"GOOD AFTERNOON."

     I do not receive the chance to smile warmly before the door is closed abruptly in my face. This is the third door on this block to not give me the chance to speak before disregarding me; the others allowing me to introduce myself before meeting the same fate.

     A small group of children plays on the sidewalk in front of me, tracing their hands and feet with coloured chalk. I observe the twists and knots of their drawings--the pastel pinks, blues, and yellows decorating the sidewalk as if it is a cement garden. The colours of the chalk nearly match that of the childrens' hair; the two girls' streaked with pinks and purples, the boys' bright yellow, ocean blue, and green.

     The girls wear their hair long down their backs, twisted into knots and braids. The boys with blue and green hair have a shorter style--the blue one spiked across his scalp as though he had been electrocuted, the other boy a very pale green in loose curls. The boy with hair the colour of lemons has a braid above his left ear and trailing down his neck, the rest of his hair loose, stopping just above the shoulders.

     The children scatter when I approach them, snickering among themselves and turning away when I glance in their direction. I do not bother to pursue them. I take care not to step on their chalk artwork, my shoulder bag containing my laptop and various articles of clothing bobbing against my hip.

     I glance at the sky. The clouds are growing increasingly dark, the odd clap of thunder warning that a storm is soon to come. Under traditional circumstances, I would find the rain rather refreshing, especially on warm summer days such as this one. However, today I would rather it hold off, seeing that I will have no place of shelter. The thunder claps again, nature arrogantly showcasing her profound might. I proceed, walking toward the door of the next home.

    The building appears to be in rough condition, not unlike a majority of the homes in this neighborhood. The siding is plastic and torn off in areas, cracked and sun-bleached, light gray in colour. The small bay window extends slightly from the house, one of the panes a spiderweb of cracked glass.

     I stand on the crumbling cement step before the door. I am wary pressing the doorbell, its wires visible, afraid I may electrocute myself. I tap it gently. There is no response. I press it again.

     Laughter comes from behind me. I turn to address it. The young boy with the long lemon hair stands, wide-eyed and fearful, while his fellow youth stand at a distance behind a parked vehicle.

     "Do you wish to speak with me?" I ask the boy.

     He gasps in reaction to my words, his eyes widening further. He is no older than 10 years of age. At closer inspection I notice his hair and face are speckled with dirt, further complimenting his look of childlike wonder, innocence radiating from his chalk-covered skin.

      "You talk funny," he speaks softly, twisting the hem of his shirt between his fingertips. His eyes are bright and playful, yet shy, the vivid blue greatly contrasting with the yellow of his hair.

     "There is nothing humorous about my advanced vocabulary," I reply.

     He tilts his head curiously, his hair falling behind his back, revealing a small piercing on his right earlobe. It glimmers slightly.

     "I have to ask you a question," he recites, glancing over his shoulder at the other children.

     "Yes?"

     "Are you a real purebred?" His hands clap against his cheeks.

     "I am a member of the Class A society, yes."

     "Why you here then?"

     "I am performing a social experiment. My plans are to record my findings in writing and demonstrate them to the rest of the world," I say proudly.

     "Experiment?" His face fills with horror. "You want to experiment on us!"

     "No, no, nothing of that manner--"

      He runs down the street before I am able to explain myself. The rest of the children follow, oblivious their forgotten chalk on the sidewalk, stumbling across the crumbled cement as they scurry out of sight. I mentally acknowledge that I should use simpler speech when addressing these children.

     I turn, straightening my stance as I tap the doorbell again. My eyes dart to the shattered window; an eye peeks through the dark curtains. It quickly retreats when it notices that I have seen it. I turn from the door in defeat. Just as though it were written in a dramatic script, the thunder finally gives way to rain.

     I return to the sidewalk where the children have abandoned their chalk, taking a seat on the grass that lines it. I watch the raindrops sprinkle across the cement, like the freckles that dotted the young boy's face. A stray piece of pink chalk rolls across it, chipped and crumbling. I hold the chalk between my fingers, feeling its grainy texture. I take the chalk to the sidewalk, drawing a straight line. I turn the line into the letter "M". I write my name in the chalk.

     Metro.

     Beloved Mr. Riverton.

     The thunder claps once again.

     As much as I hate to admit my defeat, Julian was correct when he stated my mother's disapproval on the topic of my presentation. Although (thankfully) she had not heard the speech our latest encounter, she has surely listened to it by now. I know she is furious with me.

     I have been foolish. I have taken my pride, respect, and admiration that is recognized globally and destroyed it. It has been incinerated. Unsalvageable.

