Opposites Always Attract.

I brushed my bright ginger hair out of my eyes as I walked down the windy, London Street. My body disagreed with the typically cold British weather, causing me to huddle into my large hoodie even more. My hideous school skirt bustled around my knees, causing my legs to erupt in goose bumps.

I let out a small sigh of relief when I saw my house a short distance away. Home is what I needed right now. A good cup of tea and my Batman duvet will warm me up nicely. My school shoes clicked along the pavement, keeping a quick, steady rhythm until I closed the distance between myself and my house. I practically flung myself into the hallway once my frozen fingers had finally turned the key in its lock.

“Elliott, is that you?” I heard a deep male voice ask from the kitchen.
“Yeah, Dad, it's me.” I replied, dumping my school bag on the floor in the hallway.

I pulled one hideous excuse of a shoe off of my foot and chucking it carelessly to the side of me. My dad (Louis to anybody else) walked into the hallway as I was in the middle of a fierce battle with the other shoe, which involved me hopping around in a circle, attempting to pull the flat lace-up off of my foot. Resulting in me lying flat on my face, shoe half off, with my own father laughing at my pain.

“Yeah, thanks Dad. Just laugh at me, it's not as if I'm in pain or anything.” I said sarcastically, finally removing the shoe and throwing it towards the other.

I looked up at my dad. His green eyes were the exact shade of my own, bright, with tints of yellow. I was constantly reminded by others how much I looked like my father. Not only were our eyes identical, but our hair also shared the same bright orangey-red colour, which also matched our temper. I was also unfortunate to receive my father’s coordination, or rather, lack of coordination. I was never seen without a scab or bruise on one limb or another. I’d been the receiver of, “Had a nice trip? See you next fall.” Far too many times. The joke wasn’t funny the first time around.

“Elliott, do you want a cup of tea?” my dad asked me, once I finally picked myself off of the floor.
“Yes please!” tea, always the way to a British person’s heart.

I removed my worn out hoodie and folded it onto the banister of the stairs. I walked into the kitchen/dining room, where I found my mother seated on one of the dining chairs. I could tell something was bothering her as she was brushing her pale fingers though her dark hair continuously.
.
“Honey, could you sit down for a minute please? Your father and I have something to say.” she said, brushing slender fingers through brown hair, again. A hint of a New Jersey accent was noticeable in her British one.

My mum (Rosie to anyone else) was originally from Belleville, New Jersey, but moved to London when she was twenty to become a photographer, which is her current profession. She met my father at university. He was studying Law. Their relationship should never really have worked. But their complete opposite natures created an unbreakable chemistry. And of course, seven years later, I was born.

“Guys, what's going on?” I said, as I sat down opposite my mum, a steaming cup of tea was placed in front of me. “Am I in trouble? B-because I swear, I was actually at Molly's house last week and not at that party-”
“Honey, honey, no, you're not in trouble. But, we um...” my mother stumbled.
“Mmmm?”
“We're...um.”
“Yeah?”
“We're...”
“We're what mum? Come on, it can't be that bad.” I said, taking a sip of my tea.
“We'removingtoNewJersey!” my mother blurted out.
I began choking on my tea.
My father thumped me on the back as I spluttered, “We're. Moving. Where?”
“N-new Jersey.”
“WHAT?!” I said, after I’d finished choking. “New Jersey? You think we're moving to New Jersey? I'm fifteen, Mum. Y-you can't do that. You're joking; please tell me you're joking?”

My dad sat down next to my mum. Their faces held the same expression, complete seriousness. Oh, God...we're moving to New Jersey. I'm moving 3498 miles away from my home town.

“Ellie, you have to understand. My mom, she's ill. I,” She took a deep breath, “I don't think she's gonna be here for much longer. We need to be there for her. I-” her voice cracked as small tears began running down her cheek.

“It will be okay, Elliott, we promise.” my dad reassured me. I took a sip of my tea, unsure of what to make of the situation. It was hard to get my head around. After all, it was a bit of a shock decision.

