The Elitace Academy

By Arshad Khairullah

Peter resents his father for uprooting his life. Surrounded by his friends, he was well-settled in his high school. Although he understands the benefits of graduating from The Elitace Academy, he feels that he is being thrown into an environment where he may not fit in. It does not take long for him to realize what his father is aiming at.

Does Peter embrace the changes to emerge stronger or will his concerns be a premonition?



Arshad Khairullah is a young teenager with a passion for the arts. He combines his creative flair with innovative skills. His curiosity to understand and analyze the deeper meanings of life makes this book appealing to an audience wider than the young readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493163601

Book preview

THE ELITACE ACADEMY

Arshad Khairullah

Copyright © 2014 by Arshad Khairullah.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014900718

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-6359-5

             Softcover    978-1-4931-6358-8

             eBook         978-1-4931-6360-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 01/17/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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www.Xlibris.com

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I wake up irritable this morning. I probably should not have stayed out past midnight. I enjoyed celebrating my sixteenth birthday with my friends at the Canadian National Exhibition. I know that father realizes that I am still deliberately avoiding him. It is unfortunate that I had to exclude my mother from the celebrations—I was not trying to make her feel bad, but I did cherish every moment that I had with my friends. I doubt that I will get a chance to meet them over the next two years.

In the years past, I have always spent the Labour Day holiday at the CNE, which marks the end of the eighteen-day fair and the summer holidays. This year, I have to leave the city a few days prior, in order to settle into my new high school.

A knock at the door is immediately followed by, Peter, may I come in?

Father, I’ll be ready in a few minutes, I reply curtly. I am tempted to call him by his name Roger—to annoy him.

I really do not want to go to The Elitace Academy. I have quit trying to please my father. I am going to miss my pals. Why does he not let me lead my life? I am old enough to decide what is best for me. I have enjoyed my last two years at the Livier High School. In defiance to his decision to transfer me to The Elitace Academy, I have ignored father over the last six months. I thought that he would change his mind—no such luck!

I may resemble my father—we both have dark blue eyes and stand tall at six feet two inches with a lean athletic build. I do not think I am anything like him though. I have also inherited my mother’s black hair and sculpted features. Also, I will miss my frequent trips to the gym with my friends—building and maintaining my muscles is now going to turn boring.

I roll the packed bag out of my room. My parents are waiting to accompany me on the two-hour trip to the Academy in Northern Ontario. Father has mentioned that it is located in a secluded location and I know the benefits—The Elitace Academy educates the offspring of some of the wealthiest and most powerful parents around the world. Although this is more like a high school, they do occasionally accept students as young as two. Graduation is at age eighteen and a High School Diploma from The Elitace is akin to winning a lottery—graduates are sought after by the top universities around the world; a wealthy and successful future can almost be guaranteed.

I know that my father wants to chat with me before we leave. I keep the bag near the entrance door and rush to the kitchen to grab a granola bar for the journey. My mother follows me and smiles nervously. She looks elegant with the pearls standing out against the black blouse and white skirt. I know that she is feeling guilty for not strongly supporting me on my wish. Polished and gentle, she follows his wishes and commands. I had been so proud of her when she had put her foot down three years ago, to support my decision to study at the Livier High School. I may not be the top student, but I definitely have been above average in my grades most of the time. My friends have continued to be my source of support, both emotionally and with my studies. Some have been my friends since Junior and Middle School. My father has never had the time to coach or guide me. Now, I am being pulled away from my friends for the next two important years of schooling.

My heart is heavy. What will it be like at this new school? The other students will already have their circle of friends and may not include me. Father keeps telling me that I am lucky to have this opportunity. I know that he wants me to thank him, but I feel miserable about this change. If I would have known that he would take such a drastic step after my last semester, I would have made up a plan to study robotics or some such field and spelled out how I would achieve stupendous success. He is a workaholic—I am not! My marks had only slipped a little and I had been honest during this rare discussion with father on career aspirations. I do not understand his concern—what is so alarming about not being sure of what I want to achieve in life? I was only fifteen at the time, and many of my friends still do not know what they want to do.

