While riding home on the underground subways of New York, I thought that being more discouraged was impossible. It was a scenario I knew well: I had just left the principal's office of a prestigious art school with the verdict of expulsion. The man to my left smelled like urine and I was pretending to be engulfed by the novel on my lap so as to avoid any unwanted attention from the other subway-goers. My mind was elsewhere, though. In fact, my mind was on the second story of my mother's Brooklyn brownstone thinking of ways to tell her I had been expelled from school for the third time.

The first time had been in middle school. A group of friends and I had planned an elaborate end-of-the-year prank to celebrate the ounce of freedom we were about to receive. However, it resulted in an injured-faculty worker, two cars newly void of usage, and someone's mother in tears. In the end, I was ousted as the spearhead of it all. In all honesty, I probably wouldn't have been expelled if it weren't for the fact that when they caught me, I laughed my way all the way to the principal's office.

After that, my mother thought it would be best if she enrolled me in a private Catholic school with a strict code of morality. Not only do I not identify as Catholic, being packed into a school that found every way to drain me of whatever freedom I had was largely unappealing. Within the first week of school a talent show was held wherein I performed a song debasing much of what the school stood for. It was probably more harsh than I planned it to be, but the high priestess sent a polite e-mail to my mother outlining all the reasons I probably wasn't the best "fit" for their school. I was out of there before classes even started.

This time was different though. I'd done nothing outrageous prior to being heralded into a meeting with administration. At this point in time, I had little motivation to attend school each and every day. It was a highly-ranked art school and my focus was in music, but each day I went, I felt like I was gaining little from the classes. My expulsion probably resulted the sarcastic remarks I'd made in the process rather than my lack of motivation.

When I finally exited the subway, I began my journey in the overcast New York weather to my home. I knew my mother had probably already received the phone call, so I opened the door timidly and peered inside. She came tumbling down the stairs, hair messy in a top knot and face sticky with paint. She yanked me inside, and the yelling began.

What she was mostly upset about was that I had managed to get expelled from the same school she herself had attended in her youth. She was a painter, you see, and was actually able to afford a New York brownstone off of her work.

"You are so talented!" she wailed, "All those music classes when you were little, and a top-notch school manages to expel you because of your 'lack of motivation'!"

"Well, I don't know if you recall, but I was never exactly jovial to go to those music classes either," I groaned.

She considered me for a moment as if deciding whether her next words were truly valid.

"This is what you want to do with your life, isn't it? Play music?" she said, her voice now calm and dark. "Do you realize how much money I've spent trying to make your life decent? You just throw it away like nothing matters to you! Nothing ever matters to you! I'm a painter, for Christ's sake, do you think your life is affordable for me? I can't just write you off on my taxes, you know! I can't keep worrying about where you'll be able to go to school next. It 's driving me up the goddamn wall! You got lucky with this last one, and I'll let you figure out the next one." She paused. "And when you do, you can worry about where you'll live too." With that, she rushed past me, out the door, and into the city.

I stood in the quiet for awhile, looking around the newly empty kitchen. Here and there bits of my mother's artwork could be found about the house, but the only trace of my own existence was in my bedroom, where I dragged myself next. I began throwing my belongings into bags and suitcases until they could be filled anymore. I didn't have much to take with me, but when I finished, my room looked so empty of humanity that I finally began to cry.

What I did next was impulsive, even for myself.

I sat on my floor with my laptop and called my brother to video chat. When he answered, I had stopped crying my eyes were puffy and my cheeks were red. He knew something was wrong immediately. He tried to coax the story out of me, but all I could bring myself to say was "I'm coming to Japan."

I ended the call, gathered my things, and slept among the homeless in the cold New York weather that night.

Something compelled me to rewrite an old story of mine, so that is what is happening here. I'm also in the process of filling out college applications so who knows how frequently this will be updated. Much love x