“Sure,” Meeks said. They walked past crowds waiting eagerly for the mailboxes to be filled. A group of boys played lacrosse on the green, and in the distance, Mr. Nolan called out orders to the Welton crew team practicing at the lake.
Knox dropped his books into the basket of his bicycle and cruised around the campus. He approached the Welton gates, checked over his shoulder to make sure he had not been seen, and pedaled furiously out the gates, over the country-side, and into Welton village.
Breathing deeply, he looked around for signs of anyone from Welton Academy as he pedaled over to Ridgeway High School. He stopped at a fence, watching as students boarded three parked buses. Uniformed members of the marching band, practicing their drum rolls and scales, hopped on the first bus. Well-padded football players pushed and shoved their way onto the second bus. Boarding the third bus was a bunch of giggling and singing cheerleaders, including Chris Noel.
Knox stood at the fence watching her. He saw her rush up to Chet, who was carrying his football gear, and kiss him on the lips. Chet pulled her to him, and she giggled, then ran and climbed into the cheerleaders’ bus.
Knox got on his bike and slowly pedaled back to Welton. Ever since the dinner at the Danburrys’, he’d fantasized about seeing Chris Noel again. But not like this—not in a passionate embrace with Chet Danburry. Knox wondered, could he really come up with the words to make Chris swoon over him?
Later that afternoon, Todd sat on his bed, one elbow leaning on a pad of paper. He started to write something, scratched it out, ripped off the page, and threw it in the trash. He covered his face in frustration just as Neil came flying through the door.
Neil dropped his books on his desk, his face flushed with excitement. “I’ve found it!” he cried.
“Found what?” Todd asked.
“What I want to do! Right now. What’s really inside of me.” He handed Todd a piece of paper.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Todd read. “What is it?”
“A play, dummy.”
“I know that,” Todd visibly winced. “What’s it got to do with you?”
“They’re putting it on at Henley Hall. See: ‘Open Tryouts.’”
“So?” Todd said.
“So I’m gonna act!” Neil shouted, jumping onto his bed. “Ever since I can remember I’ve wanted to try it. Last summer I even tried to go to summer stock auditions, but of course my father wouldn’t let me.”
“And now he will?” Todd asked, raising his eyebrow.
“Hell, no, but that’s not the point. The point is that for the first time in my whole life I know what I want, and for the first time I’m gonna do it whether my father wants me to or not! Carpe diem, Todd!”
Neil picked up the play and read a couple of lines. He beamed, clenching his fist in the air with joy.
“Neil, how are you gonna be in a play if your father won’t let you?” Todd pressed.
“First I gotta get the part; then I’ll worry about that.”
“Won’t he kill you if you don’t let him know you’re auditioning?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Neil said, “he won’t have to know about any of it.”
“Come on, you know that’s impossible,” Todd said.
“Bull! Nothing’s impossible,” Neil said with a grin.
“Why don’t you ask him first? Maybe he’ll say yes,” Todd suggested.
“That’s a laugh,” Neil snickered. “If I don’t ask, at least I won’t be disobeying him.”
“But if he said no before, then …” Todd began.
“Whose side are you on, anyway? I haven’t even gotten the part yet. Can’t I even enjoy the idea for a little while?”
“Sorry,” Todd said, turning back to his work. Neil sat on his bed and started to read the play.
“By the way, there’s a meeting this afternoon,” Neil said. “You coming?”
“I guess,” Todd said as he grimaced.
Neil put down the play and looked over at his roommate. “None of what Mr. Keating has to say means anything to you, does it?” he asked, incredulous.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Todd was defensive.
“Being in the club means being stirred up by things. You look about as stirred up as a cesspool.”
“You want me out? Is that what you’re saying?” Todd said angrily.
“No,” Neil said softly. “I want you in. But it means you gotta do something. Not just say you’re in.”
Todd turned angrily. “Listen, Neil, I appreciate your interest in me but I’m not like you,” he insisted. “When you say things, people pay attention. People follow you. I’m not like that!”
