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The Academy

By Ryan Mix, J.T. Payne

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My grip grew tighter on the hardened steel blade as blood began to drip from my trembling hand. I didn’t feel pain until I saw the blood, gasping as I surveyed the damage. The razor-sharp blade had made a clean, effortless slice, exactly as it was designed to do. I had nicked a vein, and a substantial one at that judging from the look of the crimson river forking between my fingers. Grabbing a monogrammed towel that sat on the rack, I wrapped my left hand tightly with my right, my knuckles blanched white.
It was these unforgiving straight razors. This wasn’t the first time I had accidentally cut myself with one and probably wouldn’t be the last. The proper way to use a straight razor was the last thing my grandfather taught me before he died. My grandpa took pride in a good shave, and out of respect for the man I once loved, I carried on the tradition.
It was foolish of me to pick today, of all days, to use it, though. I had been rushing in the face of jet lag ever since my plane arrived just an hour before, and I was already late. I should’ve known just to play it safe with a disposable.
I turned on the faucet and ran some cool water over the cut, the shaving cream on my face getting colder. A little filet of skin lashed wildly in the cold stream. In the mirror in front of me, I saw a man of thirty-eight. His face seemed old - tired beyond his years. He was not as in-shape as he once was. He thought he had come to peace with what he had done two decades before. He thought time healed all wounds. But now, being back here, those feelings had rushed back as they surely had for everyone who he’d soon be facing. It had never been his intention to hurt any of them. But as he used to say, intentions are meaningless.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It was my wife.
Are you on your way?, the text read.
Heading out the door in a few. Probably 20 minutes away, I replied.
I walked over to the bedside phone and dialed ‘0’ to the concierge at the front desk. A few scattered clothes spilled out of my wife’s suitcase, which sat on the edge of the bed.
“Hi, could I schedule a cab for this evening?” I asked. “I’m headed to the Clanton Grand. I’ll be down in the lobby in five minutes.”
The front desk operator confirmed my reservation so I thanked him and hung up the phone.
Throwing a bit of putty in my hair and a bandage on my hand, I adjusted my bowtie and checked my reflection in the mirror again. I closed my eyes and took in a big, slow breath of air.
“Ok, here we go,” I muttered.
The hotel seemed surprisingly quiet. It wasn’t until I reached the lobby and looked outside that I realized it had begun to storm. Violently. The cab was already waiting outside the automatic doors with its hazard lights reflecting the pounding showers all around.
“It’s only going to get worse,” the bellman told me as I looked out. “Are you ready for what’s coming?”
His comment took me off guard as I didn’t realize he was only speaking of the weather.
“Thank you. I’ll be fine,” I said, pulling my coat above my head to prepare for the dash to the waiting cab. The driver stepped outside with an umbrella and opened my door. It was pouring rain. Sheets of water blanketed the street, the taxi, and the mood.
“Evening, sir,” I said to the driver. “The Clanton Grand, please.” I had to shout in order to be heard over the pounding rain as I ducked into the car.
The storm was muffled inside the cab. We pulled out onto Windsor Avenue and then onto Milton Road, a familiar street that I hadn’t seen in quite some time. Outside, the colors smudged and ran together through the taxi’s window. The rainbow of lights streaked across the pavement, stretched and skewed by refraction as the car rocked gently over the old cobblestone streets of downtown. I rhythmically twisted my cell phone in my hand, one of my many nervous habits, while my mind continued to race. Lightning cracked from above. The storm was getting worse.
My phone vibrated a second time. My wife again.
Are you close? People have been asking about you. I felt my face flush and neck began to burn with pins and needles. This was really happening.
Turning into the Clanton Grand Hotel, my eyes seemed momentarily dazed, as if seeing it for the first time. It has always been a beautiful place - a southern guest house at its finest. Pristine white pillars and ivy-covered brick overlooked the winding river that carved its way through town. On summer nights, front-porch guests could enjoy a performance of crickets and fireflies from its nearby banks.
The taxi pulled up to the front steps, and when it stopped, I realized that I was nearly an hour and a half late. I took another deep breath, then thanked the driver and handed him a twenty. After opening the door, I quickly hopped a puddle and made it to the metal awning, the rain pounding against it like machine gun fire. One by one, I ascended the stairs and could already see them: my peers, my classmates. The ones I had known and the lives I had interrupted.
Jessica Tinsley was speaking with Aaron Sinclaire in the lobby. People I assumed to be their spouses stood by with drinks in hand. I sucked in one more big gulp of air, wishing there was someone beside me to help soften the nerves. But I had experienced loneliness before. My life was defined by it. There was no turning back now. They deserved an explanation.
I opened the doors. Jessica and Aaron stared; politely pretending my entrance wasn’t surprising. They quietly smiled and nodded, as did I.
As I awkwardly moved past them and towards the main ballroom, the music and commotion grew louder. I began to see more of them. Their faces were different—worn and older. No one looked the same. Even more, I recognized those who were not there, those who would not dare return to this place, and those who were no longer with us.
Looking up, I saw the banner hanging directly above them. It made me wonder if this was, perhaps, a very bad idea. Perhaps this was a mistake all along. I had put this in the past, but now the past stood before me in bold, red Helvetica.

