Flight 753 departed shortly after sundown en-route for St. Augustine, Florida. For some the quaint Florida town was a vacation destination. For others such as eighteen-year-old Kye Darryl the place reeked of counter-pleasure qualities. With his bare forehead pressed against the cool window, Kye watched the city lights fall far below him. The spider-web of orange lights winked from all directions at him and in due time the lights altogether disappeared from the thick cloud coverage and Kye was left with rising animosity and the thought of his new life that awaited him down South.
Trying to make out the stars pressed against the sheer blackness of night, Kye noticed in the reflection of the window his father sitting next to him. Flipping through the New York Times - rustling the papers with importance - coughing now and then. Though both Kye and his father were allowed to freely move about the cabin, neither one of them chose to. It felt as though his forehead would forever be plastered to the window until it collapsed from his weight and Kye would consequently tumble to his death down below - a situation more favorable than the one he was currently in.
As if transmitting his thoughts telepathically to his father, he said without glancing away from the newspaper, "It's for the better - Kye. I know you're a bit hostile now, but if anyone should be cross - it should be me. Should it not?" Kye chose not to respond, just exhaled greatly, causing his breath to spread across the miniscule window.
More rustling paper occurred next to Kye. A specific article was placed on his lap. Finally, Kye peeled his forehead off of the window and frowned down at the headline. It was a small article, but nevertheless present in a major paper. Kye read through it once, and then looked back out the window.
"Proud?" his father asked. Again, Kye did not respond. "You may resent this now, but you may find a way out of this lifestyle. Until then - I ask that you act accordingly in public." His statement, Kye knew, was his attempt to deflect the waves of hostility emanating from his son. It was his response to an unspoken resentment.
For the next few hours this is how it remained. Kye wallowed in his stubborn pool of stagnation, occasionally tuning in to the random monumental words declared by his father. The pressure in the cabin quickly changed as the plane began its descent. A door at the other end opened - and an elderly man emerged - his aging body framed in a navy blue suit with an American flag pin placed directly over the heart.
Kye knew he was - Jonathan McFry, the man who took less bull-shit then Kye's own father. Undoubtedly, Jonathan was in favor of Kye's departure - in his eyes Kye was nothing more than an adolescent with no redeeming qualities. Of course, Kye would only secretly point out that Jonathan had cataracts, so nothing he sees anymore appears to him in its actuality.
In a few calculated strides, Jonathan approached Kye and his father with dignity. "Sir," McFry began with his bold tone, "you'd be pleased to announce that we are running a few minutes ahead of schedule. We'll be touching down in St. Augustine shortly."
Kye's father smiled brightly. "Excellent, Jonathan, excellent. Any word if the press successfully caught wind of my whereabouts?"
"Not that we know, sir."
"Terrific - then call ahead to Peter and tell him that it would be delightful if he had the escort available upon immediately landing."
Jonathan nodded politely, smoothed back his gray hair, saying, "Of course, Mr. President."
It's much easier to talk about the dastardly things done to you than the dastardly things you did to others. And Kye was about to become King of the Dastards. The problem was, and this was a rather big problem, anything dastardly thing Kye said about others usually reached the press faster than the speed of light.
So there he was, yearning for independence, a form of life that was constantly suppressed by his father. He felt rather like a trapped panther at the zoo - clawing continuously at the cage, unintentionally attracting spectators with cameras so that they could take pictures of him in his rambunctious state. To top it off, those pictures were usually later published in the tabloids, with screaming titles such as: "The President's Real Problem."
Their journey south, luckily, remained under wrap. Nevertheless, once the plane touch down - Kye slid on a large pair of Armani aviators, concealing his eyes, anticipating some kind of leak that filtered around the press. In addition to his glasses - he wore a blue pinstriped suit, with the perfect creases, and a red tie. Unlike many of his peers, Kye did not entirely despise dressing up. In fact, his casual wardrobe consisted mostly of what he was wearing that present moment they landed in Florida. Wearing a suit and a tie daily became a lifestyle.