“Why not? Don’t you think you could be?” Neil pressed.
“No!” Todd shouted. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ll probably never know. The point is, there’s nothing you can do about it, so butt out, all right? I can take care of myself just fine, all right?”
“Er, no …” Neil said.
“No?” Todd looked astonished. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
Neil shrugged matter-of-factly and repeated, “No. I’m not going to butt out.”
Neil opened his play and began to read again. Todd just sat and stared at him. “Okay,” Todd said, defeated. “I’ll go.”
“Good.” Neil smiled and continued reading the play.
CHAPTER 8
The Dead Poets Society met in the cave before soccer practice that afternoon. Charlie, Knox, Meeks, Neil, Cameron, and Pitts walked around the in-ground clubhouse, exploring its nooks and crannies and carving their names in the walls. Todd walked in late, but once they were all assembled, Neil stood and started the meeting.
“‘I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.’”
“God,” Knox wailed, “I want to suck all the marrow out of Chris! I’m so in love, I feel like I’m going to die!”
“You know what the dead poets would say,” Cameron laughed, “‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may …’”
“But she’s in love with the moron son of my father’s best friend! What would the dead poets say about that?” Knox walked away from the group in despair.
Neil stood up and headed out. “I gotta get to the tryouts,” he announced nervously. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” Meeks, Pitts, and Cameron said in chorus. Todd was silent as he watched Neil go.
“I feel like I’ve never been alive,” Charlie said sadly, as he watched Neil go. “For years, I’ve been risking nothing. I have no idea what I am or what I want to do. Neil knows he wants to act. Knox knows he wants Chris.”
“Needs Chris? Must have Chris!” Knox groaned.
“Meeks,” Charlie said. “You’re the brain here. What do the dead poets say about somebody like me?”
“The romantics were passionate experimenters, Charles. They dabbled in many things before settling, if ever,” Meeks said.
Cameron made a face. “There aren’t too many places to be an experimenter at Welton, Meeks.”
Charlie paced as the boys considered Cameron’s observation. He stopped and his face lit up. “I hereby declare this the Charles Dalton Cave for Passionate Experimentation.” He smiled. “In the future, anyone wishing entry must have permission from me.”
“Wait a minute, Charlie,” Pitts objected. “This should belong to the club.”
“It should, but I found it, and now I claim it. Carpe cavern, boys. Seize the cave,” Charlie countered with a grin.
“Good thing there’s only one of you around here, Charles,” Meeks said philosophically, while the others looked at each other and shook their heads. The boys had seized the cave, and in it they’d found a home away from Welton, away from parents, teachers, and friends—a place where they could be people they never dreamed they’d be. The Dead Poets Society was alive and thriving and ready to seize the day.
The boys left the cave reluctantly and got back to campus just in time for practice. �
��Say, look who’s the soccer instructor,” Pitts said, as they spotted Mr. Keating approaching the field. He was carrying some soccer balls under one arm and a case under the other.
“Okay, boys, who has the roll?” Keating asked.
“I do, sir,” a senior student said, handing Keating the class list.
Keating took the three-page roll and examined it. “Answer with, ‘Present,’ please,” he said. “Chapman?”
“Present.”
“Perry?” No one answered. “Neil Perry?”
“He had a dental appointment, sir,” Charlie said.
“Ummhmm. Watson?” Keating called. No one answered. “Richard Watson absent too, eh?”
“Watson’s sick, sir,” someone called out.
“Hmm. Sick indeed. I suppose I should give Watson demerits. But if I give Watson demerits, I will also have to give Perry demerits … and I like Perry.” He crumpled the class roll and tossed it away. The boys looked on, astonished. “Boys, you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to. Anyone who wants to play, follow me.”
Keating marched off with the balls and the case in hand. Amazed by his capriciousness, most of the boys followed, talking excitedly among themselves.
