Soccer practice ran on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays starting at three-thirty and ending at four-thirty. Other school's teams practiced longer hours, which would explain why Oak Valley's soccer team rarely won any matches. Still, Alfred managed to take pride in what he did. In sports, academics didn't matter much. Arthur always told him that he shouldn't feel special, that anyone can kick a ball . . . but no one can kick a ball like Alfred F. Jones, he decided. The team had few good players, and Alfred was proud to claim his title as one of them. He grinned as he changed into casual clothes after a very encouraging practice. If the team kept up their energy for next Saturday's game, they could snag a victory. He beamed as he met Matthew outside the locker room, prepared to leave.

"I'm so tired now," Alfred sighed, beaming. "I just wanna go home and sleep."

"You go do that. Unfortunately, I have a ton of homework." Alfred silently cursed. He had lost all of his frustrated confusion at his new chemistry homework. The teacher had taught a new concept, and Alfred was completely lost . . . soccer had been a very pleasant distraction, but Matthew's comment reminded him of his doom.

"Ugh . . . I just remembered! I have a ton of chemistry shit I don't understand."

"Chemistry? That's easy. I can help you if you want—"

"Thanks but no thanks." Matthew had actually tried to help Alfred with schoolwork in the past. He was very bright, but he clearly was not meant to teach. His instructions only left Alfred more lost than before. Around him, he tried to make his homework seem like no big deal; though the two were close, Alfred didn't want his own friends to consider him dumb, even behind his back. He had enough of that already.

He remembered Ivan, the huge, intimidating tutor from yesterday. With his help, Alfred missed only two questions on his homework, but he was reluctant to go back to him. Ivan taunted him, made him feel even worse about himself. He probably thinks I'm nothing but a dumb jock, Alfred thought miserably. Still he gave him his phone number and library hours, maybe he had the intention of helping the troubled boy again.

"I really have no choice, do I?" he said to himself, after Matthew waved goodbye. Chest filling with dread, he walked from the gym to the school library, where the crowd of students had started thinning out.

"Ah, Alfred, I knew you'd come back!" Ivan stood up from his table and walked towards Alfred. The words seemed innocent but Alfred found himself offended. He knew he would come back for tutoring, because he was too stupid to fare well without it. Reluctantly, he joined Ivan at his empty table and pulled out his chemistry homework.

"Wow, how do you know this stuff?" Alfred asked, after Ivan clarified everything his teacher failed to teach. Ivan shrugged; his usual smile rested kindly on his face.

"I am in AP Chemistry. I learned this months ago." Another pang of offense struck Alfred. If regular chemistry was close to impossible for him, how did he look in the eyes of Ivan? "You're just starting this? We learned this in a day, along with other material—"

"So I'm not a fucking genius, okay? At least I don't torture myself with AP courses."

"I wish to enter the medical career. This course is of vital importance to me." If Ivan was hurt by what Alfred said, he didn't acknowledge it. Perhaps he should have considered other people's feelings before blurting whatever was on his mind . . .

"Sorry." A new thought hit Alfred. "If you're taking AP courses, why are you wasting your time tutoring a stupid kid like me?"

Ivan looked thoughtful; his violet eyes gazed upwards. "It's true I could spend the time I'm taking with you to study. But, tutoring does have some personal benefits." Alfred gave him a confused look. "Next problem, please."

By the end of his homework Alfred was exhausted, humiliated, and ready to quit. Something about Ivan's calm, happy tone and endless smiles seemed to mock him; he wasn't careful with his words, either. He didn't know if Ivan was even trying to offend him, or if he even knew that Alfred was hurt by his words. Tonight, his curfew was nine again, and he was free to wander through the streets of town and think. Alfred had no idea where to go, but home didn't seem like an option. These days, it seemed that his father looked for reasons to chastise him. He didn't need any; he was already aware that he had failed his dad.

"I'm failing, I haven't failed yet." But Alfred knew he was fighting a loosing battle. He could work on his homework with Ivan all he wanted, but no matter how many packets he completed, he would always be slow. His classmates would always be ahead of him, with their hand in the air while Alfred was still reading the question. He knew school was bullshit, that none of this should matter . . . but somehow, the reality of his situation affected him every time.

He turned into an alleyway, unsure of where else to go, and kicked the trash bin he found at the end of it. Frustrated, he released his anger, the anger that's been collected inside of him. Grades shouldn't matter, yet everyone treated them like gold. If one were poor, it was one's own fault he or she was broke. He grunted, kicking a brick wall. Why was the system so rigged out of his favor? Wasn't it the school's job to teach, not to victimize the kids left behind in their studies? It was as if everything worked against Alfred, and everyone blamed him for it. His anger escaped into the darkening sky, cutting through the air around him. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes, and awful, gut-wrenching sounds released them.

He sat on the trash bin, crying for what seemed forever. It ceased, however, and when it did, Alfred felt a numb pain weigh him down, as if he was chained underwater. He had cracked. Years of telling no one, of suffering through Arthur's blame-filled lectures, had finally gotten the best of Alfred. Usually, he wouldn't go down without a fight. He wouldn't go down at all, yet here he sat, utterly defeated.

"Is there even any point of my existence?" he asked to the silent sky. "No wonder my biological parents gave me up . . . they must've saw how I would turn out, and Dad was blind to it, so he adopted me . . ." he wanted to cry some more, but he was out of tears. "Why is everyone I know better than me?" He decided that he did not want to come home tonight. Arthur would only ask too much questions about school, or scold him, or make him feel worse about himself. Anger flared within him. It's his fault, not mine. Why did he get to sit back and nag while Alfred strained his mind to understand what he was supposed to? Alfred pushed himself off the bin and stood, willing himself to step away from the alleyway. He rubbed his eyes, trying to conceal the fact that a sixteen-year-old had just been crying.

"God, I look so pathetic," he mumbled, walking briskly down the sidewalk. "Why am I so pathetic?" He was sick of people who didn't know who to blame. "Everyone tells me I'm pathetic, so I believe I am pathetic, when really, I could be a totally awesome person and not even realize it." He continues to walk; the air grows colder with each step. Does he really have to come home tonight? He had nowhere else to go . . .the house caused him too much pain, but running away seemed to be something one had to plan for. Sighing, Alfred walked back to his house, not quite ready for his restless emotions to build up again, but he really didn't have much of a choice.