Disclaimer: I do not own any Dead Poets Society characters or any of the plot. They are all the wonderful work of Tom Schulman.
Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, please review! Also, I;m trying not to make it exactly like the movie, so if some scenes are different, I meant it to be that way.
Chapter two: A Change in Position
As I taught Junior English the next day, I saw some exhausted-looking boys. Neil, Knox, Meeks, Pitts, Charlie, Cameron, Todd. I smiled and flung questions at them.
"A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don't use very sad, use…Come on Mr. Overstreet, you twerp."
"Morose?"
"Exactly! Now, language was developed for one endeavor, and that is…Mr. Anderson?...Come on, are you a man or an amoeba?" Todd was painfully shy. I didn't know at the time what poetic spirit lay inside of him, but I did know that this was one lost, hurt, and unhappy boy. I let this one go. "Mr. Perry?" I saw Neil jump out of his sleep-filled reverie.
"Uh…to… communicate?"
"No! To woo women. Now, today we're going to be talking about Shakespeare." I heard their groans and sighs and remembered how I had felt at being taught dreary sonnets and how to write in iambic pentameter.
"Today we will learn about the great master: William Shakespeare." Our class groaned internally as Harris assigned someone to hand out copies of Hamlet. "He was an amazing linguist, able to use rhyme and meter to give a comic yet somewhat realistic look at that time period. Please note, you will be required to present a soliloquy from Shakespeare at the end of the month. One mark off per error or hesitation." This time it was my turn to come back to reality.
"I know, a lot of you look forward to this about as much as you look forward to root canal work. But we're going to talk about Shakespeare as someone who writes something very interesting. Forget rhyme scheme and metaphors for a moment. What does he write about? This is what we're here to consider."
A week later, after thoroughly discussing Shakespeare's themes and reasons, we had indeed come to looking at his dreaded writing style. The moment I walked in the room, I could see the boys' attention lost even before I had had a chance to capture it. So I walked to the front, put my Shakespeare on my desk, refilled the chalk on the blackboard, and turned around. I walked calmly onto my chair and on top of my desk.
"Why do I stand here?" That woke the boys up. "Anybody?"
"To feel taller." Suggested Charlie Dalton.
"No, thank you for playing anyway. I stand on my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way." I turned around slowly, saw my pictures of Walt Whitman and Einstein and all my students. They looked smaller. Small and unimportant, like they must feel. Like I felt at seventeen. "You see, the world looks very different from up here." There was a small titter. "You don't believe me? Come see for yourselves, come on!" Dalton was the first one up and soon all the boys were making their way to stand on my desk. "Just when you think you know something, you have to look at it in a different way, even if it may seem silly, or wrong. You must strive to find your own voice because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation." Don't be resigned to that! Break out!" The bell rang and I gathered my things. "Now, in addition to you essays, I would like you to compose a poem of your own, an original work. To be delivered out loud, in front of the class, on Monday." I heard the groans and told myself not to expect much. I looked back and saw Todd Anderson. He's going to have a hell of a bad time with this, I thought. "Mr. Anderson, don't think I don't know that this assignment scares the hell out of you, you mole." He nearly fell off the desk.
That Saturday evening, I was on my way back from dinner when Ian McAlistair caught up with me. "John!"
"Ian, hello! How are you?"
"Fine, fine. But Carl Hager broke his leg!"
"What? How did that happen?"
"He was going down the stairs and he tripped. In any case, they sent me to send you to the Infirmary."
"Me?" Ian laughed, waving, and walked off in the direction of the Teacher's Quarters. I changed my course and headed for the Infirmary.
I made it to the building just as Hager was leaving. "Dr. Hager! Are you alright?"
"Just a scratch, John." Why did men always feel the need to be heroic, I wondered. "Would you mind taking over the Junior dorm while I'm in the hospital?"
"Of course…Can I do anything else for you?"
"No. Just don't be too easy on them."
"Demerits for everyone, you know me." Dr. Hager smiled at that, and I watched as the paramedics wheeled him out.
I went to my room and packed a few necessities, and proceeded to the Juniors floor.
The boys were supposed to be doing homework quietly in their rooms, but who was I to reinforce this rule on a Saturday night? I had certainly never done homework on Saturday nights.
I went into Pitts' and Meek's room and found them working on their illegal radio. When they saw me, they shoved it under Pitts' bed. "'Mr. Keating," they both greeted.
" Good evening, gentlemen. How is radio-free America?"
"Uh…well…we, um…" they stammered.
"I would try the roof if I happened to posses a radio, personally." They stared at me, unsure of whether to laugh or be dreading a punishment. I whistled inconspicuouslyand I walked out of their room and into Dalton's and Cameron's.
"Congratulations, Mr. Cameron, I suspect you are the only one on this floor actually doing homework." Both Cameron and Charlie looked up. Cameron frowned and Charlie smirked.
"I assume you're all done, Mr. Dalton?"
"I will be on Monday, Captain."
"Good." I began to walk out. "But I expect your English work to be your own." I could hear Charlie laughing. I remembered frantic Sunday nights where I would have to plead with Sam to let me copy his homework. By ten o'clock he wouldrelent but I would have to stay up half the night copying the entirety. There were never Dead Poets Society meetings on Sunday nights, as many other members were doing the same thing.
I entered Todd and Neil's room. Only Todd was present, writing what I believed was my poetry assignment. "Hello, Mr. Anderson." He looked up, frightened.
"Sir…h-hi." I glanced at the picture on his desk.
"Are those your parents?"
"Yeah…yes, sir…and my brother…"
"Oh, well, where are you?"
"I'm…well…I was…uhm..."
"It's alright, never mind...Where's Neil tonight?"
"…He's…uh…uhm…in…the bathroom?"
"Ahhh. Well, carry on then." I released Todd and continued visiting the other dorms. Just as I reached the last room, I saw Neil rushing down the hall.
"Mr. Perry." He froze.
"Captain! Uhm…Hello…I was just…" He reminded me of Todd and I chuckled inwardly.
"Doing some laps?"
"Uh... yes. I wanted to be prepared for our rowing tournament tomorrow."
"Very admirable. Stay fit, Neil." I winked and walked on. Neil sighed in relief and went into his room.
The weekend wore on and by Monday Dr. Hager was back in his room, albeit on crutches. I went back to my quarters, leaving Hager alone with the restless group of philosophers. I sat down on my lumpybed and morosely thought of my old roommate and the other original members of the Dead Poets Society, tears welling up in my eyes.Men don't cry, my father's refrain rang through my mind. I made tea with my illegal kettle and spent the night looking through my senior yearbook, reminding myself that my father was not, as I had thought when I was young, always right.