The Dead Poets

6

I woke up the next morning to Charlie and Knox banging rather loudly on my door.

"What?" I question, my irritation growing, flinging the door abruptly open, only to see the amused look on both their faces.

"We thought we'd accompany you to breakfast today. You know, so you can actually arrive on time," Charlie says sarcastically, referring to my accidental absence yesterday.

"Funny," I answer flatly and unamused, my I'm-not-much-of-a-morning-person glare shooting him daggers.

"Wait here," I say, closing the door on the two boys, as I quickly make my way to the oak dresser.

I hastily pull on my uniform, which consisted of a plaid skirt, a dark blue collared shirt, knee high white socks and black Mary Janes.

I quickly comb my fingers through my hair, wanting to fix it some more, but not wanting to make the boys wait any longer. I grab my book bag and join them in the hall.

"Well, don't you clean up nicely," Charlie's silky voice comments, causing a butterfly sensation to erupt within my stomach, but determined to not succumb to the good looks and charm of the ever-so-arrogant Charlie Dalton, I simply nod, allowing my legs to carry me ahead of the handsome boy.

"Shall we?" Knox asks, extending his arm to me, which I gladly accept, as we practically skip to the dining hall for breakfast. But not before I am able to glance back at a very jealous looking Charlie.

- - -

"So, Violet, tell us about yourself," Meeks asks curiously, while shovelling another forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

"There's not much to tell," I answer quite honestly, while also not wanting to divulge my life story to arroyo of boys I had only met two days ago.

"Oh, come on, tell us about your family," Knox urges, to which I nod slowly, thinking of my response.

"Okay well, my parents travel a lot with their jobs, so I don't get to see them very often. Holidays mostly. That's about it," I answer, revealing more than I had initially intended to.

It wasn't so much what I said, it's what I hadn't said. 'They're great,' 'They're wonderful,' 'we're just one big happy Brady bunch'— why couldn't I have just said that?

The boys give me sympathetic looks, which also appears to be quite understanding. I take it most of the students here have successful, wealthy parents, of whom they rarely see.

Thankfully, an out of breath Neil bursts through the doors of the hall, placing himself in the seat directly across from me, between an annoyed Charlie and a flustered Todd.

"Guys look what I found!" He says excitably, placing a old book on the table in front of us. 

"It's Mr. Keating's annual!" He clarifies, upon noticing our bemused expressions.

"Captain of the soccer team, editor of the school annual, Cambridge bound, Thigh man, and the Dead Poets Society." Neil reads aloud the description under the small, grainy black and white photo of a young Mr. Keating.

"What's the Dead Poets Society?" Knox asks, taking the book from Neil.

"I don't know..." Neil wonders aloud, "Let's ask him."

- - - - -

"Mr. Keating? Mr. Keating? Sir?" Neil calls out after our teacher, as he strolls through the courtyard whistling a familiar tune.

"Oh Captain, My Captain?" He tries, to which Mr. Keating immediately spins around on his heel.

"Gentlemen." He greets, "—and lady." He adds, smiling at me, to which I gladly return. 

"We were just looking through your old annual..." Neil begins, handing him the book.

"Oh my God. No. That's not me," Mr Keating says incredulously, just as any high school girl in a photo she was displeased with, before crouching down and looking at the picture of his younger self.

"What's the Dead Poets Society?" Neil questions curiously, crouching down next to Mr. Keating.

"Can you keep a secret?" Mr. Keating asks us after a few seconds of silence, ushering us to come closer to him.

We all nod eagerly, huddling closely together.

"The Dead Poets were dedicated to 'sucking the marrow out of life.' That's a phrase from Thoreau, that we'd invoke at the beginning of each meeting. You see, we'd gather at the old Indian cave and take turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley; the biggies. Even some of our own verses. And in the enchantment of the moment, we'd let poetry work its magic." He says, slowly scanning over all of our fascinated faces.

"You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?" Knox asks bemused.

"No, Mr. Overstreet, it wasn't just 'guys.'"
He responds, imitating Knox' previous tone.

"We were romantics. We didn't just read poetry, we let it drip from our tongues like honey. Spirits soared, women swooned, and Gods were created. Not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?" He questions rhetorically, sending Knox a playful wink, before continuing to whistle his previous tune, and
descending along the trail.

"I say we go tonight," Neil concludes, after registering what Mr. Keating had just said.

"Sounds boring to me," Cameron replies, to which I mentally groan, seeing as I never truly liked Cameron like I had the other boys.

"Don't come," Charlie snaps back sarcastically, causing me to smile at his sly remark—for once.

"Do you know how many demerits we could loose and—"

"—no shit Sherlock." Charlie counters, cutting off Cameron's rambling.

"Okay who's in?" Neil asks, as we all huddle together in the courtyard, ignoring the persistent calls to return to class.

"I'm in," I answer first, earning a big smile from Neil.

"Me too," Charlie and Knox add simultaneously.

Pitts and Cameron both nod reluctantly.

"Meeks?" Neil asks, "you in?"

"Ugh— I'll try anything once," He responds, before we all break apart, jogging back into the school.

"Except sex," Charlie counters, as we all fall into step with one another, gracing the threshold of what I now had to call my new home.