There is a bruise forming on my knuckles as I drive it into the stomach of my opponent but it barely makes a dent as he skillfully ducks and counteracts with a good solid punch to the face. I have taken many hits before but still it causes me to stagger in pain, head reeling, blood spurting into my mouth as my teeth unexpectedly bites into my tongue from impact.

I growl, pissed at the fact that I didn't even duck when I drop to the ground in a series of unceremonious stumbles but though my eyes are straining with fatigue from the lack of sleep and my body aches, I force myself to get up as quickly as I can. The first rule of combat training is: Never let yourself stay on the ground. But I hear the ding! of the alarm symbolizing that the fight is over and I have lost.

Damn it, I swear wildly in my mind, panting, heaving into a stance where my hands lower onto knees. The sweat is dripping down my forehead in a torrent and the pain is still throbbing in my cheek, where his fist has connected to my mouth. My opponent is a boy and he's much noticeably larger than me, with his frame built like a refrigerator and I'm shaped like a petite string bean, delicate and breakable.

"That was abysmal," my coach, Jensen, remarks as he passes me my bottle of water and an ice pack. I place it on my cheek, sighing as I sit on a spare chair by the ring, and pour the gushing cold water down my throat, quenching my thirst.

"Sorry, coach," I gasp, wiping my sweaty forehead with my hand. He tosses me a towel from my gym bag lying on the floor.

"I know he's bigger than you," my coach points out, "But you'll constantly meet opponents bigger than you so you need to use that weakness and turn it into an advantage." I nod. I know I'm on the smaller side and I'm not awfully strong but I am fast and agile.

"Yes, coach."

"Good." His eyes soften. "Anyway, how have you been doing?"

"Me?" I ask. "Oh, perfect."

I really am. It's been almost a week since Luciana and I exchanged numbers. She has followed me on Instagram and Twitter, befriended me on Facebook, and added me on Snapchat and recently, we've been talking quite almost regularly, discussing our favorite places to shop and cool new club openings that we should go together.

Before all this, I've always considered her as someone to be idolized. Luciana seems so perfect, so beautiful, so untouchable, so popular but now that I'm talking to her, interacting with her, getting a feel of her personality, she seems so normal. Well, as normal as you can be for an eighteen-year-old billionaire heiress who's bound to inherit a nightclub empire and travel on private jets.

"Really?" he questions, "You seem...unfocused."

"Am I?" This is a growing concern. Am I unfocused? I can't really afford to be unfocused right now. "I feel...fine." More than fine.

"If you need someone to talk to," Coach Jensen, for a rare moment, looks extremely human towards me, "I'm always here for you, Ems."

"Amory," I snap, "I changed my name, remember?"

"Right, forgot...damn back from LA, and you've changed so much. New name, new hair, new look. You looked like a whole new person."

I smile mysteriously, "That's the whole idea."

"It's cool. Anyway, you should probably get going. Do some ropes and warm down, eh?"

I nod, saluting him for the sake of showing him I meant no harm, "No problem, coach."

He claps me on the back and retreats back to the counter, where he begins to blast trap remixes of popular songs to get the adrenaline pumping in the boxing gym. I head across the ring, where a mountain of jumping ropes is situated. I pick one suited for my size, head to the corner, plug in my earphones, which are connected to the iPhone strapped to my shoulder, blast some J. Cole and begin to skip.

Skipping is the most effective way of getting your heart to pump for boxing so Coach Jensen makes me do it religiously, saying that's how people get faster and stronger as it inadvertently toughens up your leg and arm muscles while squeezing some cardio in. I do it so much that I'm barely thinking about skipping as I do, watching subconsciously as my feet hop over the string in the mirror.

I look at my reflection, jumping to every flick of the rope, and nod my head to the beat blasting in my earphones. I've picked up boxing as my main method to keep fit but it's been something I've done my entire life. Instead of ballerina classes, I was in the ring hitting bags.

