Victor POV: Victor wished England would make a move against him. He wished that the whole country might turn in revolution, banning him and his family from stepping foot on their precious British soil. He wish they would spit in his direction, and cast their eyes away from the Americans. He wish any part of this country would give him a valid reason to hate it. It would be better than this bitterness, this apparent one way agony that forced Victor to seem like the villain. An unprovoked one at that.
It didn't feel correct. Nothing about this place seemed as if it fit in his idea of what England should have looked like. Victor had looked up pictures online before he traveled, he saw the grass roves, the brick lined streets, the ivy clinging to old row homes that glistened in the golden hour of the evening. He saw royal guards and monarchs and portraits of ancient poets. He didn't see suburbia, necessarily. Though he was in it now. England's suburbs weren't as different from America's, not nearly as different as one might expect. Yes, the buildings were shaped a bit more rectangular, made of bricks rather than plastic siding, though the lawns were the same. The sidewalks were the same. The cars parked in the driveways, the basketball hoops, the mailboxes. If Victor stood in his front yard and closed his eyes, he might just be able to convince himself that he was back home. He only did that once, he only played with his fantasies for a single, fleeting moment. Pausing to take a break from unloading the moving truck, with his arms full of boxes he had loaded on the other side of the ocean, he planted his feet upon the garden path and stared upwards. Letting the world float out of his peripherals, letting the details blur, he might have recognized the house he was now supposed to live in. He might have convinced himself that nothing had changed.
But something had changed, for the worse that is. Victor could never have imagined he'd have a stroke of good luck, nor even a stroke of predictability that might be mistaken for good fortune. Of course he was uprooted from everything he started to care about. Of course he was removed from the one place that might have felt like home. The boy was fragmented, he always had been. There seemed to be two parts of his soul, one that had been lost, slipped from the tethers of his skin and scampered away to God knows where. Even on the best of days, Victor felt lost. Confused. Only now it was worse, wasn't it? He didn't just have two sections of himself, he had three. One had escaped long ago, long before he had taken his first breath without the aid of an umbilical cord. The second stayed in America, rooted within the bed frame in his old room, undoubtedly getting smothered with sheets that were not his own and crushed under an uninvited, unwelcomed body. The third part, the smallest part, stayed within his body. The shape of a boy that did not feel so familiar. The human that was filled mostly with air, with water, with static. Victor possessed so little of his soul that it was difficult to pilot his whole human form. It was difficult to felt like he was supposed to be in his own skin.  

The most notable absence was John. Everything else had remained semi-constant. In the days of loneliness leading up to his first day of school, Victor had feigned unpacking enough to actually complete the task. One box at a time, usually spread minutes to hours to days apart, his new bedroom was beginning to look like a poorly reconstructed version of his old one. The furniture was different, and so the spaces for items had to be shifted. The dresser lacked some of the appropriate drawers, the bed frame was wire instead of wood, the closet door was not big enough to host the assortment of posters that hung in America. Perhaps this was supposed to be seen as an opportunity for change. Perhaps that's what his parents had in mind when they told him that this move was going to be worthwhile. He could change the style of his bedroom, change any aspect he wanted. He could trash the old art projects, the pinnacles of his creativity in ninth grade; he could get some new posters to display his more recent obsessions. He could frame photographs and hang them on the walls instead, or get a potted plant to add some life to the dreary, single window room. He might even go minimalist. Paint the room. Get a bean bag. The possibilities were endless! And yet, here he was, tacking up the old posters. Rearranging his bobble heads along the strange mahogany writing desk. Pulling his Star Wars sheets over his mattress and finding that they didn't fit quite right.
As the room came together Victor wondered if it wasn't too late to run away. The idea stuck with him throughout the extended weekend, the long stretches of useless time that was filled only with bouts of severe depression. At one point the boy opened the window, the two story window, with the intention of jumping to freedom. In his delirious mind he couldn't consider a better way of escaping. He didn't see the front door as a possibility. When he wasn't contemplating his life as a tramp, Victor was instead playing video games. They were a constant comfort of home, and while his television was a little smaller here in England, the graphics were good enough to settle him back into complacency. The multiplayer maps were the closest he'd ever get to home, save for when the phone rang with John's number on the screen. Only then did Victor get the opportunity to slip back into his old life, for a moment pretending that they were only houses away, rather than hundreds of miles.
