I didn't think I would feel this scared. Attempting to will myself forward, I tried to remember why I thought this was a good idea.

To honor my brother, spite my mother, and make my grandpa proud, I needed to become a hero. To become a hero I needed a license, and UA had the best hero program in the country.

Only I didn't want to go to the best hero program in the country. Grandpa insisted.

"We don't do anything halfway," he said, like he had said a million times before.

"Registration's passed. It's too late."

"I'll make a call."

Grandpa called Gran Tarino, who called Erasurehead, who met me on a Sunday afternoon at one of the many UA satalitte training facilities - an outdoor stadium, I'd estimated 60,000 seats. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky and the air was dry - conditions were perfect and I counted myself lucky. Looking back, I now know how wrong I was.

Erasurehead towered over me. He had an effective stare, further pronounced by the dark circles and bags framing his eyeballs. I'd grown up studying him, borderline idolizing him - I lost countless hours fantasizing about his gaze, neutralizing the strands of DNA that kept me prisoner to a life I didn't want and wasn't suited for.

Now here he was in the flesh and no novel, euphoric sensation enveloped me - instead it was cold and painfully familiar. Expectant, doubtful, sizing me up to see if I was worth his time. I was a monkey doomed to dance.

"The school year begins in two weeks. Acceptance letters have been delivered and my class is full. If I add you to the roster, we'd be sacrificing another student's place. They're sure to be devastated. Do you realize what you're doing?"

I wanted to tell him this wasn't my idea. No, I didn't want to blindside some poor kid who'd dreamt their whole life of this moment, probably told everyone who would listen that they were on their way to UA.

I could feel the shame like it was my own, and it felt heavy and sad.

I wanted to tell him that I only learned of UA a few weeks ago; that I would've been satisfied going to any no-name hero program. I would pass the licensing exam regardless. But that wasn't good enough for grandpa. Doing your best wasn't just a virtue, it was mandated - a requirement for being a fully formed human being.

So instead I said, "My grandpa says loss is opportunity."

"What do you say?"

This surprised me. And honestly, I didn't know. Grandpa was the only adult who ever asked me to think for myself, so it didn't come naturally. So, I answered instinctually, which was usually whatever I thought Ms. Kaina would say, "It's not my problem if someone else can't cut it." He seemed to respect that answer so I kept going, "If you think I should feel bad about that, then maybe I'm in the wrong place."

He continued to stare. Did I go too far? Was I too harsh? Did he want a more heroic answer?

Finally he turned to the field, "Ahead of you is a three kilometer obstacle run. Break the record and the spot is yours."

My muscles relaxed and I remembered to breathe. I thought it would be harder considering the school's reputation.

"What's the time to beat?"

"Irrelevant. Now, on your mark."

...

01:04.37

It took me a few seconds to recover, which was another new feeling - it was a truly remarkable day. I was never strained while the sun was up.

I stood tall when Mr Aizawa approached. I wanted him to like me and I hated it. He stared again, I stared back. He really knew how to build suspense. I actually began to doubt my time, then he turned away, walking towards the southern exit of the stadium - my heart sank and I stopped breathing again.

"I'll see you in two weeks. Do not be late to my class or I'll change my mind."

I felt real joy that day - the kind that was born from unbridled pride in oneself. Another estranged feeling. Sure, I didn't initially care to go to the best program in the country - the birthplace of most top ten heroes over the last three decades - but it was a nice, unexpected reminder that maybe I wasn't totally useless. Those were rare for me.

When I got home, I was greeted with the smell of warm spices and roasted meat, and Tsuyoshi Yamamoto on the stereo. I walked down the corridor to the kitchen where grandpa was carving a peking duck. There was a towel draped over his left shoulder, his worn, brown apron wrapped snugly around his waist and the sweetest smile below his fogged glasses.

"My hero! Welcome home!"

I could cry. I almost did, but instead took my seat at the pre-set table, decorated with spring flowers and warmed by the sunlight pouring through the arched, floor-to-ceiling window.

I poured us both sake and tea, while grandpa finished placing the entrees and sides.

He hung his apron and sat down across from me. I raised my glass and waited for his inevitable toast.

"Your mother would be proud."

And just like that, the moment died. I couldn't be mad at him for ruining it. And as usual, I didn't dare let my expression falter, just like I wouldn't dare reveal my pure, unadulterated hatred for her. That would make him sad. And unlike my mother, I cared about the feelings and safety of other people, especially the ones who shared DNA. Her singular moral triumph was dying before I developed long-term memory recall.

And it was that spite that propelled one foot in front of the other, up the grand steps of UA and through the front gates, transporting me to class 1A and the empty seat in the front row, furthest from the door.

One seat ahead of the person I would soon hate more than my own mother. Bakugo Katsuki.