The Dead Poets

3

"Why do my parents hate me?"

I groan aloud, as I lay on the hard, cot-like mattress they call a bed; in my plain, boring, and barren room.

The walls are stark white like an asylum. Could they have not gone with an eggshell white? A beige? Cream?

Not that it would make much of a difference— I doubt any shade of paint slathered across four walls would make my stay here any more enjoyable.

I'm pulled from my thoughts by a sudden knock at the door.

Maybe my parents are coming to save me from this hell hole— though that's probably just wishful thinking.

As I open the door, I'm rather disappointed to see a group of neatly groomed boys, appearing to be around my age, huddled tightly together in the doorway— definitely wishful thinking

"Um what can I do for you?" I ask, suddenly becoming flustered by the gawking stares I was receiving.

I swear, it's like these boys have never seen a girl before.

"Hi, I'm Neil Perry," the taller boy speaks first, stepping forward slightly and extending his hand for me to take.

"This is Knox Overstreet, Steven Meeks, Gerard Pitts, Richard Cameron, Charlie Dalton, oh and this is Todd Anderson, he's new too," Neil finishes, pointing to the quiet boy in the back of the group, who offers me a small smile, before blushing furiously upon noticing all eyes have turned towards him.

"I'm Violet Ross," I say politely, nodding at the group of boys standing in front of me, before slowly stepping aside and allowing them to come in.

I wasn't quite sure what the etiquette was here— or the rules— regarding boys in girl's bedrooms. God, this place really was like a prison.

"Violet," one of the boys says, as if testing the name on his tongue— clearly liking its taste.

"—that's a pretty name." He steps in front of the others, and stations himself directly in front of me.

He certainly was nothing if not confident.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the other boys exchange knowing glances, while rolling their eyes at their rather forward friend.

The boy stands in front of me, his gaze never breaking from mine, as he awaits my response.

Not wanting to feed into his seemingly already inflated ego, I decide against giving him the reaction he desires.

"Thanks," I simply mutter, crossing my arms over my chest in an annoyed fashion, my face sporting an unfazed expression.

I notice the other boys suppressing their laughter, while the boy, whose name I can't quite recall, looks slightly taken aback.

Rejection was clearly not something he was used to.

"Charles Dalton," He says, his voice as smooth as butter, as he extends his hand for me to take.

"But you can call me Charlie."

I hesitantly accept, to which he brings my hand up to his lips, softly kissing my knuckles.

Although his small gesture sent shivers down my spine, I refuse to give into his flirtatious ways, and with all my might, manage to fight the blush that threatened to appear onto my cheeks.

"Well boys, we should probably get going," Neil says, upon noticing my slightly flustered state, and the rest of the boys— apart from Charlie—nod in agreement.

I gather he's the leader of this group.

"My room is across the hall, if you ever need anything," Charlie winks suggestively, before swiftly turning on his heel and filing out of my bedroom alongside the others.

I could practically see the sly smirk plastered across his face, as he slowly saunters out of my room, and down into the long corridor.

Maybe this year wouldn't be so bad after all.