But as I looked at my mother crying in front of me, I knew I had to do it. My grandma, Davina was amazing, even at the grand old age of seventy-five she still had a wicked sense of humour and a twinkle in her eye. I never got to see her much seeing as she lived so far away. If she was only going to be alive for a little longer, how could I ever pass the opportunity to say goodbye to her properly?

But what about my friends? I’d know some of my friends for years, how would I see them now? But I could always make new friends, right? Was there really anything in London that would be different to New Jersey? Not really. I'd miss good tea, and British humour. And the excuse to wear hoodies all year round, even during summer. But was any of that worth seeing my mother cry?

No.

“What do you say, Elliott?” my dad asked, stroking my mother’s arm in reassurance.
“Okay," I smiled. “I'll go”

-

It had been three days since we moved to New Jersey. It had taken us around five months to sort out any legal issues, but due to the fact that my dad is a lawyer, we were accepted into the country pretty quickly. By this time, I had come to terms with the idea of moving, my friends on the other hand, hadn’t. They were angry that I was almost excited about leaving my old life behind, and refused to talk to me since. So, in other words, by the time we had landed in America, I was quite relieved to be as far away as I was from my friends. Well, ex-friends.

My grandma, Davina was still alive by the time we arrived in New Jersey. It turned out that she had had a heart attack, so I got to spend a good two months with her before she died.

But, back to my first week in New Jersey. Boxes were piled up in various rooms in our empty house, making it a dangerous maze, particularly for someone like me. I had an assortment of scrapes and bruises on my legs from tripping over said boxes countless times. Never the less, our house was brilliant.

It was big, much bigger than my old house. My room was also much larger. But it probably seemed that way because I had next to nothing in it. I had four piles of boxes and a mattress. My Pikachu toy was sat on my mattress, accompanied by my Batman duvet, and some Spider-Man pyjamas. Am I aware I act like a seven year old? Yes. Do I care? No. Comics and cartoons are far too brilliant to grow out of.

My bedroom was the best room in the house, I personally thought anyway. I had a large window which overlooked our street, and under this window was a small section of roof from the porch. I would often climb out of my window and sit on this piece of roof. Observing my new neighbourhood, and trying to familiarize myself with the New Jersey air.

New Jersey was definitely different from London. People were rude and arrogant. London had its far share of crime; however, I didn't see it being committed outside of my window. And from my three days of living here, I knew one thing for sure, the kids were different. They walked around in packs, like wolves. And what was worse was that all the kids in these ‘packs’ looked the same. And I can prove it. I went to a shopping centre or ‘mall’ as they're called over here, and I saw all these ‘packs’ in their ‘natural habitat’.

There were groups of boys riding around on skateboards outside, with flat caps rammed firmly on their heads. There were nerdy boys walking in and out of nerdy shops with glasses and argyle sweaters. There were girls drowning in black, with lots of piercing, crosses and chains. There were girls who wore very little clothing and a lot of make-up. I felt them look at me up and down as a passed them, examining my pale skin and baggy T-Shirt.

And then there were a bunch of kids my age, who I could only describe as weird. One was ridiculously skinny with glasses perched at the end of his nose; he looked particularly shy and awkward. Another boy, who was much shorter than his friend had his nose and lip pierced, with short, spiky hair. He appeared to be annoying a mild-mannered looking boy who was tall, with a crazy afro. He was sitting next to a boy with blonde hair who looked a little older than the other three. He appeared to be stroking his chin, searching for sign of stubble; I also noticed he had a black lip ring.

And then there was the last boy. He was slightly chubby, with very pale skin, and very dark hair. He was hunched over, almost as if he were afraid of those around him. He was immersed in a comic book, ignoring the commotion going on behind him. Afro-boy had resorted to jabbing the short boys’ hips, resulting in the short kid letting out a high pitched giggle, taking the skinny boy by surprise, with the blonde-stubble guy rolling his eyes at their behaviour. As I walked past them the boy reading the comic book peered over the top of his pages, catching my eye. I smiled at him, which he returned, before we both quickly looked away. I felt his eyes linger on me until I was out of sight. Little did I know at the time, but that would be the only moment Gerard Way and I would make any form of polite contact for two years.