Crimson Academy

ONE

"What's your name?"

I stared at my dad who was in the driver's seat of our Ford Expedition.

"What's you name?" My dad asked again.

I sighed. "Aaron Green."

"And?"

I rolled my eyes. "I don't drink, do drugs, smoke, or whore around."

My dad grinned as he watched the road.

"That's my boy."

I shook my head and looked out my window watching the green fields roll by. Some contained cattle, others bales of hay.

I was on my way to Crimson Academy. It was a prestige school for fine arts; a school reserved for the dramatic, the musically inclined, and those that had the ability to write just to name a few.

I was blessed with a creative, and tireless mind. When I'd been given the guidance of a highly trained English/Language Arts teacher named Miss Thompson, I had, from what I'd been told, become quite the writer.

I'd written a story for Miss Thompson's class back at my public school, and she thought it was so good that she sent it to the Crimson Academy people. To say that they'd been please with it is an understatement. After they had read it, they contacted Miss Thompson and offered me a full ride scholarship.

You'd have thought that I'd have been the next person to know, but of course not. She went straight to my father.

He was a reasonable man, who was very practical in his ways of thinking, if he wasn't being too arrogant.

When he'd been told of my scholarship, it wasn't something discussed between him and I. No no. It was dictated to me that I must go because "I know my boy is good enough, and it's time for someone else to know it too."

It'd be different if it was more I know than my boy, but it wasn't.

My point is that he acts like he's read everything I've ever written, when he hasn't read even a syllable of it.

Partly that's because I'm afraid of the judgement he'd pass on me, but even when, in the great while, I'd asked him to read some of my work, he'd make excuses of why he couldn't. Really, he just didn't care to but, "I'll be damned that my boy isn't the best young writer in the country."

His attempt to lighten the mood was the ridiculous little blurb you read when you first opened the chapter.

He knew I wasn't very enthused to be going to Oklahoma, so far away from Minnesota, and to Crimson Academy with rich snobs who were overly sensitive freaks with their heads in the clouds, writing poetry, or acting as if they were the next Matt Damon or Kerry Washington or something like that.

I also didn't want to leave my school. I mean, I didn't really have friends, none except the characters I put on paper or the voices in my head (not the disturbed kind either).

It all came down to familiarity. A familiar school, familiar faces, smells, sounds, teachers, etcetera, etcetera.

"What are you thinking about over there Champ?" My dad asked breaking into my thoughts.

I shrugged. "Just about stuff."

He sighed. "Son, look at me."

I did as I'd been asked.

He gave me a wry smile. "You know that I only want the best for you. That's why you are taking this once in a lifetime opportunity. You my boy, are going to amount to more than just a fat, construction worker like your pops, you hear me?"

I nodded.

"You've got a chance to be sucessful, and bring joy into the world. Don't you see that?" He paused a moment. "Listen... I know I haven't read anything you've written, but Miss Thompson says you are brilliant, and apparently these Crimson Academy dudes think you are too. Won't you give it your best shot? And if you don't like it big guy, I'll bring you home your senior year. Is that fair? Can you live with that? Do it for me?"

I couldn't really be mad at him anymore. Not after that. Plus, he'd met me in the middle somewhat. I also couldn't really be mad because welp, we were just thirty minutes away now, and of course, papers had been signed, and agreements made. There was no turning back now.

"Alright dad."

He grinned. "Thank you son."

I nodded and stared at the miles of highway ahead of us.

"So... are you nervous? You haven't really said to much."

I yawned. "Well, it can't be any worse than public school right? Ok, maybe higher expectations and more homework, but it's not like I will be hanging out with friends or anything so..."

He nodded. "Maybe you should make some friends son. You know, it's an art school. The people that go there are going to be a little freaky. That's the problem in Minnesota right? They all think you are freaky and why again?"

I cleared my throat. "Because I always have my nose shoved in a book, or I'm writing one, and don't say much or bother anyone, so they must bother me."

He nodded. "Well, in a crowd of freaks, other freaks are welcome, is that not true?"

"How am I supposed to know dad? I've no friends."

My dad patted my leg. "Just try and make some please. If you don't, you'll get painfully lonely being so far away from home and stuff."

"Ok." I lied.

Silence filled the car. I'd gone back to looking out the window, but I felt eyes on me.

I turned my head and found my dad staring at me.

He blinked and turned his attention back to the road.

"Your mom would be so proud of you. So proud of everything you've become, and she'd be proud of the things you will be."

I didn't say anything.

I turned my head to the window, but this time I didn't look at the big picture, I looked at my reflection.

I looked like a younger version of my dad, but my father told me since his genes had been mixed with my mom's, I looked better than he ever had.

I had his strong jaw, somewhat pouty lips, and his emerald green eyes. Everything else was my mom.

Chiseled cheek bones, thin face, fair skin, thick eyelashes, and the shock of copper colored waves on top of my head.

I didn't like that I had some resemblance of my mom. Not after she abandoned us when I was ten. No sir, and if I ever see her again, I'll tell her exactly what I think of her.

Just now we had entered Owasso, Oklahoma. This was not our destination. Crimson Academy was another fifteen minutes into the country.