The Dead Poets

29

I tap my pen anxiously against the wooden desk. While my eyes dance impatiently between the clock that sat above the dark green chalk board, and the words Mr. Keating was rapidly writing on its surface.

Charlie had not shown up for the first task of today's itinerary, the morning meet and greet. The goal was to familiarize students with the curriculum, while simultaneously familiarizing them with each other.

A tension so thick you could cut with a knife, sat heavy in the air, around the perfectly aligned rows of desks.

Welton students had a notorious dislike towards the public school kids, and vice versa. However, though it applies to many, it does not apply to all. I have yet to discover the root cause for this ridiculous rivalry.

Had Charlie simply disappeared without a word, and entirely alone, I'd probably be so worried even my bouncing knee couldn't contain it. Yet, with Neil and Knox also appearing to be MIA, I felt a sense of relief.

Suddenly, the shrill sound of the obnoxious bell rang, indicating the end to this seemingly never-ending class.

Mr. Keating was a great teacher. Wonderful, really. He possessed a certain quality that would utterly captivate those who were fortunate enough to endure his lessons.

Many teachers at Welton had monotonous voices, of which put you to sleep faster than it could spark any enthusiasm in its listeners. However, Mr. Keating's words left each student anxiously sitting on the edge of their seats, hanging by his metaphorical thread.

Even though my admiration for Mr. Keating was paramount, my eagerness to escape this room seemed comparable.

"Meet back in fifteen!" Shouted Mr. Keating, while erasing the white-chalk words that messily adorned the board.

"Hey!" Jack shouted playfully, gently grabbing my arm, while slowing his short jog, as he rushed after my fleeing figure.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" He asked, picking up his step once again, positioning himself in front of me, and halting my brisk walk.

"Besides," he continues, resting his upper body against the row of lockers beside us.

"You don't know your way around," he states matter of factly, and quite frankly rather smugly. Though like Charlie, their cocky dispositions were always paired with a playful grin that was anything but menacing.

"I'm looking for my friends," I answer, picking at the chipped pale pink polish that coated my nails.

"Well," jack says, stepping to the side before continuing.

"I think I can help with that," he finishes, reaching his elbow out for me to interlock my arm with his.

I chuckle at his goofiness. He reminded me much of Charlie in that sense, confident and self-assured, but humble and kind all at once.

We skipped down the corridors, arm and arm, while laughing at the mere absurdity of our actions.

We abruptly flung open class doors, being met with some angry teachers, of which still appeared less threatening than those who ruled the halls of Welton.

I quite liked the public school. I felt as though I had been transported into an entirely different universe. One where the people remained carefree, and fun could be found even in the dullest of situations. In fact, I much preferred it to Welton.

"Charlie!"

My head quickly snapped in the direction of the familiar cry. It sounded tired yet stern, much like Neil's fatherly disposition often brought upon by the childish antics of Charlie.

My feet swiftly carried me down the well-lit corridor, as a loud wave of whispers erupted. A knot formed deep in my stomach, as I continued to follow in the direction of the noise.

A fairly large crowd had formed, in a sort of disoriented circle. It was days such as this, that I cursed that flat shoes that adorned my feet, or my petite stature.

I arched my back, extending my neck, while I stood on the tip of my toes. Only my efforts were done in vain.

"It's a fight," Jack whispered, slightly out of breath, behind me, once he had managed to catch up.

I release a distressed sigh, as I anxiously shove my way through the huddled bodies, before reaching the front of the crowd.

I spot Neil and Knox, who stand warily off to the side. Their faces hold defeated expressions, while their eyes dance fearfully from each other, to the scene in front of them.

In the midst of the crowd, stood Charlie.

His hands lay by his sides, fists clenched tightly. His disheveled hair falls messily atop his damp forehead. His neatly pressed Welton blazer, sits crumpled in a pile on the dusty tile floor.

For a mere second, of which I felt frozen in time, his hazel orbs flick towards mine. His expression is unreadable. No fear, nor cocky smirk, lay plastered across his face.

His light eyes darkened to a shade I had never seen before. His hooded lids and menacing glare, in contrast to his usual kind eyes and warm smile, made him nearly indistinguishable.

His head snaps from my direction, and towards the boy who stood cockily in front of him.

Before my mind could make sense of the situation before me, Charlie storms closer to the arrogant boy, his fist swiftly connecting to his face...

To be continued...