Greetings, fellow Dead Poets aficionados. I've had this story crouching in the back of my mind for what seems like years, and I decided it did no good sitting occupying space on my hard drive for no one to read it. So, I've decided to post. Please comment, suggest, and critique, so I can gauge my interest level and enthusiasm. Please and thank you, ladies and gentlemen. :D
Enjoy, oui?
Boston, Massachusetts
January 3, 1960
A mix of sleet and rain pelted the black sedan as it turned into the train station's enormous parking lot.
"Be sure to call once you reach Concord." Cecelia Ethridge said, her voice devoid of emotion. She turned and stared at her daughter when there was no answer. "Joanna." She snapped.
Joanna Louise Ethridge tore her gaze from the window. "Yes, Mother." She replied, almost robotically.
"That's better." Cecelia nodded curtly, her flawlessly styled black locks bobbing. Her gray eyes were hard and cruel, her face give the impression that it was forever scowling. Joanna, however, was nothing like her mother- something she was eternally grateful for.
As the car pulled to the curb, Joanna quietly cleared her throat and reached for her coat slumped on the floor by her feet.
"Goodbye, Mother."
"Goodbye, Joanna. Remember who you come from."
Joanna nodded as she shrugged her coat over her shoulders and positioned her hat on her head. Stepping from the car, the driver handed her an over-stuffed suitcase, crammed with her possessions for the remainder of her senior year of high school at Belford Academy.
Remember who you came from. Joanna thought to herself. How could I not?
As her car sped off, Joanna stood alone under the overhang. Come on, chin up. You'll be fine.
Straightening her shoulders she held her head high as she strode confidently through the enormous doors that lead to the platform of the station. Momentarily she stood, petrified. There were people everywhere- the noise was deafening. Between the voices, the conductor's shouts and whoops and yells, and the high pitched screech of the whistles, it left Joanna's head spinning. Finding a clerk at one of the ticket boxes who appeared to be on break, she pulled out her ticked from her coat pocket and glanced at it, instantly confused on which way her train was.
Walking up to the porter, she asked him. "Platform 5B, miss. That-a-way." He said, pointing a long way off to the right. Taking a long draw from his cigarette, he smiled at her, his eyes settling on her shapely mid-section. Disgusted at his scrutiny, Joanna thanked him hurriedly and rushed away towards her train.
Sitting down on a bench near the platform where her train would be coming in, Joanna glanced at the master clock mounted to the far wall of the station. 10:18. She still had twenty-three minutes. Her train, according to her ticket, was to depart at 10:41. It would reach Concord, New Hampshire in four hours. From there, she would be escorted from the train station to the school, a little over an hour outside of Concord.
Joanna sighed, remembering the only reason she was back home in Boston in the first place over Christmas Holiday, instead of staying with her brother in Concord like she usually did: her sister had gotten married. From the moment her sister had brought him to Visiting Day in October the previous year, her left hand boasting a flashy ring with a diamond larger than a marble and with him on her arm, Joanna couldn't stand him. Cameron Jonathan Hayes- son of the Boston Globe's owner. Complete with a law degree from Harvard, enough savings to last him more than a lifetime, it was a perfect match for her sister, who was utterly obsessed with the society life of Boston. It didn't help either that Joanna's own family was one of the wealthiest families in Boston as well- her father had made a fortune from banking and investments. Her sister, Victoria, had been only too happy to run into him between classes on the Harvard Square in Cambridge one day in September. Her parents had been overjoyed at the prospect of her daughter dating the suave, debonair, and refined 'Hayes gentleman', and had put up no protest when she brought him home one night for a dinner party.
All this, of course, was retold through sparse letters from her mother and sister. Joanna was completely isolated from her family- and she knew the reason was because she simply didn't measure up to her outstanding elder sister. She was, obviously, still in high school, and her parents were sure that once she was 'polished', and 'elegant', and 'cultured', she would make a more or less acceptable wife... maybe.
The truth of the matter was, for Joanna, that she would do anything to defy her parents. She wanted to humiliate, shame, and horrify them. She was a very sweet and respectful person by nature, but had a wild streak that was very obvious when she wanted it to be. She could be tame and behaved, but then switch to being outlandish, brash, hell-raising, and imprudent whenever she desired.