As his father stood and straightened his own suit, Jonathan casually came back into the cabin to open the plane door. "Welcome to Florida, sir," Jonathan said, assisting both Kye and his father with the first step out of the plane.
Kye stepped out onto the first step of the staircase that descended from the plane down to the ground - and glanced around. A warm Florida, tropical breeze tousled his hair. To his relief, no reporters were waiting around. Only the escort vehicle was stationed at the bottom. His father had already entered.
Minutes later - after transferring escort vehicles - they were cruising along the highway. Large "body guard" vehicles surrounded them. One covered the north, one on the east, another on the west, and the final car behind them.
"Mrs. Mars will be delighted to see you, Kye," his father spoke halfway through the journey. It was his turn to watch out the window as palms trees sped by in a blur.
Kye focused on the passenger seat in front of him. "This is just your indirect way of punishing me, correct?"
He sighed. "Kye - I'll be honest with you. I'm publicly known for my family-man persona. I tend not to read articles written about my family, but I do from time to time and the public is enamored with your mother and I - and of course, you. I would not be pushing for this change in course if I did not care for you." His eyes were now trained on the side of Kye's head, trying to establish eye contact.
Kye did not allow the establishment to occur. "Sounds like a way to just protect your personal image," he said stiffly.
"To protect our family image," he corrected Kye. He was corrected by the President of the United States. Nothing was less intimidating, but of course Kye would never mention that. He could barely swallow that secret fact himself - along with other secrets he kept hidden.
The ride to St. Francis, their destination, and an exclusively private school was smooth enough. But somewhere along the way some jerk leaked the information about Kye's arrival. As the caravan of cars slowly proceeded through the wrought iron arched-gate, numerous reporters popped out of the wood work. Things turned from normal to uttermost chaos in a millisecond.
Reporters with their bursting bulbs surrounded the car Kye was riding in. Despite the fact that the windows were tinted, logic stood that the middle car consisted the President and his son. His father sat perfectly regal in his seat, smiling, while bulbs continued to flash frantically at their faces. "Mr. President!" the reporters called obsessively, mingled with a few cries of "Kye!" The on duty patrol officers at St. Francis forced the reporters to keep far away from the car. Kye groaned inwardly at the mess of reporters and was quite glad once the car made it pass a security check point.
"Well," his father said, straightening his tie. "I wonder who told them?" It was more of a question for himself rather than proposed to Kye or the chauffer.
They were now traveling along what could easily be mistaken for a cobblestone road lined with palm trees, but was in fact the driveway leading up to a massive stone mansion. Lights burned brightly from within - red and green ivory twisted up along the walls - well manicured shrubbery was placed strategically along the enormous stretch of land in the front of the building.
Once reaching the main doors, all five cars stopped and the agents hopped out, securing the area. Kye and his father casually slipped out of the car, retrieved Kye's luggage and began the ascent up the marble stairs to the front door.
Before they could even announce their arrival by knocking, the one door flew open. A lady in a smart cream colored business suit, with her hair twisted back in a bun, greeted them with a generous smile. "Mr. President," she cooed. "We've been expecting you, please come in."
"Dolores," Kye's father addressed the lady charmingly, "what have I told you about formality? I highly doubt you address your other friends with such a proper title." Before she could respond, he turned to Kye. "You remember Mrs. Mars, do you not?"
Kye had a quick flashback to two years ago while they were all sitting around in the White House. Mrs. Mars, or Dolores, had been an old friend of Kye's father and recently took command of the prestigious St. Francis academy and implored Kye to consider joining her down south. At the time - Kye vowed he'd rather die first then go to a stuck-up, snobbish place, which he basically thought it to be boot camp for the rich kids. Yet, here he stood: right at the threshold, luggage in hand, wanting to die.
Dolores stood back, allowing them to enter. "Please, come in. No problems with the press I hope?" she inquired as she lead them down the main foyer, which was lined with portraits of past owners - dating back to approximately one hundred and fifty years ago.
