The Dead Poets

50

A few days have passed since the school's inquiry into the mysterious Dead Poets Society.

Luckily— just as I suspected— they found nothing.

I mean, we were a small group who snuck out at midnight and read poetry... I'd hardly call us a group of bandits.

Although... Charlie might beg to differ

With that behind us— for now at least— we celebrate with another meeting.

I practically skipped to the old Indian cave, my hand held tightly by Charlie's. Him and Neil had made up— although I knew they could never stay angry with one another. 

Thus, I had nothing to be upset about and everything to be happy for. And my skip was proof of that.

"Whoa— slow down," Charlie teases.

Glancing over my shoulder, I realize I had been practically yanking on his arm, forcing him to keep up with my prance.

"Sorry," I mumble, blushing slightly. I was excited—we hadn't had a meeting in a while— and life was currently good.

And that never lasts— so I wanted to enjoy the feeling while I could.

"I'm excited too, but I'd like to get there with my arm still attached to my body," Charlie says, rubbing his shoulder for dramatic effect.

"Besides—" he begins, his arms wrapping around my shorter frame, pressing my back closely against his chest.

"What good am I to you without both hands?"

I glare playfully at his suggestive remarks and— although I can't deny the effect his words have on me— I release myself from his protective embrace, and jog forward slightly.

"Where are you going?" Charlie shouts, now a few feet behind.

"I'm racing you!" I yell over my shoulder— my movements now much quicker.

"You can run off some of your... tension," I smirk.

A massive grin forms on Charlie's face, before he catches up to me, softly tackling me into his arms— the place I felt I most belonged.

The rest of the evening was equally playful. We ate stale leftovers from tonight's dinner, read old and new poetry, talked about life, love, the future. It was wonderful— and I retire to my room with a silly grin on my face that I just couldn't seem to shake— nor did I want to.

~ ~ ~

At the earliest hours of the morning, I hear a gentle knock on my door. I pull the covers back, glancing at the clock that sat atop my nightstand.

It was well after midnight.

Charlie.

I roll my eyes, slipping into my robe and heading towards the door.

It was likely one of his poorly-veiled attempts to sneak into my bed after hours. Although most nights I let him...