New starts
The sun was shining directly on my face, like it was trying to convince me today wasn’t going to suck. Nice try. I wasn’t buying it.
Today was the first day of the rest of my life—or so the adults kept saying. If that were true, then my life was already off to a terrible start.
I was moving. Leaving behind everything I knew. My school. My friends. My life. And don’t even get me started on Alfriston.
It was where I was born. Where everyone knew your name. Where the air smelled like flowers and wet grass, and Sundays were so quiet you could hear bees buzzing in the distance. It was small-town bliss—or a trap, depending who you asked—but it was mine.
Now? I was being dragged to some town I’d never heard of. Ampthill. Bedfordshire. Sounds fake. According to my parents, it was only three hours away. But it felt like another planet.
“Today’s the day. We’re leaving, Emma,” Mum said this morning, like she was announcing the weather. No excitement. No fanfare. Just a flat statement I was expected to accept.
I didn’t.
Cue the dramatic teen angst. Because yeah, this was the end.
For the record: I’m Emma Smith. Sixteen. British. Born and raised in East Sussex. And today, I’m being torn away from the life I actually liked.
Well—almost everything. There’s Joe, my four-year-old brother, who was still blissfully unaware that his life had just been upended. He was curled in his booster seat, asleep like a tiny angel with no clue what was happening.
Lucky him.
I slid into the back seat and stared out the window like it had personally wronged me. My parents called this an “adventure.” I called it emotional sabotage.
We were two hours into the drive when my stomach growled like a dying animal. I glanced at Mum, then sent her a text instead of speaking like a normal human:
Are you starving me as well as ruining my life???
Her phone pinged. She stifled a laugh. Dad looked over, already too amused.
“If you’re hungry, we’ll stop,” Mum said, eyes on the road.
I rolled my eyes and started typing again, but before I could finish my next snarky message, Dad pulled into McDonald’s.
“What do you want, Little Wolf?” he asked—using the childhood nickname that made my skin crawl.
“Dadddd, seriously?” I groaned. “McChicken meal. Coke. Please.”
He chuckled like he’d just cracked the world’s greatest joke.
We ate in silence. McDonald’s couldn’t fix what was broken. Not even fries could do that.
When we finally pulled up to the new house, Mum turned to me with the same forced smile she’d been wearing for days. “We’re here!”
I barely looked at her. “Finally,” I muttered, slamming the door.
“Just give it a chance,” she said with way too much hope.
I didn’t answer.
Joe was still asleep. I envied his ability to not care. To not know.
Then I looked up—and okay, I’ll admit it—the house was… massive.
It had this blinding white exterior, an arch over the door, and a lawn that looked like it had been trimmed by lasers. Flowerbeds straight out of a magazine. Not that I cared. Obviously.
Inside, everything smelled new. Walls white and clean. To the right was a living room with a huge corner sofa and a TV the size of a cinema screen. Definitely not from our old house. But again—I wasn’t impressed.
Kitchen? Cute. Downstairs toilet? Who cares.
Upstairs, I passed Joe’s room and my parents’ before heading down a smaller hallway. Two closed doors. I picked the one on the left.
My room.
I stepped in and instantly hated how perfect it was. Pale green walls, white furniture, neatly made bed—a four-poster, seriously—and a whole ensuite bathroom just for me.
It was everything I would’ve wanted... if I hadn’t been forced to leave everything I loved behind to get it.
I threw my bag on the bed. It spilled everywhere. Classic. I shoved everything back in, leaving out only my phone and a half-empty packet of cigarettes.
The window looked out over a massive back garden. Beyond that—a football field. And a group of people hanging out near the trees. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but something about them pulled at me.
Maybe they were trouble. Maybe they were exactly what I needed.
I splashed water on my face in the ensuite, then checked the mirror. Not bad, considering I’d been stuck in a car for hours. Hoodie still on point. Mascara mostly intact. Gloss—reapplied.
Small victories.
Back in my room, I lit a cigarette and leaned out the window. The burn felt good. Familiar. My last little act of rebellion. Of me.
No messages.
I tossed my phone onto the bed, grabbed my bag, and jogged downstairs.
Dad was in the kitchen. His face lit up when he saw me. “How’s the new room?”
I shrugged. “It’s fine.”
He pulled me into a hug. “It’s going to be okay, Little Wolf. I promise.”
“Stop calling me that,” I said, pulling away. “I’m nearly seventeen, not five.”
Grabbing my bag, I headed for the door. “I’m going out. Got my phone.”
Before anyone could stop me, I slammed the door behind me.
