"Hello, Mattie! Gilbert! Isn't today such a lovely day? You know what today is, do you? Well, it's report card day!" Alfred beamed as his two friends stared at him in confusion.

"Why are you so excited about report cards? You don't give a shit about grades," Gilbert wondered. "And why do you expect us to care? We don't give a shit about grades, either."

"Well, some of us don't. I'm still kind of sad that I ended up with a B in English. And everything else is an A, do you know how bad that looks?" Alfred immediately regretted the topic of grades. Through his hard work and total reliance on Ivan, he was looking forward to B's and C's. His cheerful mood disappeared almost instantly—but he smiled anyways. He still didn't want his friends to know that they were way smarter than him. On the soccer field, in the hallways, and at lunch tables they all acted like a group of idiots. Academically, nobody was on the same level.

"Oh no! That's so horrible! B! What's wrong with you, Matt? Have you been slacking off? A is for Acceptable! B is for Blasphemy!" Alfred would have found the joke funnier if it didn't mirror his father's academic policies perfectly. "Matthew, you have shamed the family!" Gilbert now spoke in horrible falsetto, which received genuine laughter from Alfred. "What would your father say about this? He'd have a heart attack! You nearly gave me one, two! Thank God it's not a B minus! Then I'd disown you!" Alfred and Gilbert stood in hysterics but Matthew simply shrugged.

"Please, my dad wouldn't care. Neither would my mom, and she wouldn't bring him up, either." Their laughter stopped abruptly. Matthew didn't like to speak about his father, who he hadn't seen in four years. His mother forbade it, as their divorce wasn't the greatest. "I think you should be a little more concerned. Your brother is starting to look smarter than you."

"Oh, Ludwig's always been the smarter one. I couldn't care less. As long as I'm on the soccer team and Elizaveta doesn't ditch me for snobby Austrians, I'm cool." His red eyes narrowed. "I'm going to loose her any day now."

"Dude, you guys are taking us on a stream of slowly-turning-depressing conversations," Alfred insisted. "Save it for later. How about we—"

"Hello, Alfred!" the three boys found a very tall, very happy-looking student. Alfred had never seen Ivan during school hours before. What was he doing, talking to him while his friends could see? He thought he'd made it clear that his tutoring was to be kept secret! And with a great friend like Gilbert, nobody would ever treat Alfred like he was capable of success again. Ivan clearly did not notice the glares and whispers of his friends, or Alfred's obvious panicking. He simply waved to the group and pulled the blonde teenager aside.

"I can't be in the library after school today. Would you mind if we moved the session to lunch? The library is too crowded then, but none of the AP chem students will recognize you if we work in Mr. O's room." Alfred nodded, only half-listening. He wanted Ivan to go away, before his friends figured out his secret. "Ah, but you don't know where that is. It is room 111, downstairs on the right. The teacher should be inside. You can also ask him for help, but he's kind of hard to understand." The last thing Alfred wanted to do was spend lunch in some AP teacher's classroom, trying to learn as the school's smartest kids judged him. But they had learned a new concept in chemistry, meaning Alfred better learn it before next class.

"Okay," Alfred shrugged, trying to seem casual. "See you." He hoped his abrupt ending would send Ivan away. The Russian, however, made no move to leave.

"Are these your friends, Alfred?" Alfred smacked his forehead. Socially, Alfred was a genius compared to Ivan, who smiled as Matthew and Gilbert gave him blank stares.

"Fuck off, creep," Gilbert ordered. Matthew was silent, and possibly shaking.

"I'm sorry?" Ivan asked, still smiling. Alfred wanted to walk away. It seemed like the best idea.

"I said fuck off, nobody likes you, and you're just so weird! Snap somebody else's neck; Alfred's neck needs to be on the soccer field." Did Gilbert even know Ivan? If so, how? He couldn't possibly walk away. He had a weakness for verbal hallway fights, especially ones between one of his best friends and the only reason his GPA was above a 2.0.

"I did not break anyone's neck!"

"Raivis Galante would say otherwise . . . oh wait, he switched schools to get away from you." How was this Alfred's first time hearing any of this? He usually heard the school gossip, mostly from Gilbert, Elizaveta, and that Polish kid in his English class. He hadn't heard a word about Ivan until now. "And now you plan to victimize Alfred!"

"Alfred came to me!" Alfred could feel his chest sinking. The fact that Gilbert and Ivan didn't bother to lower their voices meant that everyone was sure to hear about Alfred . . . he bit his lip, trying to think of lies that would save his secret.

"You're lying!"