John had been taken for granted. As Victor sat in his silence for four days, he realized that he never quite grasped the idea of a friend. He never stopped to consider all that John's presence did for him, how the very chance existence might have filled the gap that his absent soul had left. Perhaps John housed what part of Victor was absent from his own body, perhaps their being together healed the wound so perfectly that a seam was not quite noticed. Victor had always imagined that John would be at his side. They were going to go to college together, live together, work together; somehow their lives would have remained close, steady, and constant. It just felt appropriate; it felt as if it was guaranteed. And yet, sitting here, alone and quiet, staring at a phone that may never ring, Victor realized that daydreaming had done nothing to solidify John's presence in his life. He never stopped to consider that, no matter how ideal, all plans eventually fell through. All childhood dreams were subject to uprooting, for a parent's whimsical decision could put it all so dangerously on the line. For the first time in his life, Victor was alone. Truly, truly alone. 

  The first couple of days had been hellish, though Victor wasn't sure what to expect from the rest of them. From what he could tell, the British school system made no sense, and perhaps it came with its own bout of challenges that he was not prepared to fight against. Who knows how the American school system differed in curriculum? Perhaps they taught their children advanced mathematics at a younger age, or expected the children to have listened to Shakespeare as a bedtime story. Well of course the English would be more advanced in education, considering how much of it came out of their very country! How many of his new classmates would be descendants of ancient philosophers and poets, how many had royal blood in their veins? Victor was at a disadvantage simply by being American, and it would be interesting to see how those tensions were tested when he arrived in their territory. Would he be accepted, or shunned? Was he already light years behind the rest of his peers? Or would they see him as superior? Would he ever find a friend, or would he be forever cast out as the lonely American, wishing for a world he could never return to again? Well, it certainly didn't help that he was going to have to blend in. His dilemma, his constant struggle, was with what to wear to his first day of school. It was a tad embarrassing, as even on the plane ride over the England he was most concerned about the state of his clothes, about how he looked in comparison to the rest of the countryside. In America it was only too easy to be the best dressed. There a simple button down shirt would solidify you as the most polished professional, especially when judged against your own age group. And yet here, here in this wasteland of individual expression, Victor was forced to play the part. To wear the uniform, in fact.

"Victor, oh turn here honey. Turn so I can see the patch." His mother was standing near the door, waving her phone around as she tried to usher her only child into an ideal corner. Not much of the house was furnished or decorated, and so the corner hugging bookshelf filled with a couple of plastic succulents and enough hardback covers to make it look presentable was the only obvious choice. Certainly it would do well on Facebook. Victor pushed his hair across his face, trying to display as much as his smiling face as he could manage. Most boys hated to get their pictures taken. John scorned the idea of a lens. Though Victor found within his mother's phone a chance to shine. Each one of his relatives would be doting on him when it was posted, each one of his mother's college friends exclaiming just how beautiful he was. This was his time to shine. Victor struck a pose, displaying the school's crossed swords logo on the chest of his jacket, making sure to play to the early morning sunlight and get the side of his face appropriately lit. It took about three angles until he was satisfied, and Victor made sure to delete the bad pictures, just in case his mother got confused when it came time to post.
With a couple more kisses on the cheeks Victor was off, scuffing his way out the door and scorning the English morning fog. He tried to shoot out as many complaints as he could when he knew his parents were listening, as he wanted to make sure they didn't fall under the impression that he was happy here. Victor's most passionate hope was that they would realize this was all a big mistake, that his Father's job wasn't good enough to justify everything that had in life. Perhaps if Victor displayed his disappointment his parents would finally wake up. They'd finally realize that they were meant for America all along. When all he got was a chortle of farewell from his mother (his father couldn't be bothered to come downstairs), Victor sulked out onto the sidewalk to make his debut within the English school system. 