     I loathe in self-pity, my clothing slowly absorbing the rain so that I can feel it cool against my skin. Today I have done something I have never done in my entire life. I have abandoned my responsibilities. I have rebelled against authority.

     Early this morning, I received word that my parents wished to meet with me again. I did not want to face my mother. I still do not want to face her, or anyone else for that matter. Not my mother, my educators, my peers, Julian. I do not know if I can ever return and face them again.

     Perhaps I am more of a coward than a rebel--refusing to take responsibility for my actions. I have always liked to think for myself, but never have I done anything to counteract upon the authority of others. If this should make me feel empowered, it does not. I feel shameful.

     "Metro."

     I jump to my feet in surprise, half-expecting the owner of the voice to be my mother. I exhale in relief, my breath catching against my wet lips, the air warm against my rain-soaked skin. The janitor boy with the torn sleeves and blond hair stands before me, appearing all the more intimidating in this environment. A silver ring now pierces his bottom lip, along with an eyebrow piercing on the opposite side of his face. I shiver, wiping the water from my face with my sleeve.

     "Is that your name--Metro?" I nod slowly. "I still feel like I should recognize you," he says.

      He crosses his large arms in thought. I straighten my stance, collecting my bag from the ground and slinging it over my shoulder.

      "I never expected to see you here." He glances in both directions. "Why were you at my door?" he questions, lifting his chin slightly, glaring at me suspiciously.

     I am extremely uncomfortable being near this boy, fearing his next actions toward me for trespassing on his property.

     "I am proposing a theory," I explain myself, determining the least offensive way to explain my intentions.

     "What kind of theory?"

     "A theory about the intelligence of people in general and the psychological effect of expectation."

     "That's pretty vague," he states, fooling with the piercing on his lip. "How are you planning to support this theory?"

     "I am not entirely sure at the moment," I reply honestly. "As of now, I am performing interviews on willing Class C individuals."

     "My sister says she's seen you get the door slammed in your face by every house on the block."

     "I have not had much success." I avoid his eyes.

      Perhaps I should be standing up for myself. After all, this boy cannot be much older than I. I wonder if he is trying to appear intimidating or if it occurs naturally for him.

     "You know what?" the boy says in rather sudden excitement. "I'll participate in your interview."

     I look at him curiously. I sense slight sarcasm in his voice.

      The rain droplets collect on my eyebrows and drip down my face. As the boy's shirt dampens, it becomes slightly transparent, further exposing his fit body. I feel myself becoming desperate.

      "There is no need to be bitter towards me. If you do not wish to participate, you have no obligation to," I reply, nearly expecting to be clobbered.

      He laughs at my wincing reaction, playfully cracking his knuckles. Awkwardly, I cross my arms over my chest. He and the thunder laugh at my discomfort.

      "C'mon," he speaks, walking toward the house with the cracked window pane. "You need some volunteers for your interview, don't you?" He stops at the door, waiting for me to follow.

      I contemplate entering the house and risking my life, or running in the opposite direction. I have done enough avoiding my problems today, and if I remain in this rain I will become sick and ruin my laptop. I step toward the house silently. The boy holds the screen door for me as I walk inside. It squeals in resistance, and I fear it will soon fall off its rusted hinges.

     The smell a very old carpet emits tingles in my nostrils as I step indoors. I rub my shoes against the worn rug at the door. The boy walks down the corridor and out of sight.

      I shiver, relieved to finally be out of the rain. It patters against the roof and siding, tapping like long fingernails against a desk. I remove my wet sweater and hang it beside the door. Glancing at my watch, which is, thankfully, waterproof, I read that it is just before noon. Anxiously, I shift my weight back and forth on my feet, taking a moment to glance around the space.

      Three pairs of shoes sit neatly under the coat hooks. One pair belongs to the boy, black and sneaker-like, extending past the ankle with a studded Velcro strap at the top. Water droplets are spotted across the toe. The second pair I assume belongs to a female; a navy wedge sneaker, metallic material on the straps. The third pair is a brightly coloured thong sandal. I notice a layer of dust caked across it.

     A towel is shoved at my chest. I straighten my stance with a start, taking it from the boy's hand. Hesitantly I dab it across my face and hair, noting it's rather organic sent. The boy leads me into the kitchen, just off of the entrance. I place my bag on the counter facing the living room.

     "So what kind of people are you interviewing for this thing?" the boy asks.

      "At the moment, I am focusing on Class C individuals."

     "What's in the bag?"

     I cautiously open my bag and retrieve my laptop, inspecting it for water damage.

