Before He Fell┊Neil Perry

XI

lawrence alma-tadema. 'Spring'. 1894.[Detail] ⋆.ೃ࿔*:·

Words:  1,226

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The next morning several of the night revellers yawned as they sat in Mister Keating's class. Keating, however, paced vigorously back and forth through the aisles, his energy magnetic. The early light streamed through the windows, casting long shadows that danced with his movements.

"A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. And don't use 'very sad', use..." He snapped his fingers and spun around, pointing sharply. "Come on, Mister Overstreet, you twerp."

"Morose?" Knox answered unsurely.

"Exactly, morose," Keating said with a smile. "Now, language was developed for one endeavour, and that is?"

He pointed now at Todd. "Mister Anderson? Come on, are you a man or an amoeba?" Todd looked up at him, his big blue eyes shimmering with anxiety. Keatings smile softened, and his gaze drifted to the other students.

"Mister Perry?"

Neil hesitated, not expecting to be called upon "To communicate."

"No. To woo Women." Keating's declaration was met with a ripple of laughter, and the classroom felt alive. Keating watched fondly as Neil, who after hearing the correct answer, glanced at the desk next to him, a slight blush blossoming on his cheeks.

"Today we're gonna be talking about William Shakespeare."

"Oh, God," Charlie mumbled from the back, the words dripping with dread.

Mister Keating's gaze swept across the room, his expression unwavering "I know. A lot of you look forward to this as much as you look forward to root canal work. We're gonna talk about Shakespeare as someone who writes something very interesting. Now, many of you have seen Shakespeare done very much like this:"

Keating raised his arm and lowered his head into his neck, before transforming his voice into a high-pitched, nasal tone."O, Titus, bring your friend hither."

Returning to his normal voice, he continued, "But if any of you have seen Mister Marlon Brando," he began to imitate the actor, his voice now deep and resonant, "You know Shakespeare can be different. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears."

The students chuckled, their interest piqued. Keating, ever the performer, shifted gears, adopting the swaggering stance of another actor. "You can also imagine John Wayne as Macbeth going: 'Well, is this a dagger I see before me?'"

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Laughter rippled through the room, the students now forming a group sitting before Keating, who perched on top of his desk, a book in hand. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he adopted a British accent and began to recite Shakespeare.

"'Dogs, sir? Oh, not just now. I do enjoy a good dog once in a while, sir. You can have yourself a three-course meal from one dog. Strat with your canine crudités, go to your Fido flambé for main course and for dessert, a Pekingese parfait. And you can pick your teeth with a little paw."

The boys erupted in laughter, and the room alive with their amusement. Keating paused, letting the laughter die down and for them to return back to their seats. Suddenly, with a swift and unexpected movement, Keating leapt onto his desk. His students looked up at him wide-eyed.

"Why do I stand up here? Anybody?" Keating's voice echoed through the room.

"To feel taller," Charlie suggested with a smirk.

"No." Keating tapped a small bell next to his foot, its sharp ring cutting through the air. "Thank you for playing, Mister Dalton. I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way." He spun around slowly, taking in the world from his elevated perch, his eyes sweeping over the room like a hawk surveying its domain.

"You see, the world looks very different from up here. You don't believe me?"His voice was both a challenge and an invitation. "Come see for yourselves. Come on."He beckoned the boys with a wave of his hand. "Come on."

One by one, the students began to rise and walk over. Neil was the first to climb onto the desk, his movements careful but determined. Keatings jumped down from the desk, giving Neil the full room to take in the world from up there. From this new vantage point, the classroom transformed. The mundane became the extraordinary, the familiar became the foreign. Neil's eyes widened as he took it all in, the world stretching out before him in a way it never had before.

Keating continued, his voice strong as he lectured. "Just when you think you know something, you have to look at it in another way." Neil jumped down, his feet hitting the ground with a solid thud. He turned back toward the desk, watching as Beverly climbed up next. Ready to catch her if she fell.

Beverly's face was a picture of glee as she surveyed the room from the desk, her eyes wide and sparking. Neil looked up at her, not used to seeing her from this angle, he took her all in, every detail, from the way her hair caught the light to the excitement dancing in her eyes. And then she looked down and their eyes met, and she gave him a toothy grin, her joy infectious. Neil suddenly felt a wave of affection surge within him, and his body screamed at him to go up and release it or be overwhelmed entirely. Instead, he clenched his hand and smiled back at her, his heart pounding loudly in his chest.

"Even though it may seem silly or wrong, you must try. Now, when you read, don't just consider what the author thinks. Consider what you think."The room was a symphony of movement and sound, each boy taking his turn on the desk, experiencing the shift in perspective, feeling the world tile and change beneath their feet. They stood tall, looking around with new eyes, before jumping back down and returning to their desks.

"Boys, you must strive to find your own voice," Keating surged, his eyes scanning the room, landing on each face with a burning intensity.

"Because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said, 'Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.' Don't be resigned to that. Break out. Don't just walk off the edge like lemmings, look around you."

The school bell suddenly chimed, its harsh sound a jarring interruption to the charged atmosphere. "There you go, mister Priske. Thank you, yes." Keatings began to collect his belongings before walking to the back of the room toward the exit. "Dare to strike out and find new ground."

"Now, in addition to your essays, I would like you to compose a poem of your own. An original work."

The students groaned in unison, their collective dismay filling the room. Keatings, heaving their complaints, huffed in amusement. His hand found the light switch and began flipping it on and off, the lights above flickering in rapid succession. "That's right. You have to deliver it aloud in front of the class on Monday. Bonne chance, gentlemen." With that, he exited the room.

Todd was the last to descend from the desk, and just as he was about to make the leap, Keating's voice called out to him, startling him. "Mister Anderson? Don't think that I don't know that this assignment scares the hell out of you, you mole." 

And with a final flick of the light switch, he plunged the room into darkness.