Her dark hair, a silky chocolate brown color, was slightly unruly and had a mind of its own. It had an advantage in cold weather, however: it curled into perfect ringlets. Her fair skin was dusted with freckles, cheeks flushed. Her blue eyes were the color of deep ocean water, and her pink lips were almost always curved into a rather impish and mystifying smirk. She was quite small for her age of eighteen, not much taller than five feet, but her demeanor certainly made up for it.
Glancing up at the clock once again, she grew frustrated. Only two minutes had crawled by. She crossed her legs and opened her purse. Pulling out a collection of Keats, she began reading. It had been a present from her older brother when she was fourteen for Christmas, and it was the same volume that had sparked her passion for poetry.
Ah, her older brother. Tom, twenty four years old, was her greatest friend. Joanna and Tom, though seven years apart, in spirit were exactly the same. She went to him for advice, schoolwork, or just for idle chat. He had been quite the rebel as well when he had attended Belford. Frequently playing pranks, sassing the professors, and negligent with assignments, it was a wonder he even graduated. He had inherited the same wild streak as Joanna; but he- unlike his sister- had chosen to flaunt it. That was one of the reasons Joanna's parents decided to send him to Belford in the first place.
It's also the reason I'm there. Joanna thought.
It had been so convenient for Mr. and Mrs. Ethridge to not have Tom around the house, they decided to sent their two daughters to join him once they were old enough.
Not able to concentrate on the usually comforting poems, Joanna shut the hardback with force. Wishing her train would come more than ever, Joanna frowned.
If only this day would get over with… she thought. Then maybe I wouldn't feel so terrible.
Charlie Dalton scowled. He had been sitting in silence for the past fifteen minutes.
After being sent to Boston with his mother's cousin for the Christmas Holiday, he had been told that it would be- how did his parents put it? Oh yes; 'more convenient' if he didn't stay home for the Holiday. Charlie had left not an hour after the funeral.
The funeral.
That night he would never forget. Seeing the look on the rest of the Dead Poets' faces had been replaying in his mind over and over again. Having to figure out how to tell Todd was the hardest thing he had ever done.
Well, almost. He thought. The hardest thing, he recalled, had been letting Neil climb in his father's car and watch him drive off without trying to stop it.
Neil.
Neil Perry- his best friend. His first friend at Hell-ton. Neil- they had sneaked packs of cigarettes up on the roof and managed not to get caught. Neil- the one who he could be himself with, no matter how ridiculous and pompous he was. Neil- the magnificent Puck in "A Midsummer Night's Dream".
And he was gone. Forever.
Mr. and Mrs. Perry had found him in Mr. Perry's office, a bullet in his head. Neil's parents had blamed Mr. Keating and his 'unorthodox ways of teaching' and his supposed prompting to drive Neil to his untimely passing.
But it wasn't Keating's fault. Not at all.
It had been Mr. Keating that showed Neil how to truly live. Not just Neil, but all of the Dead Poets. "To suck the marrow out of life", it had said. If only they knew how this passion was going to result in… They had all talked about it, sure. But it was Neil who actually did it. Damn it, he actually went and did it.
And it was Charlie who had truly embraced that beloved phrase- Carpe Diem; "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may". It had been Charlie who had stood up and refused to accept the way Welton was handling the situation. He thought that Cameron was an absolute fink, and thought he should be taught a lesson. And when Charlie punched him in the nose it confirmed his expulsion from Hell-ton.
Charlie had always gone against the grain. He was a hell-raiser, plain and simple. He did everything humanly possible to disrupt the dull normality that everyone had quickly accepted as life. Most people had hated it- Charlie, however, thought it fun to shake things up a bit.
The 'Phone Call From God' bit from the assembly after he submitted that article from the Dead Poets Society to the paper- it was classic. Sure, Mr. Nolan made sure he got a firm paddling from it, demanding names on the members of the Society, but Charlie refused to give them.
"Damn it, Neil. The name is Nuwanda." There was no way he was going to just sit back and do nothing. The entire idea itself of the Society was to "suck the marrow out of life".
At the end of that same verse it has said merely so in that at the end of my life, I would not have to discover that I had not lived. Neil, as Charlie realized, had lived. Acting was his passion, something no one could quell. After that play, Neil had lived. And no one was ever going to take it away from him, no matter what it would cost.
