A/N: I'm finally back! After this super long hiatus, let's get this show on the road. Anyway, all usual disclaimers from previous chapters are still applied.

The Sweaty-Toothed Madman

Two nights later, I found Neil sitting out in the hallway just before 'lights out' with what appeared to be a notebook in his hand. "Working on English?" I asked as I came up behind him.

"No. I need to memorize lines for the scene we're rehearsing tomorrow," he replied, showing me the binder that he'd put the "Midsummer Night's Dream" script in. "Are you planning on going to the meeting?"

I rolled my eyes. "You're probably the only one here, Mr. Perry, who isn't revising and worrying about reading poetry in front of the class. It's one thing to read your own work to your friends, but to stand up there…only very few people in the world can do that without wishing they were in front of a firing squad instead,"

Neil looked through his binder and met my gaze. Oddly, I wanted to look away. "Do you have a moment, Vanessa? Because if you do, could you…er…critique my work?" he asked.

"How funny. I never thought you were the sort of person who gets nervous about reading poetry," I said wryly.

Neil handed to me a sheet of paper that he had kept folded in his coat. Before I could unfold it though, a door slammed open nearby. I nearly jumped and dropped the paper.

"Mr. Perry! Miss O'Donnell!" Hager bellowed. "Return to your rooms immediately!"

I sighed as I handed the paper back to Neil. "Just tell me about it in the morning, alright?" I said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Sure. Good night, Vanessa," he said as I entered the room. Strangely, though I could no longer see him, the warm, cheery way he smiled at me stayed in my mind all the way into my dreams.

The next morning, all of us Dead Poets met at the bottom of the stairs. Knox looked like he lacked a wink of sleep. Meeks and Pitts were talking about the radio. Cameron was looking through his Trig book (as if he didn't have a life beyond it!). Charlie was cocky again, and Neil was excited. Todd looked though as if he wanted to crawl away and die. He had a forlorn look on his face (a bit like those faces of desperate people in paintings), and he was sweating.

"It's not like five minutes will kill you, Todd," Charlie said to him. We all knew what was getting him worked up. Today was the day our assignments were due.

"Actually, Chemistry will get rid of all of us first," Pitts said diffidently. "Reports are also in today,"

I looked through my books and my eyes widened. "Oh no…I forgot to write it!" I gasped.

"And so Miss O'Donnell goes down," Cameron said smugly.

I gave him an icy look. "Do shut up," I snapped. "I'll just copy, or rather…remember what I can of the experiment…"

Later that morning, during Latin, Meeks passed me a folded paper.

"What?" I mouthed. "Who's it from?"

Meeks pointed to Charlie. I discreetly took a look, and found it was a page from Charlie's notebook. Minus all the obscene drawings, it was exactly what I needed.

"To Chris," Knox read nervously later that day. It was English, and each person in our class reacted differently to the prospect of reading. Some, like Priske, were excited about it. Others, like Hopkins, were indifferent. A good many, just like Todd, Knox, Pitts, and myself, were squirming in our seats.

"I see a sweetness in her smile.

Bright light shines from her eyes.

But life is complete; contentment is

mine,

Just knowing that..."

Knox stammered as some of the boys began laughing. "…just knowing that she's alive," he managed to finish shakily. He crumpled up his poem and trudged back to his desk.

"Sorry Captain, it's stupid," he murmured. As he sat down, Charlie patted him on the back sympathetically.

"No, no. It's not stupid. It's a good effort. It touched on one of the major themes, love. A major theme not only in poetry, but life. Mr. Hopkins, you were laughing. You're up," Mr. Keating said. Knox looked relieved to find that Mr. Keating wasn't patronizing, nor belittling him. We watched as Hopkins stood up to read.

"The cat sat on the mat," he said slowly. We all burst out laughing at this seemingly measly effort.

"Congratulations, Mr. Hopkins. Yours is the first poem to ever have a negative score on the Pritchard scale," Mr. Keating said once Hopkins sat down. More laughter rippled through the room.

"We're not laughing at you, we're laughing near you," Mr. Keating added. After a few more comments, he began looking through the room for a student to call on. I told myself not to show any sign of fear, nor to make myself conspicuous.

