Shannon: a dead poets society fan fiction

chapter 1

October 10, 1959

Holy shit.

I’m standing outside Welton Academy, and I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. I’m pretty sure it’s a little bit of both. The grand whole look seems like some kind of ancient castle to me, and I’m about to enter what is arguably the most prestigious prep school—founded on traditions and rules. It feels like I’m standing at the gates of a prison, not a place of learning.

My heart is racing, and my palms are clammy. I think this is what they call “nerves,” right? Or maybe “first-day jitters”? If that’s the case, then I’m jittering like a marionette with cut strings. I could have sworn I read somewhere that anxiety attacks are a myth, just some trendy term for feeling overwhelmed. But then again, what do I know? I’m just the Irish girl who got into this place because her father had a conversation with Headmaster Nolan over pints in Dublin.

“Just be yourself,” they said. As if “myself” isn’t an awkward girl full of nervous energy and a desire to write poetry in the margins of my textbooks. I’d much rather be at home in my small room, covered in paint splatters and surrounded by half-finished canvases, than standing here trying to convince myself I belong in a world where everyone else seems so put together.

As I look around, I see boys in tailored blazers, their collars starched like they just walked out of a catalog for preppy clothing. They look like they’ve been molded from the same cookie cutter, each one a replica of the last. I can’t help but feel a little out of place, with my unruly curls and the worn-out poetry book clutched to my chest. Am I even allowed to breathe in this air of academia? I half expect someone to ask for my credentials at the door.

I take a deep breath—well, try to—and instead, I’m greeted by the overwhelming smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with that unmistakable whiff of old books and polished wood. It’s intoxicating, really. I close my eyes for a moment, hoping the scent will drown out my racing thoughts. But the moment I do, the image of my mother’s face fills my mind. She was the one who encouraged me to embrace my artistic side, to pursue what sets my soul on fire. She believed in the magic of creation, while my father insists I need to focus on my studies. There’s that lovely pressure again, reminding me of how I’m supposed to be two people at once.

Just then, I feel a wave of heat rise in my chest, and my vision blurs. Oh no. Am I actually going to pass out? I can’t—there’s no way I can collapse in front of these future leaders of the world. My legs start to tremble like they’re made of jelly. Breathe, Shannon. In and out. It’s just school. Just a place to learn. Just a place where people exchange their thoughts, ideas, and, in my case, a bit of poetry for the world to mock.

“Focus!” I mutter to myself, startling a couple of nearby students. They glance at me, and I can practically hear their thoughts: *What’s wrong with her?*

I’m not sure how long I stand there, a statue of anxiety wrapped in a nervous smile, before I force myself to take a step forward. “Just one foot in front of the other,” I whisper, hoping to convince myself that I can do this.

With one last shaky breath, I pull open the heavy wooden door and step inside, ready or not.

Here goes nothing.

As I step into the cool interior of the classroom, I immediately feel a shift in the atmosphere. The air is thick with the scent of chalk dust and freshly opened books. Rows of polished wooden desks stare back at me like a pack of judgmental gazelles, and I suddenly feel like the lone gazelle lost in the savanna.

“Find a seat,” I tell myself, but my feet are glued to the floor. I take a moment to survey the room, looking for a place to hide. To my right, a cluster of boys. I glance to my left, and there’s an empty desk.