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: Sorry this took so long. And many thanks to a great friend who edits for me.
Chapter Five: Live Your Dreams
That week I received a letter from Will. My friends and I had kept correspondence during college, but as we all had careers and families letters became few and far between. Will had somewhat mended his old ways, pulling his grades up in time for college applications and becoming a well-known accountant. I remembered him when he kept a trumpet under his bed and would break into the gymnasium just to hear the reverberating tones.
Dear John,
How is it back there at Helton?I heard McAllister is still there, I hope you're still giving him a hard time. Do you remember that time Tom and Max spilt coffee all over the common-room floor so we could go in and steal his essays? We kept bothering him for weeks as to when he was going to hand them back!I miss the good old days!
I can't believe you ended up a teacher, with all that talk about acting. I remember when you convinced our English class to put on Hamlet so you could play the lead part. But then, did any of us do what we said we were going to do? I'm an accountant, and I wanted to play at Carnegie Hall. You're a teacher. Tom's in the army. Max does something at a bank. Sam is a historian (although we all knew that was going to happen!) So much for carpe diem.
The letter went on, filled with news of his wife and their baby girl. But I kept reading the beginning: "so much for carpe diem"…I'd forgotten Hamlet. I'd rallied weeks for it to be put on, saying it was a completely educational exercise and it would help us learn. I had brought in the play and left it on our English teacher's desk until he had finally given in. I'd forgotten how determined I was back then, how determined we all were, to achieve our dreams.
Neil came to me that evening, knocking on my door and looking sad and solemn.
"What's up?" I asked him, trying to be colloquial.
"Can I speak to you for a minute?" he asked, nervous and fidgety.
"Certainly. Sit down," I invited. He saw that there were books on the chair and was slightly embarrassed, murmuring "Here, I'm sorry," as I took them from him. Something was wrong; Neil was always cheerful or at least conversational.
I offered him some tea, praying Dr. Nolan wouldn't come in. He accepted and looked around my room. It was the same as it had been twenty years ago, slightly messy with the hint of unidentifiable objects under the bed. "Gosh, they don't give you much room around here," he remarked.
No kidding, I wanted to reply but stuck to a slightly less critical response. "No, it's part of the monastic oath. They don't want worldly things distracting me from my teaching."
We took our seats once again and I saw Neil glance at my picture of Jessica, "She's pretty," he mentioned. I agreed, knowing Neil was avoiding something much bigger than my love life and taking pity on him for it.
"How can you stand it?" He suddenly burst out.
"Stand what?"
"You can go anywhere, you can do anything. How can you stand being here?" I considered this. The world wasn't actually as full of possibility as one thinks as sixteen, but I'd be damned if I told him.
"Because I love teaching. I don't want to be anywhere else." He looked at me as if this could not possibly be true, and I slurped my tea to avoid his pure gaze. "What's up?" I finally asked.
"I just talked to my father. He's making me quit the play at Henley hall. Acting's everything to me. I – but he doesn't know. He – I can see his point, we're not a rich family like Charlie's and we…But he planning the rest of my life for me, and I – He-He's never asked me what I want!" Seeing Neil stutter like this was almost as alarming as what he was saying; Neil was the best reader in the class. I understood his burden and could see only one possible way out.
"Have you ever told your father what you just told me? About your passion for acting? You ever show him that?"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I can't talk to him this way." If Dr. Nolan knew that a student can tell me, a teacher, what he can't tell his own father, there would be trouble. But I had met Neil's father, on Parent's Day. I couldn't imagine telling him anything, either, but I also saw no other way out for Neil. I told him what was on my mind.
"Then you're acting for him, too. You're playing the part of the dutiful son. I know this sounds impossible, but you have to talk to him. You have to show him who you are, what your heart is."
"I know what he'll say. He'll tell me that acting's a whim, and I should forget it. That they're counting on me. He'll just tell me to put it out of my mind, 'for my own good.'"
"You're not an indentured servant. If it's not a whim for you, you prove it to him by your conviction and your passion. You show him that, and if he still doesn't believe you, well…by then you'll be out of school and you can do anything you want." Neil started crying, silently but full of despair. I longed to tell him to just forget his father because I knew how unmanly it was to cry at Welton. But I could do nothing.
"No," he wept. "What about the play. The show's tomorrow night."
"Well, you have to talk to him before tomorrow night."
"Isn't there an easier way." You have no idea how much I wish there was an easier way, I thought. But I had to tell the truth.
"No," I whispered softly.
"I'm trapped," Neil said, trying to joke.
"No, you're not." Neil glared at me and I wished I could take it back. But in the same instant I wished more than Neil would talk to his father and confront his fears.
The next day I asked Neil if he had told his father. He said that he had and that he thought his father would let him stay with acting. I was elated and he looked happy. He was still stuttering, but I chalked it up to nerves for his first Opening Night. I had arranged an "educational field trip" for Neil's friends and we were all going to see him in the play. I was ecstatic. Someone at Welton, for once, was living out their dreams.