Even death.
The morning after Charlie was summoned to Nolan's office to hear about Neil's death, Todd and the rest of the Dead Poets Society (all but for Cameron, of course) ended up outside Welton in the snow.
Coming to terms and fully grasping what had happened to his beloved friend and roommate, Todd completely broke down. Vomiting and collapsing in the snow, he blubbered about how it was Mr. Perry's fault- that Mr. Perry had killed Neil. It was nonetheless surprising to see Knox crying into Todd's coat while holding his friend back, and seeing Pittsie and Meeks crying beside him. As Charlie shoved show into Todd's mouth to try and wash his mouth out, Todd kept resisting and shoved everyone away. Charlie would never forget the look on his face as he ran from them, clamoring for sure footing as he ran screaming Neil's name.
"Let him be."
Rage replaced his despair and sadness when Cameron came into the luggage room from his confrontation with the Board of Trustees, the School Board, and Mr. Nolan after ratting all of them- and most importantly Mr. Keating- out, just to save himself. Hitting Cameron right in the nose, certain breaking it, it had been what Charlie had wanted to do to his kiss-ass roommate since the first day of classes. That same day Mr. Keating was dismissed, Charlie was expelled, leaving cursed Hell-ton forever. He was overjoyed to leave that place, he had hated ever since he set foot in it. But he knew that he would miss the Dead Poets desperately, and for that he almost felt a bit guilty for getting expelled.
But he was happy he left. No more lectures, no old, moldy classrooms, no more sharing a bathroom with fifty other guys, no more stupid trig, and no more Cameron. Thank God. He would be ecstatic if he never saw that idiot for the rest of his life. But he was sure of the fact that he would miss his friends and Mr. Keating's class especially. It disgusted him still that something that unjust had occurred. It made him sick with fury even thinking about it.
The following day was the funeral. Charlie stood in line with his fellow Dead Poets, but was the last of his friends to leave the forlorn cemetery. Charlie returned home to find his bag packed sitting on his bed and was informed that he would be spending Christmas with his father's old war buddy, Gerald and Sophia Davenport's house in Boston, Massachusetts.
But Charlie had changed. He was no longer the daring, passionate Nuwanda. No, he was Charlie Dalton, a soft-spoken, disgruntled eighteen year old, being newly enrolled at Belford Academy for the second term of the 1959-1960 school year, his senior year. No longer was he the smart-ass, slick, and charming Charlie that everyone (save the administration) loved. His passion seemed to have flickered out like a candle.
And there he sat, sitting on a stiff settee in the Davenport's parlor with Mrs. Davenport, waiting for Gerald to drive Charlie to the train station to be shipped off to Belford. But he couldn't stand it anymore, damn it. No matter what anyone said, Charlie had indeed done the right thing. That doubt had plagued his thoughts and invaded his dreams at night- he hadn't gotten any sleep in the last two weeks.
"You ready, Charlie?"
Charlie looked up at Mr. Davenport standing in the doorway, waiting expectantly for him. Charlie shook his head as if to clear the depressing thought from his head and slowly stood.
Robotically shifting the Welton Academy coat over his slumped and defeated shoulders and grabbing his suitcase, Charlie mumbled a "Yes sir" and shuffled to the door. He turned back and flashed a small smile of thanks to Mrs. Davenport. She nodded in response, clasping and unclasping her small, thin hands and smiled.
Following the man to the car, Charlie stole one last glance at the quaint Beacon Hill, one of many sections of Boston, with large trees, cobblestone streets, and century old brick houses. Rain and sleet came down in a steady, grey drizzle. Charlie climbed into the passenger seat of the car and shivered; not because of the frigid temperature, but of the feeling of deep despair and loneliness he had been feeling ever since Neil died. But this was it. He was moving on; though he wished more than anything he could go back in his comforting, familiar old life. That life as of now was gone. It was time for another chance.
Turning to the window fogged up from the heat blasting out of the vents, Charlie didn't notice the traffic, the pedestrians braving the weather, or anything else for that matter. The only thing he saw was the cemetery and Neil's newly dug grave, blanketed with pure white snow, located under a bare tree turned grey from the cruel, heartless cold.