The only action I can think to do is reach out and embrace him. The moment feels entirely surreal. My hands and legs quiver with anxiety. Tears sting my eyes. I cannot speak.

I release myself from the embrace. Standing silently, I rub my forehead, massaging my temples. All eyes are watching me, waiting, nearly begging, for my response. But I cannot offer them anything. My emotions have overtaken my thoughts.

I feel stupidity, that I failed to make the connection, to see who Titus is and what had been upsetting him.

I feel guilt, that I have taken advantage of my opportunities and social class, my egotistical nature leading me to fail at noticing my own brother.

I feel weak, that I am letting my emotions steer the situation like this.

But the greatest emotion I feel, burning deep within my core, is hatred.

Pure, unrefined, building hatred.

My life began entirely loveless, mechanical really; my parents programmed devices following orders, even when it came to their own children. I am simply an extension of my parents, expected to follow the path that was paved for me before I was born. The path Titus was initially assigned to follow. We were expected to be flawless clones of our parents, with no regard for the less fortunate. They could not risk having a flawed child.

But I am smarter than the programmed clones of this word, who are simply born inclined to their parent's bias and decisions for their futures. I have the upper hand, simply because I decided to think and question. I have proven that society is not always correct in its thinking. We are not simply born to our talents, Titus and I are living proof of that. What else are they deceiving us with?

But now, with this newfound perspective, I have challenged my thinking on an even deeper level, reaching a final conclusion: what does it matter who we are born to or what abilities we do or do not have? Should we all not be treated equally regardless?

"Metro."

A hand rests on my shoulder. My mind continues to race, a pounding headache suffocating my thoughts. I cover my face and slide down the wall onto the floor.

"Metro it's okay."

It is not okay.

"We're not gonna dwell on the past."

You were cheated of your own self respect...

"The important thing is that you're here now..."

...while I have been living luxuriously, showering myself with my ego.

"...and you actually care."

How did I not realize this in the past?

"That's all I could ask of you."

I am no 'super-kid'.

"I never expected I'd actually meet you like this."

I did not have the logic to question what I was doing. I simply agreed and moved on.

"Metro stop."

I am a fool.

"Please say something."

An egotistical, cowering fool.

"What?"

Beloved Mr. Riverton.

"Metro?"

Adored. Winsome. Captivating...

"Metro what are you talking about?"

I can no longer keep control of my emotions. I press my forehead against my knees and sob. Anxious hands stroke my back and shoulders.

"I am sorry," I finally manage to say the words, tumbling from my lips and stinging my heart. My hands and arms are taken and I am helped to my feet, lightheaded, being showered with comforting words, head pounding. I am lead downstairs to the seating area, a tissue box placed beside me. I gladly use it, feeling somewhat ashamed by my emotional outburst. I keep my eyes low. Sommer sits on the floor in front of the couch I am seated on, scribbling in her notebook. Jagger and Titus sit beside me.

Well this has been an eventful day, and it's not even noon, she writes, an attempt to ease the tension, giving me an encouraging smile. I return it as best I can, nodding.

"Don't be so quiet." Jagger responds with a playful shove. "You could talk our ears off if you wanted to."

I shrug my shoulders.

"I wonder what the people back home are saying about you," Jagger continues. "Did you stay long enough to see their reactions?"

"Very briefly."

"They looked pretty mad from where I was sitting," Titus adds, resting his head on Jagger's shoulder.

"I did not have a chance to communicate with the audience."

"What about your competition?" Titus inquires. "That Kensington guy."

"Julian?"

"Yeah. He's always a close runner up at your speeches. I've watched him speak quite a few times."

"He was," I pause, "quite entertained by my failure. He only read about it however."

"Read about it? No, I saw him in the crowd."

"Interesting." Perhaps Julian is concerned with my affairs after all. "He informed me otherwise."

"Julian--who is that?" Jagger asks.

"He is a medical student in some of my classes. He enjoys to torment me," I respond. "I believe he is highly envious of my increasing rate of success. That is why he enjoys emphasizing my failure."