I count every jump methodically 45...46...47... as my mind wanders. Devon has completed his part of the bargain, delivering me a little package to my door, which happens to be a small compact gun, easy to carry and handle, and a fake gun license with my picture on it. I wire him the five thousand dollars from an offshore account, making sure to do it over an anonymous WIP address as Hadley had taught me.

Then as the alarm goes off, signaling me to stop. I press the Dismiss button on my iPhone and dump the rope back. I look at myself in the mirror, slicked with sweat, puffing, slightly out of breath but I feel happy, not just from the release of endorphins but because everything is coming together for the second part of the plan- assimilation.

School at Kensington Prep is about to start and I'm going to be attending it for the first time in the last two years- as a new person, of course. With a new name, a new look, they'll never know I've been there before. And they'll never know what hit them.

-

Staring at myself in the mirror, dressed in the Kensington Prep's high school uniform, brings out plenty of unfortunate memories. Kensington Prep has three different uniforms- one for its kindergarten, middle school, and high school. Its kindergarten uniforms- I briefly remember from my five years as a small toddler child- are quite cute. For girls, they're little red and white plaid dresses with curved collars and fluffy woolly jumpers for the winter, and for boys, they're polo shirts, short red trousers and a thick black fleece. The middle school and high school uniforms are identical except for the blazers and the socks; middle school requires you to wear those ugly, thick red fleeces that are stiff and awkward in the chest and ridiculous knee-high socks areas while high school guarantees you the freedom to wear whatever coat and socks you want.

So here I am, standing in a crisp white button, a plaid red skirt, black tights, oxford blacks, a red tie, and a tailored cherry red leather blazer from Alexander Mcqueen- something I think that screams Amory Scout, the person I'm about to embody to blend into their ranks. Five-karat antique diamond studs inherited from my grandmother adorn my ears. I wore a touch of Stila lip gloss and some brown Yves Saint Laurent mascara but was otherwise makeup-free to fit in Kensington's policy for makeup, which the requirements are to be 'un-attention-seeking', however vague that is.

"Amory," Hadley knocks on my door, "Breakfast."

I pick up my black leather satchel, check all of my things- notebooks, pen, and my laptop, which is in a black laptop case, money to buy lunch, and my wallet, and head over to the door. Following the sound of morning conversation, Hadley and I journey down the stairs of the Nguyen Penthouse.

Veronica is making breakfast, much to my surprise. She looks like she just woke up.

"You're back," I remark, surprised.

"Yes, I got on the red-eye last night from Italy," Veronica smiles as she flips a pancake onto the plate. "I thought I'd see you guys off on your first day of school before I fly off to Dubai for the next two weeks."

There are steaming waffles and pancakes on a plate, a fruit bowl, mugs of coffee, milk, and some granola. I grab the almond milk from the fridge, pour some granola in a bowl, and slice some bananas and blueberries along with it.

"This is so good," cooes Veronica, clapping her hand together. She's still in her nightclothes- a blue satin robe over a white silk slip dress, her hair pulled back with a white eye mask and she's only picking around her fruit bowl while sipping on a bottle of Prosecco, even though it's literally the crack of dawn, "We're finally together as a family."

"Where's Jackson?"

"He flew off to Scandinavia early this morning," explains Veronica, "Says he wants to start school next term to spend time with Ingrid," Veronica wrinkles her nose when she mentions Hadley's brother's Scandinavian model of a girlfriend.

Hadley rolls her eyes, "I swear the boy wants to marry her."

"Please, she's too European for his liking," Veronica scoffs, "Too free-spirited and liberal if you ask me. The type of girl who walks around in public with no bra and never shaves."

"You just don't like her," Hadley rolls her eyes, "Because she's his girlfriend."

"Hmph."

As Hadley takes a bite out of her toast, her twelve-year-old sister- Tessa- emerges from upstairs with damp hair and her uniform on. "Should we go now?" Hadley's eyes flicker to me, "School starts around 7:30."

