I DO NOT ASSOCIATE with my parents often, but when I do, however, I ensure that I appear proper and well put together. I wear my second best attire, a dark blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to just beneath my elbows, and sophisticated jeans, with my hair combed neatly and professionally. This is the second most formal attire I own, the most formal including a suit jacket and dress trousers, reserved for only the finest occasions such as graduations or awards banquets. My mother never fails to send word when she and my father plan to visit. I believe she does this to assure that I have the time to dress appropriately to meet her high standards.

I exit my dormitory and proceed to the elevator down to the second floor, where there are specific rooms arranged for visiting with students; my mother would never be so informal as to visit me in my dormitory. I stand in front of the visiting hours counter, waiting to be directed to my room to await my parents. A tall, young female in all black attire frowns at her computer screen. She does not appear to have noticed me.

"Excuse me," I say. "I am here to see--"

"Metro Riverton!" She gasps, speaking rapidly in a high-pitched tone. She brushes the hair from her face and smooths her skirt. "I didn't see you--I'm sorry."

"Not a problem. I--"

"I listened to your speech--I'm sorry for interrupting!" the words rush out of her throat and tumble across her tongue. She covers her mouth with both hands, wide-eyed.

"It is quite alright." I smile politely. "What were your thoughts on it?"

"Oh, it was very good," she says in a hushed tone, her eyes darting around the room. "I've never heard anything like it."

"I am glad."

She scowls, looking down, tapping her fingers anxiously. "But some of those purebreds... You can't get a thing through their thick skulls. They're like..."

She gasps and covers her mouth again, realizing her company.

"I'm so sorry Metro--I mean Mr. Riverton. I wasn't talking about you I just--" She raises her hands in defense.

"No need to apologize." I smile warmly. "I understand."

"I've made such a fool of myself, haven't I?" She sighs, her forehead creasing. "Your parents are in room five." She keeps her eyes low.

"Thank you," I say.

An afterthought, I lean toward her and speak quietly, "And do not stress about your words. I will not inform my supervisors, or any other official for that matter, about our brief conversation." She looks up at me thankfully.

"Thank you so much." She reaches out to shake my hand but quickly retreats.

I make my way to room five. I study my reflection in the silver doorknob, making last minute perfections to my appearance. I inhale deeply and open the door.

"Mother. Father."

I smile warmly and nod to each of them as I enter. I take a seat on the single cushioned chair across from the matching white leather (plastic?) chesterfield my parents are seated on.

My father, Nelson Riverton, is one of the greatest theoretical physicists of our time. Socially, however, he is significantly less than acceptation. He briefly flashes a smile at me, and his eyes look to the floor once again. His hair is thick and full, (surprising considering his age) once jet black but now streaking with silver. His body structure is very similar to mine; slim build, slightly less than average height, narrow hips, and shoulders. He has gained a few pounds with age. His skin is fair, face long and round. The corners of his mouth crease downwards when he relaxes his face, and the wrinkles of skin around his eyes tense and relax as he thinks, looking as though he is constantly deep in thought. 

My father resembles the majority of my academic peers. He never dares to be seen in public without my mother, who acts as a translator, speaking for him so he does not have to associate with the general public. She assures that he constantly appears professional, combing his hair and articulating his clothing. This, however, does not agitate my father. He would pay no attention to his appearance otherwise.

"You are a good son," my father says awkwardly, avoiding eye contact with my mother, who glares at him in annoyance.

He gives the impression that my mother is upset with me, and I am highly aware of the reason for her disappointment. I silently prepare for my scolding.

"How are you, Metro?"

She surprises me with her cordial words and smile. But I recognize the grin she holds across her lips. Beneath her eyes, I see anger and disapproval.

"I am well, thank you. And yourselves?" I sit back in the chair, the plastic leather squeaking against my clothing. I adjust the sleeves of my shirt.

"I appreciate your asking, Metro." She crosses one leg over the other, brushing the wrinkles out of her simple cotton skirt and rolling her ankle. My father anxiously studies the sharp point at the tip of her flat shoe.

"We are, in fact, not as well as we wish to be."