“Sit down now, boys,” Keating instructed when they reached the middle of the field. “Devotees may argue that one game or sport is inherently better than another,” he said, pacing. “For me, the most important thing in all sport is the way other human beings can push us to excel. Plato, a gifted man like myself, once said, ‘Only the contest made me a poet, a sophist, an orator.’ Each person take a slip of paper and line up, single file.”
Keating passed out slips of paper to the curious students. Then ran up the field, placing a ball ten feet in front of the boy at the head of the long line. Todd Anderson stood listlessly at the rear as Keating shouted out a series of commands.
“You know what to do … now go!” he called, just as George McAllister walked past the soccer field. McAllister stopped, fascinated, as the first boy stepped out and read loudly from his slip of paper: “‘Oh to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!’” He ran and kicked the ball toward the goal, missing.
“It’s all right, Johnson, it’s the effort that counts,” Keating said, as he put down another ball. He opened up his case and took out a portable record player. As the second boy, Knox, stood waiting his turn, Keating put on a record of classical music, blaring it loudly. “Rhythm, boys!” Keating shouted over the strains of the music. “Rhythm is important.”
Knox read loudly: “‘To be entirely alone with them, to find out how much one can stand!’” Knox ran and kicked the ball, yelling “Chet!” loudly, just before he smashed it with his foot.
Meeks was now at the head of the line. “‘To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium face to face!’” he shouted, running and kicking the ball, squarely and with great intent.
Charlie stepped out next. “‘To indeed be a god!’” Charlie shouted, kicking the ball through the goalpost with strength and determination.
McAllister shook his head, smiled, and walked away.
The line of players read and kicked until it got dark. “We’ll continue next time, boys,” Keating said. “Good effort.”
Todd Anderson sighed with relief and started jogging back to the dorm. “Don’t worry, Mr. Anderson,” Keating called after him. “You’ll get a turn, too.” He felt himself blush, and when he reached the dorm, he slammed the door behind him, then ran into his room and hurled himself on the bed.
“Damn,” he cried. He sat up, facing the half-composed poem scribbled on the pad that still lay on his bed. He picked up a pencil, added a line, then broke the pencil in anger. He paced around the room, sighed, picked up another pencil and tried to grind out the words.
“I got it!” Todd heard Neil yelling in the hallway. “Hey, everybody, I got the part! I’m going to play Puck.” He opened the door to the room and saw Todd sitting there. “Hey, I’m Puck!”
“Puck you! Pipe down,” yelled a voice from down the hall.
Charlie and several other boys came wandering into the room. “All right, Neil! Congratulations!” they cheered.
“Thanks, guys. Now go back to your business. I’ve got work to do.” The boys left, and Neil pulled out an old typewriter from under his bed.
“Neil, how are you gonna do this?” Todd asked.
“Ssshh! That’s what I’m taking care of now,” Neil explained. “They need a letter of permission.”
“From you?” Todd asked.
“From my father and Nolan.”
“Neil, you’re not gonna …” Todd started.
“Quiet, I have to think,” Neil said. He mumbled lines from the play and giggled to himself as he typed. Todd shook his head in disbelief and tried to concentrate on his poem.
In Mr. Keating’s class the following day, Knox Overstreet was the first to read his original poem.
“I see a sweetness in her smile
Bright light shines from her eyes
But life is complete; contentment mine
Just knowing that she—”
Knox stopped. He lowered his paper. “I’m sorry, Mr. Keating. It’s stupid.” Knox walked back to his seat.
“It’s fine, Knox, a good effort,” Keating said. “What Knox has done,” Keating said as he faced the class, “demonstrates an important point, not only in writing poetry, but in every endeavor. That is, deal with the important things in life—love, beauty, truth, justice.”
He paced in front of the class. “And don’t limit poetry to the word. Poetry can be found in music, a photograph, in the way a meal is prepared—anything with the stuff of revelation in it. It can exist in the most everyday things but it must never, never be ordinary. By all means, write about the sky or a girl’s smile, but when you do, let your poetry conjure up salvation day, doomsday, any day. I don’t care, as long as it enlightens us, thrills us and—if it’s inspired—makes us feel a bit immortal.”