  The seventh house on the right. Stepping along the sidewalk and keeping his eyes fixed to the ground, Victor might have convinced himself it had remained the same. He might have stared at his shoes hard enough to miss the obvious differences between the paths to school. The lack of graffiti, the bend in the road, the grass clippings, the solid cement blocks instead of shattered slabs. All of these were obvious differences, acceptable ones at that. All of these didn't necessarily mean that the seventh house on the right would be lacking. Perhaps it had remained constant throughout his trip. Perhaps, like every day of his life, John would be waiting. Victor counted the paths as he walked; he counted how many opportunities there were for the arrival of feet. He was apprehensive as he drew upon the appropriate house. The one that, if fate served correctly, would be the deliverance of his best friend. Where John Watson would be waiting. The seventh sidewalk. Victor paused, standing aside the house and looking up hopefully. Looking up to where John would have been waiting. To no avail.

Victor heaved a sigh. He wondered if John was facing the same challenges on his side of the world. He might have been checking his watch, waiting by the mailbox, watching for someone who would never come. Perhaps John waited to the appropriate second. The one which matched Victor's usual stride. Victor checked his watch, still standing lingering on the spot where he would wait if John was a minute late. Usually he was bombarded with the boy, one shoe on, cereal bar hanging out of his mouth, hobbling down the walk with two backpacks swinging from his arms. This would be no later than a minute after their mark. A minute...and six hours. John would be sleeping by now. He wasn't ready to leave. Victor was startled by a door slamming shut, a sound so vicious to his ears accustomed now to silence. He jumped, his feet falling off of the garden path he had took a liking to, and blinked at the form of a girl coming prancing down the sidewalk he had just been pondering.
"Who are you, my escort?" she scoffed, slinging a backpack across her shoulders and giving Victor a sneer. Victor blinked. Had she noticed him staring?
"Sorry...no. I was just pausing."
"Pausing at my house?"
"No reason," Victor defended immediately. "I'll...I'll speed walk away."
"I won't let you get away that easily," the girl scoffed, grabbing at the back of his backpack as Victor tried to scurry to freedom. She had a cruel air, a snippy sort of attitude that seemed volatile if played with too dangerously. She didn't seem to be the best walking companion. "I've not seen you before."
"I just moved here," Victor explained, flailing his arms as he was yanked back to her side, as if she was ensuring he had no choice but to accompany her to school.
"So that's what the moving entourage was for. Weird. We don't often get new arrivals."
"Sorry," Victor muttered absentmindedly.
"For what, exactly?" the girl scoffed, her deeply lined eyes slanting across her face as she looked over at her companion. Victor swallowed hard, shaking his head to erase his words. He couldn't hold her gaze for more than ten seconds without blushing red. There was an overwhelming air of confidence walking next to him, and it seemed as though he had made a mistake to hesitate too closely to her sidewalk of entry.
"Sorry for moving in," he decided at last, a weak cover up for an obviously unplanned declaration. Victor was accustomed to apologizing for things he didn't do. It was a skill he learned from John, the one that got the both of them out of trouble after John blinked his pretty eyes and exploded in regret. It didn't seem to be working on this stranger, though her demeanor softened just a little bit. Perhaps she finally realized what sort of idiot she was dealing with. What sort of American.
"Well I'm sure it's not your fault," she insisted. She pulled a hand through her short blonde hair, pushing it out of her face to better demonstrate her truly British grin. "I'm Rosie, by the way. Rosie Watson."
"Watson?" Victor stopped in his tracks, shocked as if the girl had stuck a live wire into his clothes. Watson. "You don't...you don't know a John Watson, do you?"
The girl's face fell, her red converse sneakers hesitating across the sidewalk as she slowed to a stop. She didn't look amused, in fact her teeth were suddenly clenched, her deep brown eyes sparking a very similar fire to the one Victor had grown accustomed to back home. That very fire seemed to singe Victor from the distance away. It was aimed at him, aimed in retaliation.