"I do not lie! Alfred has been seeing me in the library for—"

"DON'T YOU DARE TELL ANYONE!" Alfred did not realize he had yelled so loudly. How was he supposed to get out of this? "Ivan was just . . ." To Alfred's immense relief, the bell rang. For once, that ear-piercing ringing meant more than another hour in a class he cared nothing about. For once, the bell provided relief. He was sure that this would be the only time it did.

"Lunch, Alfred. I'll see you later." Ivan walked away, leaving Matthew still frozen in place, Gilbert with unsaid insults, and Alfred terrified of what his friends had to say.

"You're not seriously talking to Ivan, are you?" Gilbert laughed. "Tell me you're not serious." Alfred gritted his teeth.

"It's none of your business. Why do you care if I talk to other people than you?" His defense was weak. He hoped to reach history class earlier than usual.

"Why do I care? I know Elizaveta thinks I'm a jerk, but I care about my friends. Why Ivan? How does he not creep you out? And what the hell do you do with him—" Gilbert's eyes widen and Alfred felt the urge to smack him. "Tell me you're not—"

"What we do is none of your business, and it's totally G-rated!" Alfred hoped this statement eliminated any thoughts of . . . well, what would naturally come to Gilbert's mind.

"Alfred, you don't understand. Ivan manipulates people. Then, when they try to betray them, he . . ." Matthew spoke with a shaky voice as he made a violent gesture with his hands. "But the people who hang around Ivan have problems. He provides them with a false sense of comfort—you don't need that. You don't have problems, and if you did, you can talk to us." Alfred's blood boiled. He didn't have problems, what a ridiculous statement! What the hell did Matthew know? As long as his grades improved and his father stopped badgering him, the benefits of being Ivan's friend were real. "You don't have problems, do you?"

"Who the hell doesn't have problems? I'm a teenage boy with no talents, in a high school full of complete bullshit, and my dad thinks I'm worthless! Don't you have problems, too, Matthew Bonnefoy?" Matthew simply frowned.

"My last name is Williams," he corrected. "All I was trying to do was offer help, but clearly, you decide to attack my family's personal situation instead. You can't go after my family because I upset you, and I'm sorry I did so."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry you can't accept that I've found a way to please my dad for once. We're going to be late for class if this drags on, and I don't want him to kill me." He stormed off towards his class, red with anger. As he took his seat, he realized that Matthew had never answered his question—maybe insulting his absent father was not the best way to go. But he was furious with his friends. How did both of them have such bad opinions of Ivan, when they had never even talked to him? They said he manipulated and destroyed his friends. Was it because Ivan couldn't tell the difference between honesty and cruelty? No, Alfred realized. It wasn't that he couldn't tell the difference, rather that there was no difference. People expect others to sugar coat everything. He wasn't in any danger with Ivan. He would abandon his friends to see him at lunch.

High school really was cruel. It had taken all of Alfred's worth, his pride, his happiness, and poured it down the drain. It drowned him in the impossible and burned him when he admitted defeat. It marked people as dangerous and cruel and deprived them of friends. It claimed it prepared you for life, but it shattered hopes and dreams before you could pursue them.

Mr. O was the scariest person Alfred had ever seen, including his first impression of Ivan. He was just as tall as the Russian, but Alfred was convinced he never smiled. When he entered the room, he glared at him with bright blue eyes and glasses.

"Ah, you found the room easily. I'm relieved." Ivan did not sound as cheerful as usual. His encounter with Gilbert and Matthew wasn't the best. "I sit over here, in the front." Why does he sit right in front of the scary teacher!? Mr. O seemed to stare straight into Alfred's soul. Worst of all, all the other students could see him clearly. He longed for the library, the abandoned, after-school library. At least he didn't know any of these smart kids.

"Sorry about my friends. They're dicks." Alfred felt compelled to apologize; the earlier incident was disastrous. At the same time, he was a little angry with Ivan. He almost told his friends about his secret, and now Matthew thought he had problems and Gilbert thought he was insane.

"It's alright, I get that a lot." Ivan sounded sad, but Alfred didn't know what to do. Reputation wasn't something that could be fixed overnight. "And what they said about me . . . I swear I didn't mean to hurt him, he just moved the wrong way . . ."

"Wait . . . that's true?" Ivan did not smile.

"I wish it wasn't. But I have to admit, his face was hilarious." That statement disturbed Alfred. "Well, let's start!"

