What We Stay Alive For

Chapter Nine: The Favorable Sort of Administration

3 September 1959.

John Keating notices something is going on between a group of his students when they stay after class that Thursday. He starts whistling out his usual tune of the 'Overture of 1812' as he packs up his things so he may leave the classroom and attend to other business. He stops the song when he realizes that the boys are not packing up with him.

"Gentlemen." He says. "You will be late for your next class if you're not off soon."

"We have a question." Neil responds.

"Ah." Keating starts up his whistling again. He holds his briefcase with such trust in his fingers, though it looks like it may slip from his grasp at any moment. He heads for the door and promptly exits without so much as a glance towards the boys.

"What the hell!" Cameron says, looking to the door that Keating had left open. It's an invitation they aren't aware of yet. "He just left!"

"Yeah," Todd is the first to take the invitation. "He left." He rushes out the door.

Neil goes after him, shouting "what are you all still sitting for! Let's follow him." Whether Neil is talking about Mr. Keating or Todd is not clear.

Whichever it is, the rest of the group does what they are told. For a moment, the hall is filled with boys pushing past their peers, calling for their teacher through grit teeth that attempt to be respectful of those around them. Although, the harsh shoulder checks and accidental tripping of others does little to help them.

"Mr. Keating? Mr. Keating? Sir? May we ask you something?" Neil is disappointed when Keating refuses to turn back. He's only a few paces ahead of them, unaffected by the students around them as they part as he walks by. He teasingly presses the tip of his finger in his ear like he might have heard Neil say something and an abundance of ear wax had stopped him from hearing exactly what.

Then, Todd speaks and Neil does, too. They say the same thing.

"Oh, Captain, my Captain?"

And Keating halts, spinning around on his heels. He's heard exactly what he had wanted. The way he is beaming says three things.

One, I expected this.

Two, I can't say I'm not pleased, anyways.

And Three. Todd, you too?

Keating's mouth, however, does not verbalize any of these things.

"We looked through your old annual." Neil says before Keating can turn away again.

"I wouldn't call myself old. I will say books age at an astonishingly faster rate than humans do." Keating takes a second to ponder this new thought. He slowly nods his head. "So, if you're saying 'old annual' to call the book itself old, you are correct. If that is the case."

"Of course." Neil breathes out. He grins so wide that his cheeks puff out and his eyes close. "Oh! Our question," he motions to his friends, "is: what was the Dead Poets Society?"

The words hit Keating's ears and the expectant look on his face becomes more hesitant. Not because he didn't know what he was about to be asked, but he now has to consider how to word his response. Todd believes Keating must be thinking like him. He had once expected to hear those words, Dead Poets Society , for the last time. Back when things were different and evidence was a lot harder to keep track of. Back when there was more to say about less things and less to do about the bigger things.

Back when time only ever went forward.

"I don't..." He pauses, mouth closing before something could spill out. He looks to see if anyone is listening to them, but the hall that was full moments ago has become empty in seconds. Everyone else has made their way to class before risking being late. He dissolves some of the space between him and the students in front of him. His voice is a lot softer than before when he speaks again. "Administration would not look too favorably upon starting that up again."