"What is that, some sort of joke?" Rosie snarled, lunging at Victor just to watch him scuttle away in fright.
"Joke? No, not a joke! Just...just a question. I know a John Watson back home he's...he's my best friend. I just thought it was a coincidence, that's all," Victor insisted, holding his hands up across his face to defend his most precious asset. He wasn't sure what constituted British violence, but perhaps throwing random names around wasn't such a good idea. These families went back centuries, of course. Perhaps there had been a John Watson within her family who had somehow offended the whole bloodline.
"Oh," Rosie muttered, swinging her backpack across the opposite shoulder to more evenly distribute the weight. Her body shifted to meet it, and suddenly she started back into her walking pace. Once again, like fire and ice, she changed into a completely different person. Not so much of a ball of rage, just a normal teenaged girl walking to school. Victor followed along, just able to hear her eventual response. "No, I don't know a John Watson."  

As it would turn out, the strange Rosie Watson ended up in his classes. Victor didn't want to ask the specifics of this, as Rosie seemed to be a bit older than he was, or at least confident enough to act older. He was apprehensive around her, though it would seem as though she was the only person within the entire building that he had any claim to at all. She almost appreciated a shadow, as if Victor gave her a power she had not yet had within these halls. For a girl with such an initial attack, someone who seemed so abrasive, she turned out to be a good tour guide. Without her help, Victor would have gotten lost on his way to his first class, left to wander the halls pathetically and blame the language barrier. The rest of the faces all blended together, the same drab haircuts, individual uniforms distinguished only by jewelry and shoes. Smiles, occasionally scowls, and a fair amount of confused looks. Victor couldn't tell what they were trying to see in him, whether or not they could tell he was foreign. Were they just trying to figure out if he had been here all along, blending in with the crowd that, at the moment, looked so similar? Mirror images of the next boy, all moving in a pack so large that Victor had to squish up against the lockers to avoid getting crushed.
"They're herd animals," Rosie explained as they were shuffling along to their second class of the day. "They can't move without their leader."
"And who's that?" Victor wondered.
"It depends on the day, really. Depends on what they want from you." She sounded exhausted as she said it, as if she had gotten her fair share of abuse from the pack of popular boys. They didn't look very intimidating in their sweaters, in fact the earrings and the chains looked rather pathetic overtop of the crossed sword patch and the trimmed haircuts. They looked as if they wanted to be rappers, but were too busy eating blood pudding and sipping Earl Grey.
The English school system, however intimidating it seemed, turned out to be quite manageable. It was a different style of learning for sure, more of a note taking, lecture based program, though Victor had always prided himself in being an encyclopedia. He was able to inhale knowledge from the teacher's mouth, his hand acting in accordance with his ears, translating perfectly the careful and punctuated notes of his teacher's accent into half cursive handwriting. Rosie didn't take notes. She doodled instead. Victor was rather fascinated with his new friend, if that was yet a word he was allowed to use. She had an air of familiarity, one which could probably be accredited to the immediate connection of her last name. Perhaps it was psychosomatic; in fact it would make more sense if the correlations were made up entirely within Victor's head! And yet, somehow, she was similar.
They held their head the same. That was the first thing Victor noticed as they were walking down the sidewalk. John's head always had that dopey bobble, the sort of confidence that was too lazy to manifest. Rosie, too, walked with her neck relaxed. With her eyes fixed towards the ground. Her eyes, too. Victor had only been able to glance at them, but he had stared at a pair so similar they almost seemed to have been transported over the ocean to land within her skull. It might have been an allusion, but it would seem as though John's particular shade of hazel appeared within her irises as well. And the personality was almost identical. The spite, the spunk, the snarkiness. The sort of friendship that would appear to be hostile from an outsider's perspective, though one that was already strong enough to last throughout the first half of the school day. Perhaps Victor was making this up, trying to rationalize why he wanted to stick so closely to this strange girl. Perhaps the last name was blinding him.