up. “You can wait there.” She points to a row of benches.
“I’m here to translate for her. You know Americans—they don’t learn a second language.” I smile conspiratorially, but she just points at the bench again and turns back to her paperwork.
Hans slumps on the bench, his roller bag parked beside him. He rubs the back of his head, making his bleached hair stand on end for a brief second before it drops flat. “Say, I could really use some coffee. Is there a Starbucks in this airport?”
“Starbucks?” The woman behind the desk sounds morally offended by the question, as if American coffee is a personal affront. She points at the door, her finger stabbing accusingly. “Terminal two, third floor. Bring me a mochaccino.”
Biting back a smile, I jerk my head at the door. “I’ll watch your bags.”