"The ginger kid?"

Titus and I nod. Jagger scowls.

"What a dick."

"I will agree with that remark," I state plainly. "Has he troubled you?"

"Whenever there's a spill in the cafeteria I hear, 'You there! Boy in the mangy torn attire! Regard this disorder at once!'," he mimics Julian's voice. It is quite satisfying to hear Jagger mock him. "Then he and his friends laugh at me as I clean it up. I hate my job."

"That does not surprise me. However, to be fair, you cannot pinpoint Julian for such behavior, as that is the general attitude of my peers towards lower class individuals."

"Yeah I know."

I note Jagger's eyebrow piercing twitching slightly. Sommer studies him curiously. He shifts his position.

"Metro I have a confession."

I glance at him thoughtfully.

"You remember your meeting with your parents, just before we met? I was kinda eavesdropping."

"Was Julian there as well?" I inquire, reminiscing our quarrel numerous days ago. I note Titus' presence. He tenses. Jagger squeezes his shoulder.

"Yeah but I didn't notice him until later, I swear. I heard a lot of yelling coming from that room, and I saw the door was open a little bit, so I just glanced inside. I went to turn around and he was right behind me."

"I have been curious as to how he was aware of the..." I hesitate. "...conversation between my mother and I."

I see your bruises are gone, Sommer produces her notebook shyly.

"Bruises?" Titus sits up.

"Nothing to concern yourself with. We are a great distance from her and I intend to remain that way."

She sounds like a bag, Sommer adds.

"A bag?" I inquire, unaware of this slang terminology. "Of what kind?"

"It's an insult Metro." I stare at him blankly. "Nevermind. Hey, the drumsets been collecting dust up there. What'd you say we give Metro a private gig?"

Titus and Sommer agree.

Music and noise are often compared, although technically they are within each other. To some, noise is music, while to others, music is noise. We typically take pleasure in well-written, correctly played music, produced by those who have a passion for it. Notes are strung together on various lines to form melodies; vibrations, picked up by the specialized receptors in our ears, pleasurable to us, the music stimulating every section of the brain. Because of this, they say, it is beneficial to the developing mind of a fetus, inside the womb of her mother, to listen to the vibrations of music. Every area of her brain is being stimulated, even before her birth.

They also say to have a musically gifted mind is to have a mathematically structured mind. Perhaps this is why I am able to connect the different parts of music--the harmonies and melodies within the vocals, strings, percussion, and keyboard. I do not know the actual theory of music, however. The boys throw out terms that are unfamiliar to me: "The key is A Minor,";"It's cut time, not common,";"End with a G cord. The sheet music is wrong,".

Less than 5% of the population can be officially diagnosed as "tone deaf"; that is, not having the ability to perceive differences of musical pitch accurately. Upon hearing this, one may come to the conclusion that we, as human beings, are naturally inclined to correct musical perception, our minds having evolved so that we can detect these tonal vibrations. Is it not curious, how we each hold a distinct taste in the particular vibrations we hear, whether it be smooth acoustic strings, the flowing melody of a piano, the twanging of a steel guitar, or, rather, the metallic sound of a hard electric one? There are very, very few who can truly claim that they have no taste in music whatsoever.

I have had many opportunities to listen to the professionally trained Class A musicians at my learning institution. And, although the style of music they play is quite different than this, I no longer believe it is any better. The musical vibrations Jagger, Titus, and Sommer create are comforting to me. I can hear the extensive, self-taught knowledge of music and its composition, I can see the passion and great effort that has been put into composing each note, I can feel the emotion-soaked works as they escape Jagger's lips, so much that I nearly feel a part of the strong bond between each individual in this room, the cords connecting us like we are the complimenting notes.

But most importantly, most crucially, more simply, I see something in this room that many people born of my status would not.

I see four people.

*Dedicated to VagabondaDellaLuna  for inspiring Metro's first rant with her comment.*