I attempt to erase the confrontation with my parents from my mind, but I find it nearly impossible. I have never doubted my senses before, until this moment. I have always held the ability to trust my own instincts, not relying on the opinions of others. But, although previously this thought had never crossed my mind, I have always had parental support in my decisions. Now I realize that I am only supported if I live the exact life of my mother and father. I am only supported if I do what is expected of me. It enrages me, yes. But a worse feeling hovers above me like a dark cloud. It blocks my sunlight, leaves my soul with an unquenchable thirst

I feel abandonment.

I have never been the rebellious type. But if doing what one believes is morally correct is classified as "rebellion", then so be it; I am willing to become rebellious.

But what shall I do to prove my opinion? What information do I need to acquire so that I am able to convince the majority to conform to my side?

To the utmost honesty, I am not sure myself if the information I am proposing is entirely accurate. It can be compared to the infamous "nurture or nature" argument. Is intellect considered as a naturally attained ability, as the general population believes, or could it possibly be influenced by one's environment? 

"Mr. Riverton."

My educator sternly glances in my direction, tapping her ballpoint pen against the desk.

"Complete your assignment as your peers are doing," the end of her sentence twists with annoyance.

"Of course, Ms. Anthony."

I am immediately aware that I have angered her in some way. It is safe to assume this by listening to the tone of her voice and the way she monitors my every movement with judgment. I contemplate what could be possibly upsetting her. I recall her presence at my latest, controversial oral presentation.

Ms. Anthony is a strong believer in our current caste system, along with most other Class A professionals. Before she heard my speech, I was her favourite student. A warm smile and an enthusiastic, "Good morning Mr. Riverton!" previously greeted my entrance to English. I must have been too exhausted to notice its absence this morning.

I glance at my silver plated touch-sensitive wrist watch. I still have three classes to attend before I am able to retire to my bed. Exhaustion fills my chest and head as if it is a foreign smoke, clouding my thoughts. I stare at the textbook in front of me, my eyes failing to focus. I open my laptop to a typing page to attempt to appear as though I am working.

I massage the crown of my cranium with my fingertips, deciding that it would have been logical to excuse myself from classes today. Rest is my asset. One cannot function to the utmost clarity if one has not had at least eight hours of deep rest. I have slept no more than three.

Now, I allow my mind to drift, giving in to my body's urge to close my eyelids and relax my eyes, which are strained from the fluorescent lights of the classroom. A singular tear streams across my right cheek and rests in the crook of my chin before dripping off my face. I cannot conclude whether the tear is from my exhaustion combined with the bright light, or possibly emotion.

"Mr. Riverton, I suggest you at least appear as though you are working."

Ms. Anthony rises suddenly, startling the entire room. My peers watch me curiously, highly surprised at her sudden reaction. I slowly open my eyes.

"Unless that is, you would like me to assign you with new material." She takes long dramatic steps toward my seat. "Is this too challenging for you, Mr. Riverton?"

She hovers over my work-space, her body shadowing me from the blinding fluorescent lights. My straining eyes are relieved, but my abdomen tenses. I fear her next authoritative actions. My eyes stay low but I keep my chin raised.

"Would you prefer to be taught mutt material?" she spits the words from her mouth.

I sense my peers inhaling a silent gasp.

"Are you uncomfortable among your own kind, Mr. Riverton?"

She slaps her hands against my desk, sending a vibration throughout the room. I grip my laptop to prevent it from falling to the floor.

"Because alternative arrangements can be made."

I do not speak a word in reply.

"Maybe you can take a nap with them as well," she says bitterly.

She clenches her hands into fists, her plain fingernails scraping my metallic-coated desk and curling into her palms, knuckles slowly fading into white.

"That will be quite enough, Ms. Anthony."

Every head in the room rapidly turns to the back of the classroom, eyeing the headmaster seated in Ms. Antony's chair, shocked that they did not hear him enter. This dramatic ordeal between Ms. Anthony and myself distracted us all from his entrance.

Ms. Anthony's eyes widen. Her jaw drops in response to her emotions, surprise and fear of her boss' counteraction written across her face.

"I didn't touch him!" she spurts, raising her arms in defense and stepping away from me.

"I am quite aware of what just occurred, Ms. Anthony," Headmaster speaks calmly, rising. "Now kindly follow me to my office and we shall have a discussion."

She nods, keeping her eyes low like a scolded child being sent to a brief session of solitary confinement. She follows Headmaster out of the room, her shameful, yet still angry eyes meeting my glance before she shuts the door.

There is silence for a few moments. The entire room, solely filled with students now, continues to survey the door, in case of an administrator's return. I mentally prepare myself for mockery and accusation I know I am about to receive, all from one individual in particular.

"Metro Riverton, super-kid," his voice sends a stinging pulse through my ear canal to the nerves in my temples.

"Whatever have you done to ruin your perfect reputation?"

I close my eyes, exhaling loud enough to be audible. I turn to face my personal antagonist.

I have failed to mention Julian Kensington in the past because I, for lack of a better term, cannot stand his presence. I consider him a rival, being the only other academically excellent peer I currently compete with. Julian also possesses the natural ability to be socially exceptional. The rest of my peer group would not dare to express their judgment. Rather, they allow Julian to speak in their place. Although more often than not, their faces appear long and emotionless, occasionally a few smirk or snicker, further encouraging my adversary's mockery.

"I do not wish to commence a quarrel, Julian," I speak, avoiding meeting his eyes.

