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The rest of that week was busy but not as hard as I had envisaged. There was that much to do that it took up most of my mind, which wasn’t a bad thing.

I sorted my room and arranged the furniture the way I liked it. Dad bought me a couple of second-hand bookshelves, and we painted them together in his garage. I helped in the kitchen, not wanting to be a burden, and things between my father and me were good.

I was eventually introduced to Roger, my father’s cat. He was a large, fat black one with one white paw. At first, I ignored his mews, as all he did was remind me that Mum was allergic. I eventually caved and allowed him to sleep at the bottom of my bed, but Roger seemed to follow me about the house, and eventually, I got used to him.

As you can imagine, I missed my mother every day and would spend part of the night crying into my pillow. It was like leaving England had opened the floodgates. Roger’s presence started to help, and I found him a comfort.

I was introduced to our neighbours, who all viewed me like I were from another planet rather than another country. One weekend, my father threw a BBQ and I hated the looks of pity from those who came over. Like they sympathised with what I was going through. Like they got it. Butnobodyunderstood. How could they?

My father took me to the mall several times. It looked like a larger version of the Brentwood Shopping Centre in London. It had all the usual designer stores, but wecouldn’t afford to shop at any of them, so we stuck to the mainstream ones, Target being my preference. It didn’t bother me; I had never been one for material things. Most of my clothes at home I got from vintage shops, online or Primark.

My father bought me the essentials for school, such as a pencil case, pens, a backpack, and a calculator. The works. It was all about trying to help me settle as soon as possible. It also ensured I’d be ready for my first big day: my new life as a British freak in an American high school.

I’d tried my new school uniform on several times. It wasn’t so bad: white shirt, pale grey tie with gold stripes on it and a grey plaid, pleated skirt with the same gold thread running through it. My school shoes were plain black slip-ons, and white ankle socks were worn in the first semester until the colder weather came. Then it changed to over-the-knee grey woolly socks and an additional grey jumper. Thankfully, there was no blazer.

As I’d looked at myself in the mirror one night, I’d still felt like a reject from that old movie Clueless. It was one of my mother’s favourites, and we’d watched it together loads of times.

To think I would never watch a movie with my mum ever again.

Stop dwelling, think of new beginnings.

Surely, there should have been a crackle of excitement at the thought of starting somewhere new, but I felt numb. I wasn’t even nervous. If I got any shit as the new girl, I’d do what I did best; ignore it. I was a calm person and rarely lost my temper. Walking away was always easier than drama.

I wondered what my mother would think of the uniform, it was much sluttier than my British one had been.

That night before my first day, I had attempted to remain positive. What I didn’t know was that my usual way of dealing with shit just wasn’t going to cut it.

And I realisedthatafter day one.

TWO

HUDSON

"Son of a bitch!?" I roared, clutching my wounded head; every muscle wasclenchedin anger.

Scowling, I glanced down at the puddle of books surrounding me; their impact against my skull was as hard as a fucking football without a helmet.

“Hello?” a panicked voice blurted from the other side of the shelving. My yell, as well as the rows of books, masked their identity. Boy, girl, teacher?

Someone, adeadsomeone, had knocked books off the top shelf from the opposite side of the stacksdirectlyonto my head. The library wassupposedto be the dullest and therefore safest place on campus, and yet I’d almost had my brains bashed in. Was I under attack? A ploy to keep me off the field at the game on Friday? Who knew?

I batted off thatridiculousthought. I was Hudson Gage. No one woulddareunless they wanted to end up in the hospital. Either that or they were new to the school; now thatwasa possibility.

Harbor Heights High wasmykingdom. If you messed with me, you only did it once. Ithadto be a freshman or someone else who had yet tofearthe meaning of the name Gage.

Another book dropped,narrowlymissing my shoulder. My nostrils burned with every breath I inhaled. Shit, I needed to calm the hell down.

“Are youtryingto kill me?” I bellowed, shifting on my knees with a hand on the back of my head. If there had been any sense up there, it would have been knocked the fuck out. I pressed my fingers against my hair and then checked my hands, if they’d made me bleed, their family and friends were toast too.

“Oh bugger, did I get you?”

Great. Afuckingfemale. The only can of whoop ass I couldeveropen on a girl was the verbal variety; myleastfavourite kind. I liked to settle shit with my fists, it was faster and no one ever raised the ‘what do you mean by that’ question.

“Shit, stay there, I’m coming,” she squeaked.

Hearing the guilty party curse from behind the stacks and that voice getting louder, I knew she was on her way to ‘assess’ the damage she'd caused. After that third instalment, I picked up on the British accent. The fact that my assailant was also a foreigner did not bode well for her. She couldshoveher rescue attempt up her ass,fucking clumsy bitch.

Then, the culprit appeared around the corner like aray of sunshine.