"Alright," I nod. Tessa scoops up a piece of toast and crams it into her mouth before shouldering a Louis Vuitton backpack, then we make it for the lift where Hadley texts the driver to pick us up.

Tessa, Hadley, and I bunch together down the elevator of the apartment. Though I have nothing to really be nervous about, anxiety bundle up in my stomach like a ball of tangled yarn, massive and difficult to ignore.

The driver only takes five minutes to arrive and he opens the door as we slide in. Awkwardly, I say thank you, still unable to get used to the treatment of living like an Upper East Side princess.

When my parents were still alive and I still lived in Brooklyn, I've never had a driver, or a maid to wash my clothes, even though my dad earns a living of seven figures from chemical engineering and his trust fund. My mother wasn't privileged like he was so she grounds me to her good ole' humble neighborhood-girl Brooklyn roots and tells me how to do things for myself, growing up on the stoop and lacing my shoes with people who throw swear words like they are casual greetings. I attend a Manhattan private prep school at the insistence of my father to provide me a 'world-class' education but other than that, everything about me is as middle-class Brooklyn girl as you can get.

Now that I've been permanently living with my dad's sister- my aunt Veronica- and my cousin Hadley, who puts their wealth on display to flaunt, I have trouble adjusting to the designer clothes I can easily purchase with the swipe of a card or the money I have at the tip of my fingers.

The car plunges straight into downtown traffic and I sigh, missing the days of taking the subway when you can get to places in fleeting minutes. Sure, it would be cramped as hell since it's a rush hour but it's better than sitting around, restless with nothing to do. When the car finally jerks into motion, it takes about ten to fifteen minutes until I see the familiar outline of the cathedral-shaped red-bricked rooftop rising into the sky- Kensington Prep.

My heart quickens at the sight of it. I pass by it sometimes but there's never been such a moment so potent like this and seeing it again just makes my breath hitch, especially knowing my full purpose and intentions for returning back to this dreaded place.

The driver pulls up at the curb, in front of the iron-wrought gate that surrounds the guardhouse, which only lets you in if you're wearing the uniform with a student card or you have the parent/teacher pass, which is scanned into the system to validate it. Hadley, Tessa, and I come out of the car, staring at the great building, which sits by Wisteria corner.

The building sprawls out magnificently across the block behind the gated fence, occupying a good section of the city. Its architecture calls upon America's distant colonial past of being British- a past they try very hard to hide, mirroring the turrets of Windsor Tower in London while it's gold trimmings and windows spread in rows across the greystone building is familiar with Parisian-style idyllic apartments, looking extremely European. It's insignia, an owl carrying an olive branch in it's beak, is carved into the gates as we neared it. The motto underneath the insignia is etched into the banner, with the bold words in Latin: Luceat Lex Vestra. It means 'Let Your Light Shine' and it's a reference to a Bible Verse, from the book of Mathews, Chapter 5, Verse 14-16, as my Bible Studies teachers from 5th grade has permanently seared in my brain. Kensington Prep is a Catholic School, first and foremost, and requires all students to take religious studies, attend chapel on a Monday Morning and say Grace during lunch, even though I've told them in my form I'm an atheist.

It's funny that Kensington Prep promotes itself as an extremely Catholic School, advocating morals and religion while their students are hardly model students but I guess that's the psychology: the more stringent the system, the wilder the kids.

From the gaps of the gate, I see the school courtyard milling with students, flowing into the school entrance. Nothing has changed- the same benches, the same cracks in the same places of the courtyard, the same plants sparsely scattered over the cemented courtyard, and the same statue of Virgin Mary watching students with overstretched arms, her face overshadowed by dark clouds. I always hated that statue. Her position is made in a way where it seems welcoming- open arms to all students. I view it as condescending; a symbol of God who watches but never does anything, the carrying emblem of the new religion being no religion.

"You ready?" Hadley looks at me. Her student card glint from her pocket. We're about to go in.

I nod, "Ready as I'll ever be."'

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