It was the day her mother died that she realized how truly average her existence was. With one parent in despair and the other in the grave she could now relate to every young adult novel she had ever read. The credits spun downwards, containing blurred names of children now genetically equipped for science-fiction-like adventure. Despite this realization, she didn’t even believe she was genetically equipped to handle the averageness. The risks she took were small yet quickly regrettable: not locking the door to the bathroom stall, eating unwashed fruit, the part in her hair. She wasn’t into sports. Not so much afraid of the balls as the black lights. She liked sitting on metropolis park benches. Watching the people looking at her looking at them. The duality of reserved fearlessness, however, never escaped from behind the whites of her eyes. Locking in that burnt stank of averageness from ever quite leaving her nose.