CHERRYWOOD CHRISTIAN ACADEMY CLASS OF 1996
20 YEAR REUNION

It was like a tombstone, its epitaph marking what had died and when it had passed. My high school had long since been put to its grave and I was the one with blood on my hands.
“Sylas Ernst. I thought you’d be the last guy to come,” a voice from my right stated. I turned toward it. An older Grady Sites just stood there, looking at me.
“Grady!” I stopped, fearing that out of all the people in this room, I could’ve wrecked his life the most. “How you been?”
“I’m ok. I’m going by Gradon now, but you can still call me Grady,” He laughed. “Got two boys now, so I certainly can’t complain.”
“Oh, what are their ages?”
“Ten and seven,” he replied.
“That’s wonderful.” I didn’t know how to say anything else. There were so many questions I had for him, but no tactful way to ask them. We spoke pleasantries until he said something that caught me off-guard.
“I’m glad to see you’re still alive,” he stated.
“Yeah. Me too,” I replied with a laugh, unsure if he was joking.
He nodded his head, and putting his hand on my shoulder, leaned in and whispered. “It’s easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.” He leaned back away from me and squeezed my arm. “I’ll see you around,” he added with a smile.
If his quote by William Blake was true, then I knew I would be just fine. After all, it seemed that I had very few friends in the room that night besides Grady. I had really only kept up with one or two people from high school, so I knew very little about the aftermath and how it had affected everyone who had been involved. I had purposefully stayed off of Facebook and any other social networks when everything had come out; I just never developed an interest.
With hesitation, I looked around and began to survey the room. People were starting to notice me a bit more. They were murmuring and whispering among themselves, just like I had seen them do so often in high school. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure walking towards me. I turned to see a man my age with deep lines of worry on his face.
I recognized him right away and a lump formed in my throat. It was my old friend, Shawn. He approached me slowly, and I couldn’t help but smile at him. “Man, it’s good to see you!” I said, reaching out my hand for a handshake, I was relieved to at least have one person there who I loved and trusted.
“It took you long enough to get here,” Shawn said, accepting my hand and shaking it. He then went one further and pulled me in for a hug. “How was your trip?”
“Long,” I answered as I unintentionally got a whiff of Shawn’s breath. “You drink scotch now?”
“Shhh,” he said in a joking fashion. “You want some?”
“No, thank you. Where’s - “
“Your wife? She’s over there somewhere.”
Shawn and I kept in touch every so often but I never realized how deeply he was bothered by what had happened. I didn’t really think it affected him that much at all. Or perhaps, more precisely, I never realized how much he drank to deal with his past hurts. I saw it in him then, though. It was in his eyes, a hazy sort of detachment that went hand in hand with the smell of scotch on his breath.
“People were wondering if you were gonna show tonight,” he said.
A tremendous crash of white light and earth-shaking thunder broke outside, causing the lights to flicker. I scanned the room and saw the back of my wife in her beautiful red dress. I could recognize her silhouette anywhere, even in a darkened room. A second bolt of lightning struck and at once, there was darkness. I closed my eyes as the voices grew around me, each person speaking louder to make their voice heard above the others. Chairs and dishes were clamoring together as some people stumbled toward the red glow of the exit signs.
My mind raced back twenty years to a scene of pandemonium much like this one. It was the night of our senior year homecoming. That night so many years ago would set in motion events that would change everything about me. It was the beginning of my story; the story of what made me who I am. I stood in the darkness and allowed the memories to rush over me. Time slowed to a crawl as my mind drifted away from the present and back to where it all began.
For the Academy and one of its students, it was the beginning of the end.

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