Alfred's after school schedule was clear of soccer practice or homework sessions, as he finished his chemistry homework with Ivan in the most uncomfortable atmosphere possible. Eager to find his success in the mailbox, he rushed home, grinning madly. Arthur would not murder him for failing. That fact made it hard to remember his troubles of that day, of Matthew and Gilbert's suspicions of him, of the faces of intelligent chemistry students and creepy blue eyes that watched as he stumbled through his homework. The day didn't start out great, but it wasn't over yet. Red-faced and panting, he reached his mailbox and opened it without a second thought. After flipping through a stack of bills, he found a letter addressed To the Parents/Guardians of Alfred F. Jones. He already knew what his grades were, because of easy Internet access. This paper seemed to finalize them.

"Alfred, you're home early—"

"Report card. Read it." He handed his father the envelope, suddenly overcome with worry. Was it good enough for him? In only two months, he had improved so much. How could Arthur say anything but—

"Why are you smiling so widely? This is hardly something to celebrate over. You know, most kids your age would be devastated to receive marks like this." He tossed the report card on the table casually, as if all of Alfred's hard work was nothing. His order seemed to work; the smile faded from Alfred's lips. He had failed to please his father. As long as he lived, he could never please his father. Arthur's problem wasn't that Alfred was lazy, or didn't try hard enough. The problem was that his son was useless. "Keep trying, Alfred."

"'Keep trying'? I bring home the best grades I've managed in years, and you tell me 'keep trying'? Clearly, trying isn't going to work if you're not satisfied with where I am now!" Arthur sighed.

"I am satisfied with your progress. I'm relieved you're not failing, and I am excited to see how much you improve—"

"What is the point anymore? I put myself under a shit ton of stress, my head is always close to exploding from forcing myself to understand useless concepts, my friends all think I have emotional problems, and you hate me! I am so done! I should just drop out of high school, if this is the shit I have to deal with for another year!"

"Alfred, you are staying in school, and I do not hate you—"

"Why do I have to yell at you all the fucking time? Can't you give me a break?" Alfred found it hard to control his anger. He didn't even bother to try. "How many times do I have to say it for you to understand that I am not a genius, and by forcing me to become one, you're killing me inside!" Alfred felt tears form in the corners of his eyes. I will not cry in front of my father. He blinked, hoping the tears would leave. God, you are pathetic. Maybe you should cry, you worthless, pathetic boy. Maybe it's something you're good at. Choking noises formed in his throat, but he clung to his diminishing pride. It's strange how he still had it. What was he to have pride in? Sure, he played soccer well, but nobody cared. Beating his friends at violent video games didn't make him important. I will not cry. I won't do it.

"Alfred . . . I just want you to succeed. Not so I can be happy, so you can lead a great life. I can't change the fact that colleges will reject thousands of students with 4.0's before they even look at you, but I can push you to be your best."

"You're pushing me off the edge of a cliff," Alfred insisted, still fighting the tightness in his throat and the dampness in his eyes. "Don't you even know how hard you're pushing? I'm going to fall, Dad!" Oh, what the hell. He didn't have any pride; it was all a façade, to try to make up for everything he wasn't good at. He released the tears in his eyes. He allowed horrible choking sounds to escape his mouth. In a matter of seconds, he was bawling, like the pathetic kid he was.

"Alfred," Arthur whispered, putting his arm around Alfred's waist. "Pull yourself together, Alfred." Tears fell, but they mixed with anger. Alfred felt like a time bomb, exploding with Arthur's every word. He was a blubbering, crying mess; how could he recollect himself? When you're hurt, you cry. When you cry, someone hugs you and speaks words of comfort. When Alfred cried, he was told to stop.

"Get off me," he ordered his father as he shook himself from Arthur's grasp. "I don't even know if you're scolding me or you're pretending to care about how I feel." He turned away from his father, tears still trickling down his cheeks. "I'm going to stay at a friend's house tonight. Not that you'd care if I died in the middle of the street or something—"

"Alfred, you are not going anywhere. Turn around and walk back to me."

"I can't stay here. I won't. I'm serious, Dad, I refuse to be treated like worthless shit in my own house!"

"Alfred, what are you doing? Stop this nonsense, come back to me—Alfred, no, don't you dare take another step out that door—COME BACK INTO MY ARMS, ALFRED—" The blonde teen slammed the door behind him. He began to sprint, in case Arthur bothered to follow him—he yelled curses from the door as Alfred hid in his neighbor's bushes and pulled out his phone and a crumpled slip of paper.

"Hey, it's Alfred . . . yeah, I'm alright . . . no, I'm not, I just can't stay at my house right now, so can I please come over?"