Alicia, I will go ahead and keep the bag in the car, he tells mother.

I turn to leave and father is standing near the doorway of the kitchen—this makes it impossible to ignore him. As usual, he is dressed formally in a suit and not a strand of his sandy blond hair is out of place. I am sure that he is still angry with me for calling him a ‘control freak’ last night. I should apologize, but my fury inside quells my reasoning.

Son, I know you are still upset with me. I promise you, someday you will thank me for this.

Ok, I mutter and brush past him.

My mother hugs me and I see the tears in her eyes. I hug her back. Apparently, I will not be allowed to carry a mobile at the Academy. In my opinion, the rules are draconian. I have additional stipulations placed on me, since I only have two years to ‘catch up’ with their other high school students. I can call or meet my parents only during the weekends, and they recommend that even this should not exceed two hours. Also, I will be home only for short breaks, such as for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I am not looking forward to finding out about their other rules and routines.

I barely notice the route. My mind is preoccupied with what my friends might be doing currently. I miss downtown Toronto already—I love the pulse of this vibrant and cosmopolitan city. I love my room on the thirtieth floor. I am losing the freedom to enjoy the wide variety of cuisine, all within walking distance or a short trip away on the subway. What kind of food will I now be served? My friends will forget me. With minimal contact, they will move on and I will lose touch. My head hurts and I doze off.

Roger Waincliffe. I am here to drop off my son Peter, wakes me up. I rub my eyes and see the large undulating iron doors. The large stylish ‘E’ in the center splits as the iron doors open. The surrounding walls are more than seven feet in height.

Our silver Mercedes slowly moves forward. There is a fountain on either side with circular concrete wide barriers. You are right, Roger. This is beautiful! mother exclaims. Two girls are sitting by the fountain on the left, engrossed in a book. The manicured garden around the fountain reminds me of the gardens seen in the palaces of Europe. The flowers and plants may be different, but the landscaping is breathtaking and well-maintained. I can see hydrangeas, goldenrod, hibiscus and stonecrop. I need to have a closer look to figure out the other varieties. What do you think, Peter?

It’s ok, I mutter.

These are the boys’ villas, father says as he points to the white and dark blue villas on the right side. There are four bedrooms in each of the villas. You will be sharing the common area with three other boys.

Are those for the girls? Mother is gazing at the beige villas with the red roofs and doors.

Yes. It has not changed much since I was here, father replies.

We pass a white minibus and a girl with blonde wavy hair peers at me through the window. I am immediately struck by the look in her bright blue eyes. Something is striking about her. I count three more girls sitting inside, and stare at the back of the minibus as we drive further away. I have not had a serious relationship with a girl until now. My attention has been focused on sports and outdoor activities. I had felt the peer pressure when my friends, except for me, had a steady girlfriend. I have tried group dates, but did not feel like proceeding with a separate date until now. In the few seconds when my eyes met this stranger’s, I felt something inside my heart—I guess this is what they mean by skipping a beat.

I count three maple trees between every two villas that we drive past. Ahead, a seven-storey stone building resembles a castle with four turrets at the corners. I have to agree with my father’s view—I do find this place fascinating. As we drive closer, I can see the carvings on the main door in the front.

This is exactly as I remember it. The villas have been renovated, but they have still maintained the colour scheme and fine details, father sounds happy.

He drives around the massive building to the parking lot behind. I turn my head towards the line of young men and women. A minibus pulls up and stops in front of them. This is the main building? I ask.

Yes.

Are all of the classes held here? I wonder aloud.

Yes. The floor will depend on which program you decide to follow, father replies.

Program? I ask.

Don’t worry. They will help you along. They are very good at this. The education system will definitely have changed since I studied here.

I sigh loudly. Mother turns to look at me. Father