      "I need to record basic information about yourself, if you are willing to share it," I inform the boy, entering my passcode. "Your first and last name please?"

     "J-A-G-G-E-R. Jagger. R-A-Y-N-E. Rayne."

      "Age?"

      "Nineteen."

     I type as he speaks.

     "Mr. Rayne," I continue nervously, "with whom do you reside with?"

     I hear a giggle from behind the counter. I twist my neck to look under the top cupboards into the living room.

     "Get over here and be a part of this too!" Jagger calls into the living room.

     Around the corner comes a girl, near the same age as Jagger and myself, with straight dark hair reaching past her abdomen. Her eyes are traced with black, coming to a point near the end her thick and sculpted eyebrows. Her skin is pale, smoothed and powdered, lips a dull purple. She holds a glossy magazine by her side.

     "My little sister." Jagger tugs at her elbow. She stumbles, stepping closer, but remaining near to her brother. "S-O-M-M-E-R. Sommer Rayne. Seventeen. Miss Rayne, with whom do you reside with?"

      Jagger raises his eyebrows, speaking in a higher pitch and wagging his finger, mocking my developed speech. The girl giggles, covering her mouth with her free hand.

     "Why do you have that?" He gestures to the magazine in Sommer's hand.

     A large photo of myself covers the front page, the headline, "Metro Riverton: Superkid Gone Sour" written in bold font across the top. The photo is a professional one taken during a photoshoot for the same magazine a few months prior.

     "That's you." Jagger points. The light reflects off the glossy cover, gleaming on my chin. The girl hands the magazine to him. He flips through the pages.

     "I knew I recognized you from somewhere," he exclaims. "So this is why you're here."

     "You have heard my speech?" I ask him.

     "Just what I read about it. Sommer and my--" He looks at his sister. "A friend. They were there."

    "Now you understand why I am here," I speak warmly. "I am sure this will make it easier for you to comply. Perhaps you can speak with your neighbors and educate them of my purpose, so they may participate as well."

     Jagger continues to cast me a suspicious stare. Sommer sprints into the living room, returning with a small notebook, its brown hardcover binding worn at the edges and a plastic pen in the other hand. She scribbles inside it, showing it to her brother out of my sight. Jagger laughs, continuing to look at me.

     "Agreed."

     I step toward them in order to see what she has written. She shuts the notebook, stepping back. Jagger steps between us. The piercing above his eyebrow twitches. I decide it is safest to return to my original position.

     "Is she mute?" I ask Jagger, my question aimed at the girl.

     "Yeah, but she can hear just fine."

     "Yes of course. My apologies," I address Sommer.

     I continue with a series of hand gestures, put together the equivalent of saying, I speak sign language. She stares at me blankly. Jagger bursts with laughter.

     "You seriously think they teach us sign language?" he says, wiping his brow, still smiling. "It's hard to find an English teacher around here."

     I move my glance back and forth from the both of them.

     "What is the purpose of sign language if the people who would benefit from its use are not taught it?"

     "Apparently we're not smart enough," he says, leaning against the island counter behind him.

     I contemplate this. It is foolish not to teach people with disabilities a way to communicate. What is the purpose of it otherwise?

     "Somethings blinking on your watch," Jagger says plainly. I glance at my wrist.

      "Excuse me," I say, stepping away.

     It is one of my supervisors asking where I have gone. Regretfully, I realize I did not inhibit the sense to disable the location services on my watch.

     Unsure of my next actions, I look to Jagger and Sommer. I studder, attempting to explain my circumstances, slightly panicked. Sommer writes in her notebook, showing it to Jagger. He smiles cruely.

     "I was wondering how you got here without some sort of escort."

      "Yes. Well..." I pause, eyeing both of them. "They will detect my location soon. I would rather not face them," I admit. "I do not know what my best option is."

     Sommer writes in her book again, flipping it so that I am able to read. I lean forward, touching the notebook with one finger to steady it.

      You could throw your watch in the river.

     I lean back, surprised at her knowledge of the location services in these watches. She is oblivious as to how much they cost, however.

      "I do not believe that is an appropriate action," I reply. "This is quite valuable." I tap the screen. As I do, another message appears.

     Mr. Riverton, I highly suggest you respond.

     "Then you'd better leave." Jagger points to the door. "I don't want to be involved in this mess. They'll assume we kidnapped you or something."

      We are in the process of determining your location.

     I have heard that panic can bring out dire responses in an individual; emotions that even the person themselves did not expect they had. I fool with the strap on my wrist, surprised at the words coming from my own mouth.

     "Would you kindly direct me to this river?"