Chapter One

Arthur Kirkland - Point of View

[Diary Entry #2]

Day Two, August 12, 4:05 PM

It's been a long time since I've written in this diary. Scotland took my diary on the remaining days until school. So many things to write today!

I just started middle school. It starts at 8 AM and I came there a little too early, more like 7:45 AM. There was no sign of that American boy anywhere, so I just sat on a bench. I saw other kids walking to the school, the kids looking older and more popular than me. One of them threw a paper ball at my face, which gave myself a paper cut.

"Vy you sittin' zere?" The person said, having slick blonde hair and blue eyes. "Ludwig Beilschmidt clearly doesn't like loners."

'Great', I thought. First thing I know a kid throws something at me.

With myself wasting 30 minutes on the bench, kids were walking past me, holding their schoolbags and books. I think school just started.

A person in the middle of the campus was giving out what looked like schedules, and I got one from her. The letter from two weeks ago said my room would be Room 2 A, so I tried to find Rm. 2 A on the map and headed the direction to the room.

I bumped into some people, one of them pushing me and making me fall. I picked up my books and one kid stepped on my schedule. What a bad day.

I reached Room 2 A, and the whole was there but me. The room was somewhat large, with bizarre posters on the wall. A kid pointed to me desk and I walked quickly to my seat. I knew this was my room, but I couldn't find that American kid anywhere. I looked around, trying to find him. No luck.

"Hello," the teacher said. The teacher was a woman, a very pretty woman with brunette hair, but she looked serious. "Can you please tell us your name?"

I looked at the teacher. "Arthur Kirkland," I said quietly.

"Would you like to tell something about yourself?" she asked.

"Um," I said, lost for words.

"Before you start, I am Mrs. Toulson," Mrs. Toulson said. "I teach History class here at McFarlane Middle School. You may continue, Mr. Kirkland."

"I...," I said, still timid for words. "I own a journal?"

Some kids started laughing, and I turned tomato red.

"Be quiet!" Mrs. Toulson said. "Having a journal is nice because you can obviously recount your memories from the past, so I wouldn't be laughing."

I slightly turned back to his normal skin color. Really?

"Now, I will pass out your History text books," Mrs. Toulson said, passing out the text books. "You will turn to page 34."

When I got his, a kid next to him started whispering to me.

"You own a journal?" he asked, slightly surprised.

"Yeah, I mean-," I said, but this kid stopped him.

"Don't feel bad, I do too," he said. "My name's Gilbert Beilschmidt, nice to meet you."

"I'm Arthur Kirkland," Iwhispered.

"I know zat already," he whispered back.

"Sorry," Arthur said, then turned back to his book.

Then history class went on. I met a new journal friend called Gilbert Beilschmidt. But why did his name sound so familiar? More like last name.

It was break time. I was sitting with Gilbert and we were talking about being 'journal buddies'. I hadn't really agreed on it yet, but it's an okay idea I guess.

Then a kid who had blonde hair and blue eyes with glasses looked at us.

"Hey dude," He said. "You look like a loser!" The kid threw a spitball at me and I wiped it away.

"I do not," I replied back, glaring at him.

"There's something wrong with your eyebrows," the kid said. "Are you growing a squirrel on your forehead?"

"No!" I replied angrily, and I tackled him, and he tackled me back.

Then a person who was apprently Ireland stopped the two of us.

"STOP!" Ireland said, pulling my ear and the kid's ear.

"Ow," I said, wincing.

"Dude, knock it off," the kid said, scratching Ireland's arm to get him out of his hold.

The bell for break time sounded. It was time for maths class. I walked to Room 3 F. The kid was following me for some strange reason.

"Why are you following me?!" I asked him.

"I'm going to math class too," He replied.

"It's 'maths' class!" I argued.

"You're British, so we have different customs," He said, and walked faster.

I looked at him. Was he not British or...

I sat in my seat, and the teacher asked the kid to go up in front of the class.

"Hello, my name is Mr. Alden, and we have a transfer student," Mr. Alden said, placing his hands on the kid. He had bony fingers and he looked like he was in his 40's, mainly because he looked like he was losing hair.

I looked closer. Was he-

"Hi!" He said. "I'm Alfred F. Jones from America!"

Holy Crapola. It was the transfer student. I never realized it. How could I not?

"I just fought with that kid," Alfred said, pointing at me, and I turned tomato red again.

"Arthur Kirkland?" a girl asked, and Alfred nodded.

"He says he doesn't look like a loser, he really does!" Alfred said, and some kids were laughing with him.

I put my head down, trying to hold back tears. I thought Americans were nice, but this was the complete opposite. I was known to be sensitive, as stated from my parents, while Scotland always tells me to grow up. Sometimes I refuse to, because I want to live a good life in my childhood before I turn into a teenager.

"Arthur, are you okay?" the girl asked me, and I looked at her.

"No," I replied.

"Sorry for disturbing you," she said. "My name is Elizabeta Héderváry."

"Okay," I said with no interest, and she left.

I hated that American boy. Why was I so interested to meet him in the first place?