15 years later.


    It was in the Fall of 2092 that Eloise dropped Arran off at the Metropole of Erudition, an hour or so directly south of their home in Chelsea, London. And although they had gone together, it wasn’t like the typical send-off you get from a parent. There was no celebration, no parting gift, no real sense of maternal endearment. Instead, there was only one main agenda that motivated her – and that was to hand her son off as dutifully as a sprinter might hand off a baton.


    Even so, it was Arran’s idea to arrive a week early.


    “Can we leave for the Metropole tomorrow morning, mum? I want to get a general feel for the place so that I’m not overwhelmed when classes start.”


    “Sounds reasonable,” Eloise said in an even tone, the kind of tone used to intentionally hide a tell. “If that’s what you want let’s pack everything today and be ready to leave early tomorrow morning.”


    “Perfect. Are you sure that’s alright with you?”


    “Of course not, but I must let you go some day.”


    And so it was settled: The next morning they began a quiet road trip in their hovercraft, sharing the streets with hurried people who hovered towards punch clocks and computer desks; and also those loaded vehicles, having no less than two inebriated Innocents, either coming from or going to a rave.


    Looking out the window, it made Arran a little sad that a long time would pass before he would see his home again, his mum too. Up until that point she had been everything to him – caregiver, teacher, counselor, provider – the very person he modeled his life after. Yet, he was ready for a change.


    He looked at Eloise then and observed her Spanish-French features. She had a long neck that extended smoothly but then wrestled against an arc in her jawline; her glimmery brown hair, even this early, was in an immaculate pony tail; and her face was set in an up-tilted pose, polishing her appearance to a noticeable dignity. As to her clothes, she was in her casual form: a cherry red blazer tailored over a white shirt with dark pants to contrast; and medium-level heels, enough to force a defining calf.


    Watching her then, even in the simple task of monitoring their hovercraft, Arran was convinced that she looked every inch a business woman, an Aesthete of the first order. Eloise felt her son’s attention and looked over at him, allowing a smile to cross her face. Arran returned it with one of his own. He then looked back out the window, feeling slightly unusual as he flipped through their past.


    He was recalling their lessons together, and how in some cases Eloise would get upset with him…when I took too long to comprehend something, or when I forgot a date or a definition that we covered a week before…and her demands were often petty, extreme and exhausting.


    Of course, Arran came to understand her concern: there’s a certain standard to uphold when you’re an Aesthete’s child. By the time you’ve turned eleven years old, it was normal, almost expected, to know three languages, three instruments and three three-course meals – all proficiently. Aesthete mums would always publicly herald their children whenever they’d reached this distinction. They were called three-bees.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    But for the majority of Arran’s life, the term’s point of use was never in reference to himself. Which for him meant that it was always an annoying occurrence. It went something like this: Oh, Eloise, by the way, we have a new little three-bee on our hands. Both mum and dad were both equally eager to make this pronouncement. And Eloise would try to be as excited for them as she could, but at the same time it was just an obtrusive reminder that Arran was running out of time to become her own little three-bee.


    But eventually it happened: It was his eleventh birthday that, after he knew Spanish fairly well as a third language and his Beef Wellington was good enough, Eloise could finally claim her beloved three-bee with little reserve. Although Arran wasn’t very confident with the new title, so he tried to change the subject whenever it was broached – lest someone start a clamor for him to show off a Bach improvisation on the cello.


    Eloise and Arran were still in the country when they entered Brighton’s borders (a technically non-Aesthesian region). And to Arran’s surprise, the scenery only went through a few small transformations before arriving at the Metropole of Erudition.


    “What do you think?” Eloise asked.


    “I think I like it: you can sense that they’ve made an effort at preserving the old English way of life. A quaint country life.”


    Eloise didn’t reply, and Arran went on noticing the landscape – how it remained untamed and unkempt, letting hedges and elm trees dash out in whichever way the fates had designed for them.


    When they rode up the entrance park of the Metropole, Arran noted it structural design:


    “It’s relatively modern, but still with a mid 21^st century flair for wider windows and a concrete exterior.”


    Arran saw his mum nod a passive approval, “It’s extraordinary.”


    Yes, extraordinarily ugly, Arran specified to himself. He knew that she didn’t like it, and to which part he wasn’t certain; but right before he had made the point about the building’s design, she had mumbled her little Spanish colloquial – a phrase he knew from her to be as honest and reactionary as blinking. Que feo.


    When Eloise decided it was time for her to go, they both walked side by side out of Arran’s resident hall. Along the path to the parking lot, he noticed the cameras planted on tall poles (the same ones he had seen inside the Metropole). He imagined that they must see everything, kept track of everything.


    “I’m going to miss you, mum,” Arran turned to her to say, and gave a tight hug around her shoulders.


    “I’m going to miss you too, sweetheart.” He couldn’t recall if she had hugged him back or not; he was too focused on locking his arms around her – trying to transmit, as if he could, an absolute “I love you” into her body – that he couldn’t remember to feel (if they were there) the impression of her slender arms against his back.


    “Remember to check-in with me when you can,” she said. Here they were loosed from each other and she almost met him eye to eye (an advantage elicited from her heels).


    “I will,” he assured her, trying not to look too sad now. She gently held up his face with her fingers, encouraging eye contact, wanting to get one last good look at her son – the product of her singular efforts.


    “Make me proud, Arran,” she said – and without hesitation he responded: I will.


    After they said good-bye, Arran watched his mum as she gracefully made for the car, wondering if he ever really could make her proud. (When he heard the word ‘proud’ from her, it was only used in this context: as something yet to be attained – never actually spoken to express a present feeling – never actually “I’m proud of you.”). His surety was dropping.


    Halfway to the car, she turned to wave one last goodbye, and in one fluid motion, after she dropped her hand and took her head around, the gesture successfully transferred to the back of her head; and Arran continued to watch as her pony tail swayed sentimentally (at least he liked to think it did).


    “I will make her proud.”