"Neither do I, dear Mr. Riverton."

I clearly picture the mischievous grin spread across his cheeks, favoring the right side of his face.

"Beloved Mr. Riverton. Cherished Mr. Riverton. Adored. Winsome. Captivating Mr. Riverton," his words attempt to ridicule me.

"We are all aware of your deep admiration for me, Mr. Kensington." A dull snicker spreads across the room.

Finally, I chose to face my opponent, his grin remaining, a solitary dimple on his right cheek. Julian's loosely curled, fiery red hair slightly covers his left eye, his cheeks dotted with freckles, eyes dark, and jaw sharp and sculpted.

"You may taunt me as much as you desire, Metro. I accept that you are envious of me."

He spins on his heel, his back facing me. He balances on his right leg, fingertips touching the desk beside him for support. He twists his neck to the left, his eyes staring forward. I chuckle at his ridiculousness. He rotates and faces me once again.

"I find it greatly interesting that you are so ignorant as to find that amusing." He steps in my direction, his chin held high in arrogance.

"Perhaps it is you who is oblivious to my brilliant and advanced proposals," I speak calmly, rising from my seat. "And besides, it is I who is proclaimed the undefeated champion in every speaking competition you enter."

"But now, Metro, you have been defeated. Such a tragedy. Although not shocking considering your topic of debate."

"You attended my oral presentation?" I ask genuinely. I cannot conclude how he is aware of the topic of my speech otherwise.

"Of course not," Julian twitters. "I read an article on my mobile. Surely you had no expectation of triumph with a presentation of that subject."

"I was not aware that the concept was so foreign."

Although with thought, it is now obvious, the idea that my presentation would make headlines did not occur to me while presenting it.

"I believe it was an excellent presentation," a female voice speaks in a hushed tone. Both Julian and I turn to face the owner of the voice.

Celeste Clarke is seated in the upper area of the classroom. Her head is low, occasionally glancing up at me but quickly retreating after making eye contact. The entire class observes her. She is clearly distraught at the situation.

"Celeste?" Julian questions. I detect a slight tinge of hurt in his voice.

Celeste is slender with long arms and legs. She is one of the brightest students of my peer group, in terms of mathematics and sciences. She has received multiple scholarships in calculus and physics-her parents both being mathematics scholars. Her blue eyes extend from their sockets, appearing as though they could pop out of her skull at any moment. She constantly wears her wiry caramel-coloured hair tied back loosely, low on her head. To my personal preference, she appears quite homely. However, although I have never heard him express it, I am highly aware of Julian's affectionate feelings towards her. I have never witnessed her returning them. Alternatively, my keen sense of body language awareness leads me to believe she holds these feelings towards me. Julian is aware of this as well, although he refuses to confess it.

Celeste appears as though she wishes to speak but her mouth will not allow it. Her face flushes as she sinks her teeth into the corner of her lip.

"I believe that Metro's speech was very well done," she speaks finally, her voice hardly audible. She glances in my direction.

"Thank you, Celeste," I reply, smiling at her as a warm gesture.

She returns the smile briefly, her face reddened, before turning her back to Julian and I. Julian squints at me, his eyes filled with envy, mouth straightened into a scowl.

"Well, Metro," he speaks, stepping further toward me. "I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Riverton are proud." I watch him curiously. He stands directly in front of me, standing at the boundary of what can be considered, too close for comfort. His brow creases slightly, his mouth partially open. I hold my ground, returning the stern stare. He grins.

"Whatever is this?"

He directs his slender fingers to my chin, angling my jawline slightly.

"Bruises," he concludes, returning his arm to the side of his body.

I glance behind him at my peers. They twist their necks around Julian, curious to view the bruises he speaks of. I inhale deeply.

"Whatever could have happened to our beloved Metro Riverton?"

I fail to reply. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. He enjoys my torment.

"Mrs. Athena Riverton does not approve of her son's rebellious actions."

I want to ask him how he is aware of this, but no words escape my lips. He snickers at my look of confusion.

"Admirable Metro Riverton is not as tough-skinned as he appears," he says, smiling lips quivering in anticipation. "A little slap from his mummy brings tears to his pretty gray eyes," he squeals, producing a fake pout with his lips. He uses his forefinger to trace a tear down his cheek.

He rotates, addressing my peers.

"You believe this boy to be admirable? He associates with mutts. Believes they are equivalent to us, in fact." He returns to face me. "I saw you speaking with that Class C boy. The strange-looking one who wears makeup and tears his clothing. You even allowed his physical contact," he announces this loud to the entire class, watching me from the corner of his eye.

My peers ponder this in shock, their eyes wide. Celeste watches the excitement, appearing as though she wishes to defend me. She does not speak.

"How are you aware of this?" I ask Julian pitifully, my confidence decreasing.

"I witnessed it." He dramatically walks in my direction, his grin vivid and cruel. I brace myself against the desk with my hands.

"And you should expect worse when mother dear reads the papers, Metro," he stops directly in front of me, his eyes playful. "When she hears the subject of your presentation."

His grin ceases. He studies my face.

"A shame, really," Julian begins his torment once again. "to soil such a pretty face."

I expect tears to sting my eyes, but they do not. Perhaps my fatigue has muted my emotions. Perhaps I have accepted what is undoubtedly the truth. Julian appears disappointed that I have not reacted to his provoking, and that I have not turned from his stare. Finally he revolves and returns to his seat, as if our encounter had never occurred. I gather my belongings and what is left of my self-regard and exit the classroom.