She squints at me curiously through her dark framed glasses. I keep her eye contact for a brief moment before gazing down at the armrest of the chesterfield. My mother's fingernails, neatly filed and plain, tap the shiny leather, sticking slightly to the surface as she lifts each finger.

It is when I look at my mother's face that I can see a resemblance of myself. Her cheekbones are high and sculpted, nose sharp, eyebrows thick and structured, and a narrow face. Even my eyes are a nearly exact replication of her own; a grey so light it appears inhuman, with a dark ring outlining the iris, so unique it captures the attention of any individual immediately. Her hair, naturally dark auburn and wavy like my own, is tied back into a neat twist with not a single strand loose. Her closet consists of the typical Class A woman's attire: simple skirts, pants, and dress shirts, all neutral colours. I have never seen her look anything but professional.

Although I refer to her as my mother, Athena Riverton has never been a motherly figure to me. She did not nurse me, teach me to walk, or adhere to my soiled diapers, but rather, hired another to do the dirty work, so to speak. She is a professional woman, with little time to take care of a child. More often than not, Class B citizens with the required training are hired as caretakers to feed, clean, and tend to the needs of the Class A children. Only Class A professional psychologists are fulfilled with the duty of teaching the children valuable skills such as speaking and walking, naturally. We are taught all these things apart from our parents and generally see them no more than twice a month.

My parents do, however, constantly expect highly of me, and are disappointed at anything other than the best. Although she currently holds a peculiar smile across her lips, I see the disapproval in my mother's eyes. A wave of annoyance ripples through my abdominal region. She rarely makes the effort to attend my speeches, and yet she believes she holds the authority to criticize my work.

"Whatever is the matter, Mother dear?" I say, my words dripping with sarcasm and mockery. Even I am surprised at the mocking tone of my voice. I observe her reaction.

Shock blankets her and my father's face. A scowl abruptly replaces it. My father continues to study me anxiously. His eyes asking me, "Why?". My mother sits forward in her seat, furious.

"I expect you to be the best, Metro. And for your entire life, you have been," she speaks slowly, mouth enunciating each syllable. "You are highly aware of our expectations for you."

My father briefly glances at me, telling me silently that he has no argument to support my mother. He promptly updates his gaze to the coffee table between us.

"But now, it seems, you have let yourself slip." She relaxes back in her seat, tapping her fingers lightly on the armrest.

The room is silent for a moment. I wish to speak, but I do not. My mother holds her stare on the wall, thoughts of anger and betrayal racing through her mind, imagining how she will explain to her adult peers how her son did not succeed, for once. She wonders how she will keep this headline from the press. She contemplates bribery. I am very sure these thoughts race throughout her mind, and I am, bitterly, the source of it all.

"To think, that nonintellectual brat from Kennedy could even compete with with a mind like this!" the words burst out of her mouth in a high-pitched tone, as if it was she who had lost the competition. Mother shakes her head at her outburst. She turns to me. 

"You must have been absolutely horrible. Were you ill that day?" she questions me, her face conforming around each word of fury that exits her mouth, nearly yelling.

"Not at all, Mother. I was quite fine. I appreciate your deep concern for the well-being of your son." I rise.

"You will not speak to your mother in that manner. Where are you going?"

She nearly leaps out of her seat. My father remains seated, anxiously studying the floor, prepared to evacuate if the situation is to get violent.

"Has it ever occurred to you that you have not once bothered to attend one of my speeches, or even read one, for that matter?" I step towards my mother, nearly touching her toes with mine.

"It is illogical for you to simply expect me to succeed in every competition I am involved in. How do you know if I am greater than everyone else? You are not even aware of what I am capable of." I turn to exit.

"Mr. Riverton," she forces me to face her, gripping my shoulders with such force I feel as though she will tear my skin. "You will listen to your mother," she speaks in a hushed tone, a flaming fire in her eyes. 

"Your father and I were not partnered to create a mediocre citizen. Our purpose was not to give birth to an average child." She holds my chin up, forcing me to keep her eye contact. She squeezes her fingers beneath my jaw, leaning so close to me, our noses nearly touch.