“O Captain! My Captain,” Charlie asked, “is there poetry in math?” Several boys in the class chuckled.
“Absolutely, Mr. Dalton, there is … elegance in mathematics. If everyone wrote poetry, the planet would starve, for God’s sake. But there must be poetry and we must stop to notice it in even the simplest acts of living or we will have wasted much of what life has to offer. Now, who wants to recite next? Come on, I’ll get to everyone eventually.”
Keating looked around, but no one volunteered. He walked toward Todd and grinned. “Look at Mr. Anderson. In such agony. Step up, lad, and let’s put you out of your misery.”
The students all eyed Todd. He stood nervously and walked slowly to the front of the class, his face the mask of a condemned man on his way to execution.
“Todd, have you prepared your poem?” Mr. Keating asked.
Todd shook his head.
“Mr. Anderson believes that everything he has inside of him is worthless and embarrassing. Correct, Todd? Isn’t that your fear?”
Todd nodded jerkily.
“Then today we will see that what is inside of you is worth a great deal.” Keating took long strides to the blackboard and rapidly wrote, “‘I SOUND MY BARBARIC YAWP OVER THE ROOFS OF THE WORLD.’ Walt Whitman.”
He turned to the class. “A yawp, for those of you who don’t know, is a loud cry or yell. Todd, I would like you to give us a demonstration of a barbaric yawp.”
“A yawp?” Todd repeated, barely audible.
“A barbaric yawp.”
Keating paused, then suddenly lunged fiercely toward Todd. “Good God, boy, yell!” he shouted.
“Yawp!” Todd said in a frightened voice.
“Again! Louder!” Keating shouted.
“YAWP!”
“LOUDER!”
“AAAHHHHHHH!”
“All right! Very good, Anderson. There’s a barbarian in there after all.” Keating clapped, and the class joined in. Red-faced, Todd relaxed a bit.
“Todd, there�
��s a picture of Whitman over the door. What does he remind you of? Quickly, Anderson, don’t think about it.”
“A madman,” Todd said.
“A madman. What kind of madman? Don’t think! Answer!”
“A … crazy madman!”
“Use your imagination,” Keating urged. “First thing that pops to your mind, even if it’s gibberish.”
“A … a sweaty-toothed madman.”
“Now there’s the poet speaking,” Keating cheered. “Close your eyes. Describe what you see. NOW!” he shouted.
“I … I close my eyes. His image flicks beside me,” Todd said, then hesitated.
“A sweaty-toothed madman,” Keating prompted.
“A sweaty-toothed madman …”
“Come on!” Keating cried.
“With a stare that pounds my brain,” Todd said.
“Excellent! Have him act. Give it rhythm!”
“His hands reach out and choke me …”
“Yes …” Keating urged.
“All the time he mumbles slowly …”
“Mumbles what?”
“Truth …” Todd shouted. “Truth is like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold!”
A few boys in the class chuckled, and Todd’s tortured face grew angry. “To hell with them!” Keating coaxed. “More about the blanket.”
Todd opened his eyes and addressed the class in a defiant cadence. “Stretch it, pull it, it will never cover any of us.”
“Go on!” Keating said.
“Kick at it, beat at it, it will never be enough …”
“Don’t stop!” Keating cried.
“From the moment we enter crying,” Todd shouted, struggling, but forcing the words out, “to the moment we leave dying, it will cover just your head as you wail and cry and scream!”
Todd stood still for a long time. Keating walked to his side. “There is magic, Mr. Anderson. Don’t you forget this.”
Neil started applauding. Others joined in. Todd took a deep breath and for the first time he smiled with an air of confidence.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, sitting down.
After class, Neil shook Todd’s hand. “I knew you could do it,” he smiled. “Great job. See you at the cave this afternoon.”
Dead Poets Society Page 5
