This is a sequel to Hollywood's Not America and (slightly) A Valentine's Day Disaster. This'll probably make more sense if you read those first.

So: Rose has turned 15 and finished her first year of high school. She is sent to live with Mrs. Jones, in England, and attend and MI6-sponsored boarding school. One of her instructors is an MI6 agent, so no one believes Alex when he starts investigating her... least of all Rose.


March 21, MI6 headquarters:

"She will be excellent for Alex," Mrs. Jones insisted.

"She will distract Alex! She needs to be under bloody lock and key. God knows she can't stay in the US, the CIA is already getting antsy. They don't like us messing around with their civilians," Mr. Blunt sniffed angrily.

"For good reason! Look what's happening, Alan! She's a child. She needs love and care, and you want to—to—put her in some sort of criminal establishment!"

"I don't care where she is, as long as it has padlocks on the door and no one believes the children's fairy stories! Put her in military training school! Mental hospital! Just get her away from paparazzi and away from Alex Rider and away from the US."

"She could come live here…"Mrs. Jones dangled the idea in front of Mr. Blunt.

"That could work… she'd be a fantastic agent, if her face wasn't so recognizable…" Mr. Blunt considered. Finally—"start her on basic training immediately."

"Absolutely not. The CIA would have a fit. Obama would go ballistic and the media would lap it up. And which unit of basic training is fit to raise a child? Some are practically children themselves! Also—it's the middle of her school year!"

"If she steps foot on British soil she must do something useful."

"No." Mrs Jones was quiet but firm and Mr. Blunt didn't quite know how to proceed. Technically, he was her superior…but when it came to Alex and Rose the line blurred considerably.

"Well…why not?"

"We've destroyed Alex's life. We needed one child. We have one child. Enough."

"Alright, we'll wait until she's eighteen. She's what? Fifteen now? She'll live with an agent until she's of age."

"Which one?"

"Wolf? Tamara?"

"They are not parents!"

Mr Blunt paused for a long moment, considering.. "How are Jill and Stephen, Tulip?"

Mrs. Jones swallowed. "Fine, thanks. They love Australia. I'm planning a visit soon."

Mr Blunt glanced down at a memo that lay on his pristinely tidy desk. "Soon as in—2011."

"You can't be too careful."

Mr Blunt smiled grimly. "No, you absolutely cannot. How would you like to be a mother again?"

The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, five months later:

The guests smiled at each other politely, each wishing they were somewhere else. Of course, the charity gala was just lovely… but still. It was rather stuffy in the ballroom.

"And now… for the eighth tribute to our beautiful city, may I present…. Ms. Caitlyn Gilber!" The host announced, dutifully.

A rather sour faced girl grimaced at the audience, adjusting her dress before clearing her throat and beginning:

In the fall

New York stands tall

All the natives

Feel inspired to be creative…

If I hear one more word about New York in the fall, I'm going to throw up. Rose hit the "send" button on her phone under the table, all the while smiling sympathetically and tutting as Mrs. Hollaway went on about her disastrous surgeries next to her.

Four seats down, Rose's brother David's phone dinged as he got her text. "Silence it!" Rose mouthed. David nodded, embarrassed as Mrs. Gilber glared at him for disrupting her daughter's poem. Thankfully, the room burst into a round of polite applause, saving David from apologizing.

Rose realized that the poem must have ended—finally.

"Number nine… our very own Lucy Hiles!" The host remarked, in a manfully enthusiastic tone.

Winter is very cold,

But New York never grows old,

Rose's phone vibrated. Is winter any better?

Spring brings cheer,

To our city, so dear.

Summer brings heat,

That brings life to our feet

What a poet. Life to our feet? So impressive.

And fall begins the frost,

David mimed retching into his half finished foie gras, laughing silently

But we'll have fur coats, at all costs!

The audience laughed appreciatively, while Rose wrinkled her nose. Poems one through eight had been terrible but inoffensive, but Lucy Hiles had brought the evening to new heights of tastelessness.

The noise level in the room raised as waiters removed the foie gras plates in preparation for the next course. The heat level rose, too, and Rose slipped out to the garden, needing air.

What a depressing way to be spending my last night in New York. I want to be doing something with my friends, not watching these people get drunk on exquisite champagne and proceeding to toast themselves for ruling the world and being generally fabulous.

Problem is… I'm not really sure who my friends are, anymore. Ever since the paparazzi started leaving me alone… still. I've been fake friends with people for months, surely we could have acted like it for one more month!

Tonight Rose was attending the Ode to New York gala. All the funds raised would be donated to Central Park's upkeep. It's a good theory, actually…but judging from the state of the poems, the money should be donated to New York's English departments.