Behind us, my father finally rises cautiously, as to not further infuriate the angry predator that is my mother. He gently touches her shoulder.

"Athena," he nearly whispers.

She fails to acknowledge his presence. As if he is the timid lion trainer and she is the alpha lion, devouring a fresh meal. I feel like prey.

"Your purpose, Mr. Riverton, is to succeed over your entire generation. You may be imprudently caught up in your own emotions at the moment, but one day, when you have matured, you will understand."

She drops her grip from my shoulders and exits. My father follows her but stops in front of me, awkwardly putting his hand on my shoulder, attempting to say something comforting.

"Nelson?"

He looks at me apologetically before abruptly exiting. I am left alone.

I stand with no company but my own thoughts until tears sting my eyes. I force myself to remain composed. I question myself, my abilities, and my purpose. I decide in that moment that I will not continue my research as Proffessor Rupert suggested. I will not question anymore. Certain things are not to be questioned.

The door swings open. I leap out of my thoughts with a start. A juvenile mutt boy stands in the doorway, holding a broom in one hand and cleaning spray in the other. 

"Oh, sorry. I saw two people leave..." He looks at me, not concealing his confusion, or leaving me in my privacy.

He wears a grey shirt with torn sleeves, exposing his large bicep muscles, one of many characteristics that add to his his intimidating appearance. His hair is a light blonde, coated with many products, I'm sure, to keep the front bangs swept upward. His denim is tight and torn with wear. His fingernails appear to have been coloured with a black felt. He is taller than I, and most definitely stronger. His appearance is comical, holding cleaning supplies; clearly not his preferred profession. He continues to watch me curiously.

"Everything okay..?" he hesitates, stepping in my direction.

"Yes."

"You have marks on your face," he states plainly.

I walk toward the singular mirror in the room. Red splotches line my jaw, lower cheek, and chin, most certainly from my mother's fingertips. My hair, no longer neatly combed, splays down my forehead and completely out of place.

"Have an allergic reaction or something?" he asks.

"No."

I attempt to fix my hair but abruptly give up when it continues to move out of place. The boy laughs. I turn to him.

"Sorry," he says. He lowers the cleaning supplies to the table and raises his hands. 

"Let me help?"

I consider this for a brief moment, and then nod, concluding that it would adhere no chance of harm. He steps close to me and I immediately feel small under his tall and strong demeanor. But he is gentle as he runs his fingertips through my hair, pulling it in every direction. As he does this, I notice the black eyeliner surrounding his eyelids. His eyebrows appear to have been outlined and coloured in with a brown pencil.

"There."

I turn toward the mirror once again. The front of my hair is pointed up slightly while the rest is messy across my scalp, but in a way that is pleasing. I have attempted many times to arrange my hair in this manner, but I could never hope to succeed this well.

"Thank you," I nod towards him.

"No problem." He squints at me curiously. "Should I recognize you?"

"If you are aware of the brightest young intellects of this time, then possibly, yes," I answer to the utmost honesty.

He gives a short laugh and rolls his eyes, turning to pick up the spray bottle.

"What is it you find amusing?" I ask.

He pulls a stained rag from his denim pocket.

"You really think you're something else, don't you?"

He proceeds to spray and wipe the coffee table. The disinfectant smell of the cleaner stings in my nostrils.

"My purpose is to succeed in my generation," I recite my mother's words.

He rises, leaving the cleaning supplies on the table.

"What's your idea of 'success'?" he questions.

He steps outside and returns with a clean cloth. I contemplate his question. 

"Is it getting the best marks out of everyone?" he continues cleaning. "Getting the best job? Making the most money?"

He looks up at me. I wait for him to continue.

"And then, eventually, you are matched up with someone at the same high-class level as you are and assigned to make high-class babies. And the cycle continues." He makes a spinning motion with his hand.  "Is that what 'success' means?" he asks. "Or does being successful mean just being happy?" 

I take a moment to consider this.

This boy is correct. I was correct.

I was correct in the beginning before my mother filled my head with doubt. I refuse to simply be what I am expected. I refuse to simply do what is expected of me. I must continue my research. I must not let Proffessor Rupert down.

I rush to my dormitory.