Abigail hadn't initially noticed any change, but gradually, she sensed Audrey's indifferent attitude towards her. Whenever Abigail's belongings spread too far across their shared desk, Audrey would promptly tap the edge with her pen, signaling Abigail to pull back. Here and there, Abigail's attempts at conversation were met with minimal response.

Reflecting on what could have caused this shift, Abigail concluded it all started after the school uniform incident. She felt perplexed. She had tried to help Audrey, after all. Shouldn't that have been appreciated, not held against her? She dismissed it, comparing it to the small squabbles she had with friends back home that naturally resolved over time. 

Yet days passed with Audrey showing no signs of reconciliation. Worse, she openly contested Abigail's presence in class. During literature class, when Mr. Johnson invited Abigail to read aloud, Audrey unexpectedly raised her hand to read as well. This caught the class's attention, and soon whispers circulated that perhaps the glamorous city girl couldn't stand someone from the countryside.

Each snide remark chipped away at Abigail's resolve. On the rare sunny Sunday, she joined Aunt Lilly in airing out the bedding on the lawn, the sun casting a soothing warmth. Aunt Lilly chatted gently, reminding Abigail of her own grandmother's affectionate advice, "A tidy girl makes a good impression—just like Jack prefers."

Abigail stood holding the quilt corner, nodding to Aunt Lilly’s advice, recognizing her own need for self-improvement. "Aunt Lilly," she began timidly, "do I seem... rustic?"

Aunt Lilly, wielding a feather duster to beat the duvet, chuckled warmly, "What makes you say that?"

"My classmates laugh at my accent," Abigail confided.

Aunt Lilly laughed aloud, "No wonder you're reading lessons aloud every night! Why don't you ask Jack to get you a tape recorder? You can practice at home."

Eyes brightened with hope, Abigail decided to approach Jack. En route, doubts weighed on her—was she burdening him? As the door opened, her hesitance was clear, yet Jack welcomed her inside. Through gentle coaxing, he understood her request.

“There's nothing wrong with getting a recorder, Abigail," Jack assured her, "but remember, every place has its customs. Boston has its own culture. It's normal for locals to be unfamiliar with your ways. Never feel ashamed of who you are. Still, I support your learning Mandarin—adapting is key to thriving.”

Jack's words seemed to clear Abigail's cloudy spirits. "I'll work hard to overcome any insecurity," she promised.

That evening, a brand-new tape player awaited her. Determined, Abigail crafted a daily reading plan, promising to surprise the entire class with her progress post-vacation. Yet, distractions threatened her drive. Outside her window, a mischievous Ben darted about even in the cold, alarming her with constant false fire alarms.

With exams looming and Mandarin studies consuming her, Abigail felt she was neglecting something important until a classmate leaned in. "I just saw some senior boys looking for you during my break."

Confused, she didn't understand what would draw their attention. Audrey's warnings now echoed her growing concerns. She turned to spot Louis in the back, who had previously crossed her over a math assignment, now seemingly involved.

Worry gnawed at her—until today, Jack had accompanied her to school. But now, with him away on business and wanting to test her independence, she'd have to navigate home alone. Dread settled in as she reached the road lined with trees outside the school where a group of students lingered ominously.

Pretending to belong to a nearby group, Abigail struck up a superficial conversation until she safely left the worrying scene behind.

That evening, fear lingered long past bedtime. Getting on Louis’s bad side was easy, but could lead to unending harassment if not confronted. The danger of appeasement seemed unwise; bravery, however daunting, felt necessary.

Next day, Mr. Marks announced an imperative change—soon, two additional evening study sessions would be incorporated, this very week. Abigail felt doomed.

As she filled her bottle at the water fountain, passing Louis's desk, he and Nick exchanged a knowing glance as Abigail walked by, inwardly cringing at whatever scheme brewed between them.

After dismissal, Abigail saw James, the enigmatic beauty, swiftly packing. She trailed him, hoping his stoicism meant safety, as long as she didn’t slow him down.

At the front gates, the usual suspects hovered beyond the zebra crossing, casting menacing silhouettes under the streetlights. The tension was palpable, reminding her of battle prelude standoffs.

As green lit the way, the cluster across discarded their cigarettes, preparing to approach. Abigail felt a shiver race down her spine as she clutched the hem of James' coat, pleading, “Help me out here.”

James, familiar with female admirers yet amused by the novel rescue request, glanced at her clutching hands dispassionately. “Let go.”

Abigail shook her head, grip tightening with stubborn resolve. "Us two getting pummeled splits the attention," she rationalized.

He allowed a hint of a smirk to crack through his icy demeanor, underestimating her stubborn resiliency. As the bus arrived a few steps ahead, he disregarded the confrontational group and proceeded to board, Abigail unfazed, followed.

Typically reserved for villa residents, this bus was nearly empty. Still, Abigail slipped down next to him, heart racing. Glancing backward, the group watched warily, hesitant to follow. 

Intrigued, her attention drifted to James. Intimidating height aside, his lean build barely promised hidden prowess. With reprieve seemingly granted, she descended, anxieties easing.

Home stretched beyond a poorly lit trail, long familiar to her country heels. Unperturbed by the dark, she sang and kicked stones, antics inspired by rural independence.

James, further behind, reluctantly endured her game. Her stone clunks mirrored the annoying chalkboard scrape, grating on his nerves.

Unbeknownst to her, looming shadows crept, and what she thought was simply the hillside emerged— “Ahhh!” she shrieked, jolted by a ghostly specter. A portable light beneath James’ chin made him look ghastly.

Fleeing startled, realization struck, slowing her steps. Just a trick of the light; just James being... obnoxious.

“Immature!” she snapped, hyperventilating. Suddenly bemused, she braced as he approached unexplained.

“Bad things catch up,” she warned venomously, bristling futilely against his reticence. 

Irony mocked her a moment later as a scrappy stray bounded from the undergrowth, wagging eagerly at her feet. Old instincts responded, dog memories flooding from a beloved childhood pet.

With James vanished from sight, seemingly scared at the barking, realization struck. “James, it’s just a dog!” she called, testing her theory. Sure enough, his pace accelerated. 

Her laughter rang out, “James, cute puppy!”

Startled by knowing James’ vulnerability, she pursued mercilessly with joy. Only then did James respond curtly, “Scram!”

His congenital distaste manifested as pure exasperation beyond xenophobic humor, outweighing even enmity toward Eric, and yes, even dogs. 

---

Late evening had rendered his usual undisturbed mansion access useless. Five meters shy of the chained gate remained, unconquerable. His father’s estate, guarded by fierce Dobermans—glossy coats symbolizing poise, started barking before one solemn white puppy emerged, yipping curiously.

Silently conceding, James elected retreat over confrontation.

Downstairs, Mr. Scott descended, formally suggesting rest for exams, oblivious to James’ silent conflict shaken internally by watchful aides shadowing his school commutes.