Through the glass doors, she saw the host gearing up to present Junior Shakespeare #10. No, no, no, no, no. The poems gave a soulless depiction of New York's streets in various seasons (mostly fall). Some really original ones branched out into the smells of Manhattan, but even those didn't accurately capture the feel of the city. Words like "beautiful", "busy", "populated"—yes, that's true, but so much more. No one described the feeling of walking down the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Or running down Fifth Avenue in the heat of the summer. And Times Square at night? Or the Coach store, with the huge windows and the view over Lex and Fifty Seventh? Not pretty. In fact, dirty and loud and rude and bustling and real (the view, that is. The actual store is the antithesis of its location—elegant.)

Not typically beautiful—but what a savage beauty!

So why was Rose here, instead of with her friends, ice skating in at Chelsea Piers, or eating ice cream opposite the statue of Atlas, or doing any number of things she actually wanted to?

The answer came as the warm summer evening breeze gently ruffled the trees. The glass doors opened and Mrs. Jones stepped onto the balcony.

"Number twelve is finishing her poem. You're up," she said, simply. She scowled as the breeze continued to linger, whipping a particle of dust into her eye. "Filthy city. Come inside, dear."

Mrs. Jones' English accent contrasted sharply with the odd, glittering glamour that was Manhattan in a way that Alex's accent never did. Alex…

Rose stared out at the sea of people looking up at her expectantly. Curiosity was the dominant emotion on their faces. Curiosity, and pity. Rose hated pity.

"My late father always said that New York was the first love of his life, and he brought me and my brothers up with that belief. While I've spent a lot of time in Los Angeles over the past couple of years, I have always called New York my home—because it is. A love of this charming city (—and an excuse to drink champagne and show off—) is what has brought us together tonight. Now, as many of you know, this is the last night that I'll be here. Tomorrow, at some ungodly hour—" there were light titters from the audience—"I'll be on a plane to England. I'm going to live with my long lost aunt, Tulip Jones. In fact, so long lost that I didn't even know she existed until last year."

Rose smiled sweetly at Mrs. Jones, who frowned at her while managing to simultaneously smile at everyone else. Rose choked back a giggle.

"Be that as it may, my father appointed her as my, and my brothers', official guardian. So that's that. I will miss you all so much (—ish—) and…and…" Rose paused, collecting herself, "the Upper East Side will always be my home." It was the most sincere thing that was said all evening, and the audience murmured softly in sympathy. The beautiful orphaned teenager whisked out of the country with her mysterious aunt, while her brothers were sent to boarding schools? Scandalous.

The air hostesses walked up and down the aisles offering blankets and pillows. Rose hadn't been lying when she spoke about the ungodly hour. Rose reached to get out her own pillow, but Mrs Jones was wide awake and stopped her.

"Are you excited, dear?" Mrs. Jones was sucking another peppermint.

"We're on a private jet. There's no one else around, you don't have to call me dear."

"Your brothers didn't make such a fuss."

"They're going to boarding school. They have other stuff on their mind. I presume I am, too?"

Mrs. Jones looked shocked. "Starting in September, you are going to school, yes."

It was Rose's turn to be shocked. "What? Why? What the hell? Can't I stay in the city?"

Mrs. Jones eyed her. "You can't stand those people any more than I can. You thought that everyone in that room was vapid, nauseating, and arrogant. And since you have no other family responsible enough to take care of you… and since you, not your brothers, know much too much about the inner workings about MI6… we have decided to care for you ourselves."

"So instead of killing me, you're adopting me?"

"I am your temporary guardian, yes."

The thought that had been nagging at Rose couldn't be contained any longer. "Am I being trained?"

A veil fell over Mrs. Jones' eyes. "You are free to pursue any career you so choose, once you turn eighteen. Now go to sleep, you look exhausted."

They drove to a quietly expensive building from Heathrow Airport. It was unremarkable in the extreme. They rode up the elevator in silence, the doorman shifting his weight awkwardly under the weight of all the bags.

They got off on the eleventh floor and stopped in front of a door with a keypad and fingerprint scan next to it. Mrs Jones glared at the porter until he left the hallway, scuttling off down the emergency stairs.

Mrs. Jones sighed heavily. "It's been a while since anyone under the age of about fifty has come to my apartment." She chuckled, and then amended. "Well, with an invitation."

Rose was to numb to care what that meant. She was tired and stiff and cold and lonely and homesick. She slumped against the wall as Mrs Jones entered in the passcode and opened the door.

"Of course, the one who entered without permission was—"

Rose felt all her fatigue evaporate as she saw "Alex!"


Sequel!!