As luck would have it, Todd was next. He protested, saying, "I didn't write a poem,"

Now, at this point, most English teachers would've exploded. Mr. Keating though simply nodded and said, "Mr. Anderson thinks that everything inside of him is worthless and embarrassing. Isn't that right, Todd? Isn't that your worst fear? Well, I think you're wrong. I think you have something inside of you that is worth a great deal,"

We all watched cautiously as he went to the board. He proceeded to write "I sound my barbaric YAWP over the rooftops of the world". W.W.

"More Whitman, "Neil commented from nearby.

"Now for those of you who don't know, a yawp is a loud cry or yell. Now, Todd, I would like you to give a demonstration of a barbaric 'yawp'. Come on, you can't yawp sitting down," Mr. Keating said, getting Todd to stand up and come up front. Poor Todd dragged his feet all the while.

"You gotta get in 'yawping' stance," Mr. Keating said, urging Todd to stand up straight.

"A yawp?" Todd managed to squeak.

"Not just a yawp. A barbaric yawp,"

"Yawp," Todd said, so softly that Neil, Cameron, and I had to strain to hear it.

"Come on, louder,"

"Yawp." Not much improvement.

"No, that's a mouse. Come on. Louder."

"Yawp!" A bit better, but not quite.

"Oh good God, boy! Yell like a man!" Mr. Keating roared.

"YAWP!" Todd shouted.

"There it is. You have a barbarian in you after all," Mr. Keating said as Todd moved to return to his seat. "Now you don't get away that easy," he added, stopping Todd from returning to the chair.

He then asked Todd to describe the picture of Walt Whitman on top of our blackboard. Todd stammered out, "A m-madman,"

"What kind of madman? Don't think about it, just answer again," Mr. Keating said, circling a hapless Todd.

"A crazy madman,"

"No you can do better than that. Use your imagination. Say the first thing that pops in your head, even if it's total gibberish,"

"A sweaty-toothed madman," Todd blurted out.

"Whoa, where did he get that?" Knox muttered from behind.

"Good God boy, there's a poet in you after all," There, now close your eyes and tell me what you see," Mr. Keating said, putting his hand over Todd's eyes.

We all listened in rapt attention as slowly, Mr. Keating pulled these verses out from Todd. "I close my eyes…and this image floats beside me…a sweaty-toothed madman with a stare that pounds my brain…his hands reach out and choke me…and all the time he's mumbling…mumbling 'Truth. Truth is like…like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold."

I will admit that even I burst out laughing at this. But Mr. Keating was adamant with regards as to getting Todd to continue to speak. "Forget them. Forget them. Stay with the blanket. Tell me about the blanket," he insisted.

"Y-Y-Y-You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us," Todd continued, more confidently now. Slowly, Mr. Keating left the front of the room and sat in front of our desks.

"From the moment we enter crying, to the moment we leave dying, it will just cover your face as you wail, and cry, and scream," Todd finally finished. He opened his eyes to a silent class. Mr. Keating was smiling. All of we Dead Poets, especially Neil, were stunned. Slowly, applause and cheers sounded in the room.

"Don't you forget this," Mr. Keating said to Todd. After this, the bell rang, making this a very fitting ending to the day's class.

"That was magnificent!" I said to Todd as we hurried to soccer practice. He blushed and I laughed, ruffling his hair. Suddenly, Neil biked up alongside us.

"What you wrote, Todd, was pure genius," he said as he put on the brakes.

"Thank you," Todd said, more confidently than we'd ever heard him say anything in his entire stay in Welton.

"You know, you two could come along to practice. I mean, we need people to help with things, and it could be fun," Neil suggested.

"No thanks…maybe not today. Team B is down a few players and they need everyone they can get," I said. Todd simply shook his head.

Neil's smile fell ever so slightly. "Perhaps some other time," he said.

"So Neil, we both live to read our work another day?" I joked to cheer him up. Among all the Dead Poets, only Meeks, Neil, and I had yet to read our poems.

"Yes. I'll see you both after play practice. Have fun, you two," Neil said before pedaling off. I let Todd go on ahead to the soccer field, as I stood on the path, watching the breeze toss clouds across the sky. Somehow, though I loved soccer especially when I played with friends, I wished that I was biking alongside Neil. I could just see the two of us laughing and talking about many things. I wouldn't mind sitting through his entire play practice if it would make him happy.

"Hey there doll, are you coming?" Charlie asked, walking up to me. "The game is starting,"

"Yeah. I just needed to do a bit of thinking," I said shakily. I knew that it was hard for meto look at Neil, and it wasn't because I envied him. Not anymore.