"Only minor ones, Dolores. No worries, though."
They began to ascend up a magnificent staircase, with royal red carpet and gold trimmings along the banister. An expansive floor-ceiling, wall-wall window revealed a large courtyard in the back with a few students milling around. Kye could not help but to resist tilting his head this way and that, observing this ancient, yet well maintained building and its architecture.
The staircase traveled up several more floors, but they stopped at the fourth level. The hallway was also carpeted in a royal red color, but in lieu of the portraits representing past owners - there were now paintings detailing St. Augustine. High arched ceilings provided more room for Kye's vision to wander, but sensing that his father was catching onto his wonderment; Kye tightened his grip on the suitcase and stared at Mrs. Mars back.
She was explaining the workings of St. Francis to Kye, "The boy's dormitories are located on the East Wing, while the girls are located on the West Wing. Despite the fact that breakfast, lunch, and dinner are served at certain times - the kitchen is accessible to students at all hours - provided they have their own groceries. Classes have not yet begun, but in a few days time we will begin registration for classes. You will receive a notice via e-mail."
Kye's stomach clenched at the prospect of living here. Just like the majority of his life - the surrounding was entirely too structured. He yearned for an unstructured environment - St. Francis was just a glorified version of boot camp.
At the end of the hall, they passed through a set of double doors. The sophistication of the place immediately disappeared. The hallway they were now in resembled that of a college dormitory hall. There was no high-arched ceiling, no royal red carpet; instead it was simple hallway with numerous doors, loud music playing, and the students who were wandering around stopped cold in their tracks at the sight of Kye's dad.
A few doors were open, allowing a view of the typical dorm room, and at one point while passing an open door, the resident clearly caught sight of Kye's father - for when they passed his jaw slackened and something glass fell through his hands.
Word was spreading quickly of their arrival. Unfortunately, Kye's room seemed to be at the complete opposite end, which provided the other students time to gawk. At one point, he glanced over his shoulder, and nearly everyone had their head poked out of their room, watching their retreating backs.
"Here we are," Dolores said brightly. They were stopped outside the very last door, which was slightly ajar. A light was on. Dolores knocked politely, waited for the male occupant to call "come in", and then opened the door.
Kye's stomach, which was already clenched in a ball, clenched tighter and then unclenched, not at the sight of the typical dorm room (for there was nothing exciting about it) but at the sight of his roommate: he was relaxing on his bed, no shirt, gym shorts on, and the Hanes waistband sticking out.
Expectantly, his roommate did not notice Kye at first. Instead he noticed Kye's father, smiling generously, while saying "Hello there, son." The kid seemed too mortified to move and who could blame him? How often does the President of the United States walk into your bedroom? Surprise!
"Lucas," Dolores said, "this is your new roommate - Kye Darryl. I presume you already know his father quite well, so I don't have to introduce you." She shared a hearty laugh with Kye's father.
Finally finding his tongue, and his ability to move, Lucas hurriedly pulled on the nearest shirt, and out stretched his hand. "Mr. President - this is completely unexpected." He then turned his coffee brown eyes upon Kye. They were the same height and were able to stare upon each other eye-to-eye. "Lucas Carmichael," he said, firmly grasping Kye's hand.
It was clear from the awkward silence that followed the exchange of greetings that Lucas did not know how to properly act in such company. Finally Kye's father broke the silence, "Well, Kye, why don't I help you get situated. This place seems to fit your personality; no doubt you'll enjoy your time here."
Though had high doubts, and still felt hostility swimming through him, he did not voice his objection and allowed his father to drag the gigantic suitcase over to the unoccupied bed, opposite Lucas's.
The place still did not appeal much to Kye, but the one thing that did appeal to his liking was Lucas. However, that was the last thing he would openly tell someone.
If one thing was clear to Kye, his time spent here will certainly be a voyage.
And if he had a crystal ball, he would know that he had just set sail on a voyage with the same fate much like the Titanic.