This chapter is long overdue, and for that I'm so, so sorry. But i've been unwell and the homework was piling up, but I'm ready to write! In fact, I'll write a few chapters! Remember to check out fashionablyobsessed, who owns this plot. I just write it! Love you guys, you're all brilliant and I hope you know how wonderful you are.

I don't own House Of Anubis.

Nina's P.O.V:

One photo. A smiling little girl with rumpled brown hair, an older lady and two grinning parents.

Two tubes of cheap, thick mascara - from a smiley little girl to a rebellious teenager, with harsh dark circles that aren't makeup.

Three tickets for crappy films; boring dates with a boy who only likes me for kissing.

And four strips of photos, in a booth with false friends who don't care about me.

It is my childhood, my life being packed away into cardboard boxes and a suitcase, just so that I can move across an ocean so my Gran can find true love. It is me going through my memories, and remembering the person I once was. Before my parents died, I went off the rails and became an adolescent. Before rebellion hit like a twisted epiphany, and my only way to make a name for myself was to skip school and pretend I didn't care.

The small items are thrown into the bottom of my pink suitcase. They shouldn't matter, but they do.

"Nina, hurry up!" My Gran yells at me from downstairs. She's still angry at me from the previous fight. We haven't spoken: I eat all my meals in my room with a Friends marathon playing on Comedy Central, and the door stays shut. My choice, completely my choice. I'd rather be shut out from the world than face Gran… right?

"NINA!" Anger is clear in her voice, but it breaks a little to the end of the word as she finishes. I just want to hug her and pull on my blazer and get good grades again - but this much bad blood can't be forgotten with a hug and a chaste kiss on the cheek. I may as well not even try.

"Coming!" I yell back, and I hear a sigh, then the sound of a key in the large front door. A slight rustle as the draught excluder is pushed out of the way, and then silence. Dragging my suitcase down the stairs, I place it in the trunk and sit in the passenger seat. The stony silence of the past week forms a barrier between me and Gran, and I don't have the strength nor the willpower to knock it down.

One photo. A smiling little girl with rumpled brown hair, an older lady and two grinning parents. It still sits on my dressing table. Back in the house. Back in my home.

Eddie's P.O.V

"Edison Sweet! Pack up your things and get into the car NOW!" I shrug my shoulders at the muffled sound of my dad's angry voice through my headphones. They blare American Idiot loudly into my ears,and my father's voice is barely audible above the din. Aimlessly, I throw various clothes into my back, along with a copy of Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone into my bag. I don't get why we have to move. Surely my dad's fiance and her bitchy daughter can stay in our house? I don't want to leave.I grew up here, and here I know my place. Sure,the paisley print armchairs and threadbare,moth eaten carpes get a little tiresome but still! I like it here. And the other people invading my perfectly put together life schedule can get used to it. Their choice, not mine.

At last, I storm downstairs, bag in hand, laptop in case and headhones still father is fuming, and I don't care I shrug my shoulders at him, smirk and pick up the back of Phildalphia cheese sandwiches on brown bread. My favourite. He is trying to butter me up for when we move into a new house, with a new family. Well it sure as hell won't work! He's made his choices, I've made mine. He left Mom,and I forgave him. He uprooted me from my life in America and I let him off the hook. But I don't want this change in my life. I want just one thing to stay the same.

"Well. At least you're ready," he says stiffly, obviously trying to calm his rage. He walks to the car before I do, throwing my bag in the boot. I take a second to stare back at the house nostalgically, before looking in the window at my dad. He is clenching the steering in a vice like grip, knuckles white and face red with concentration. Just before I open the door to the little red Mini, I see one tiny, iridescent tear hit the worn leather interior.

I brush it off; I have enough problems of my own right now.