The black Mary-Jane’s strapped to my feet, too expensive to even hold a candle to the things I used to call shoes, clack along the floors of the hall in timid steps. I wobble, not used to heels and even more unfamiliar with the two-hundred-year-old oak panels beneath me. Tapestries that pre-date my birth, my mother’s birth, and probably her mother’s birth adorn the walls, casting an elegant and old-worldly feel to the building.

Mint, cigar smoke and some kind of expensive after-shave scent have to be permanently embedded in the walls, because no matter where I’ve walked in this school, I can never escape the smell.

And the stares. Oh, how they stare.

As if it wasn’t bad enough being the new girl on the first day of senior year of high school, my luck dumped me here. In the middle of the richest, most entitled, most elite bunch of people I would probably ever breath the same air as. And these were only their teenagers.

I pull on my uniform, the green and white plaid skirt suddenly feeling way too short, even though I know it’s well past my knees. Judging by the girls lining their lockers, looking me up and down, I’m the most modest one of them.

“Is that the American?” I hear a whisper from my right and try to deflect it, try not to flinch.

Because on top of being the new kid, the outcast … my life has been displayed in living color on every magazine rack in the city of London for months. These kids have already made up their minds about me, and it’s not even five minutes into the first day of school. They’ve seen the pictures of me in a bikini, hanging out at the local pool in our hometown of Pennsylvania. They’ve read the headlines about my gold-digging mother, and our obnoxious American ways. Every childhood memory, every interview from a random stranger back home, even the snippet they got from our supposed neighbor and friend … it’s all been paraded around for the gossip satisfaction of this country’s best and brightest.

I know that Mom and Bennett told me to lift my head high, to walk on water. To act like I’m even in the same stratosphere as these people. But … this is high school. Even back home, it was vicious for me. And I’d grown up there, in the same dirt and poverty that everyone else had.

Winston Preparatory Academy? This was a whole different ball game. With its years of history, remembrance walls of students who’d gone on to be world leaders and CEOs, sixty thousand dollar a year price tag and etiquette rules I would never be able to remember.

My white-collared shirt and blazer stick to me by the time I make it to my locker, and there are so many eyes boring holes into my back that I’m sure the blush has moved from my face all the way down to my toes. Pulling the introduction folder the severely monotone school receptionist had given me when I’d first been dropped off from my new leather satchel, I flipped to the section with my locker number.

Except, these weren’t like normal, metal and combination lock lockers. They were wood, each with a tiny school crest carved into the bottom left corner. The locks were a numeric keypad, like an upgraded ATM machine. And I was even more intimidated than I’d been nervously walking the unfamiliar corridors to get here.

Keying the code in, the light on the keypad flashed red at me. I tried again, but to no avail. Maybe they’d given me the wrong combination? Jeez, I was probably the only girl in this school who had basic high school problems. I read the short paragraph about how to reset the lock, and made quick work of it. Sighing as the lock finally flashed green, I was ready to open the door and hide my flaming face in the darkness of the locker.

Red and white balloons popped out as I swung the wood door open, and paparazzi pictures of my mother and her new husband lined the walls like wrapping paper. Somewhere inside, Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” began to play, loud enough for the entire hallway to hear the twangy chords.

Humiliation, bright and red like an angry sore, tore down my spine, making my body flush hot and cold. Of course I didn’t know anyone here, so I couldn’t know who did this. Only that they’d gotten into my locker before I could, and they were sending a message.

A group of girls standing across the hall, their skirts rolled, makeup flawless, with dress-code violations to the ceiling, burst into laughter. I turned, my mouth probably hanging open at the prank. One of the girls raised a sassy eyebrow at me and then they all fell into line as she walked away, while the rest of the students in the hall pointed or laughed.

Realizing that Miley was still singing, I slammed the locker shut, drawing even more attention to myself.

“Stop looking like a lamb panicking before slaughter and they might leave you alone.”

A voice invades my embarrassment, licking at the side of my neck with its deep timber and British undertones.

My head turns without my brain telling it to, my synapses firing of their own accord. The first thing that meets my eye is the Winston crest embroidered on a standard-issue school blazer. And then they travel up, higher and higher until my neck is almost tilted all the way back.

The first student who has bothered to address me is tall … standing more than a foot taller than my figure. Dark green eyes, almost as dark as the blazer his broad shoulders fill out, meet mine. In them are judgment, a hint of anger, and a whole lot of sarcasm. His words, spoken from lips the color of crushed cherries, don’t fit his expression. This raven-haired boy, more like man, isn’t giving me advice.

He’s issuing a warning.

The sheer shock of his presence, and the wealth and superiority he exudes, almost knocks me over. He’s waiting, his jaw ticking with amusement at my gaping silence.

When I can’t seem to find words, and the tunnel vision that locks only to his face keeps getting worse, he reaches out. Big, dexterous fingers pick up a lock of my fiery red hair off my blazer.

He twirls it in his fingers, regarding me as my eyes follow the movement with child-like awe.

He leans in, the clear scent of the woods after a thunderstorm hitting my senses. “Or don’t. I’ll have fun watching them have their way with you. You don’t belong here, peasant.”

His insult, spoken like the dirtiest curse word he could muster, snaps me out of my reverie. I snap backwards, my hair falling back onto my shoulder as his grin, cold and malicious, mocks me.

I should say something, defend myself, fight … but I’ve never been a fighter. I’ve never wanted the attention. To be honest, I’ve never known what I wanted.

So I turn on my heel and bolt.

What these elites didn’t realize was that I had no intention of becoming one of them. I was happy to play the outsider, to not belong. The only thing I could wish for now was to get through the next year as painlessly and unseen as possible. They could have their status, their high society, their rules. I wanted none of it, and at least I knew that.

It wasn’t my fault I’d been thrust into this life, and I wanted out as soon as I could get it.