Arthur paced around the family room, with the cooking channel on the TV in the background. He had wanted to start cooking healthy dinners for his son, who seemed to live off of fast food, but Alfred didn't care for his cooking, which he was supposedly abysmal at. He turned to the man on TV, who showed him how to properly marinate a steak. Arthur's body sank five inches as he sat on their old, hideously purple couch. That was another thing he could start to do, decorate their one-story house in a way that attracted the neighbors. Purple couches, hole-ridden armchairs, and stained coffee tables made him look like he had no eye for design whatsoever. He made a mental note to remember to go through with his plans for once, but in the back of his head, he knew he'd push it off, like always.

Eventually, the celebrity chef presented his juicy steak to a table of happy, energetic children. They chattered enthusiastically; a few of them ran up to the man and hugged his legs, being unable to reach any other part of him. Arthur felt a pang of nostalgia. It's been a while since Alfred had that much energy . . . he used to come home from school every day, with a new picture for the refrigerator or a new song he learned. They used to eat dinner together in front of the TV, where they watched old cartoons and laughed. Alfred's laughter was boisterous and carefree, but Arthur had forgotten exactly what it sounded like. He never seemed to laugh anymore.

What he missed most of all was climbing into bed with Alfred to read stories with him. Most of them were improvised, with messages encouraging him to sleep soundly, as the ghosts Alfred insisted haunted his closet were harmless. It was the nights he held his little boy closely in his arms and kissed him on the forehead that pained him.

On Tuesdays, Alfred's curfew was seven o'clock, as he had no soccer practice and really had no other need to be out. He never knew what exactly he did on his free nights, but he always managed to return far later than he was supposed to. It was as if the boy felt the need to give him a heart attack every night. Where was he, anyways?

Arthur had no idea how his son grew so distant from him. If he had to guess, he'd say it happened some time around middle school. They fought over his homework every night, even when Arthur was just trying to help him. Perhaps with puberty came rebellion, and defiance, and irrational anger . . . all the things that made teenagers evil. When he was in first grade, Alfred was such a bright little boy. Now, he was failing chemistry, barely scraping a D plus in math, and lashing out at him every chance he got. Did such poor results render Arthur a bad father? He had done nothing to hinder Alfred's upbringing. He had shown him plenty of love as a kid. He had done the same things his neighbors did raising their children, and they were all such sweet, bright young people. All he ever wanted was to give a poor, orphaned boy a chance in life. Somehow, things have changed so severely, there was no hope for salvaging their relationship.

"I'm home," Alfred called, walking through the doorway. He kicked off his shoes and started to head towards his bedroom.

"Alfred, congratulations. You managed to arrive home on time. I guess even you can get it right." Words tended to slip out of Arthur's mouth, whether he meant them or not. Most people around him just learned to ignore it, and as Alfred had lived with him pretty much his whole life, he figured his words had no effect on him.

"I'm not that dumb," he insisted, not even looking Arthur in the eye. "I'm going to my room."

"Do your chemistry homework—"

"I did it, okay?" He snapped suddenly. "It's done! That's why I was gone; I went to the library! Got a problem with that?"

"You should've done math, too! You think you can get away with doing one subject's worth of homework? I want to see you finish it, too! Bring your supplies and do it in the family room!" Alfred stared at him, clearly appalled. What is with that stupid look? I just want you to do well; I can't force you to care, but I can watch you succeed! "Well?"

"You are so fucking controlling!"

"Maybe if you were capable of doing your schoolwork, I wouldn't be so hard on you!" Alfred crossed his arms and frowned.

"You think I don't do it because I'm lazy? Maybe the reason you have to shout at me like a drill officer is because I'm fucking stupid!"

"You can be smarter if you tried! And stop cussing in every sentence!"

"Trying in school won't make me any smarter! Trying in school will just tell me that I can memorize well enough to go to college. School teaches you nothing!"

"That's not true!"

"Does it teach you how to balance a checkbook, or pay taxes, or budget, or to detect lies and deceptive statements in political debates? No! What we are learning isn't useful, and we don't even get to choose what subjects we want to take because of stupid requirements! I don't need to know chemistry! School is bullshit! When will everyone realize that my intelligence isn't a letter? My ability to get into college is just a number, a number that is 2.64, and a number that won't get me anywhere in life, because of the fucked-up system! I don't know how to buy a house, or raise a child, or do well at job interviews, but at least I know the fucking Pythagorean Theorem!" Alfred seemed out of breath. His blue eyes appeared striking, wild. With a frustrated groan, he stormed off to his room and slammed the door. Clearly, he had no intention of completing his math homework. Infuriated, Arthur shut off the TV and banged on his bedroom door. "Go away!"

"Alfred F. Jones, you do not challenge the system! Feeling rebellious, are we? Are you 'too cool for school'?"

"I am too cool for bullshit, yes."

"Education is important!"

"In elementary school!"

"You are not a philosopher or a social reformer, Alfred! Do your goddamn homework, you little shit!"

"I do what I want, bastard!"

"I give up. Don't come crying to me when you have to repeat chemistry over the summer!" this seemed to trigger something. The shouting halted abruptly; Arthur's face was hot from shouting. He inhaled deeply as he stepped away from the door. Perhaps he should leave Alfred alone, before the rift between them grew larger. He lay on the couch, thinking of Alfred, of everything he could've been. Was he really wasted potential? He did nothing but play video games and eat. There was soccer, but athletes who failed to maintain a high GPA were thought of as failures with nothing else to do but play sports. Arthur sighed, trying to bring back memories of his young, enthusiastic boy, who brought home papers stamped with smiley faces and gold stars. The images faded fast; they hurt too much. Things were too different to change. He couldn't possibly assure Alfred that he was going to be okay when things fell apart. All he knew how to do was scream at him until he fixed it.

When would he finally realize that he was beating a dead horse?