𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐄 𝐃𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐑𝐄, c.d.

𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

CHAPTER FIVE | NOT ENOUGH RIPS
Mr. Keating quietly sat at his desk at the front of the classroom before opening up one of his books.

"Gentlemen, Ms. Overstreet, open your text to page twenty-one of the introduction. Mr. Perry, will you read the opening paragraph of the preface, entitled "Understanding Poetry"?" Neil nodded, adjusting his glasses before clearing his throat, beginning to read through the page.

"To fully understand poetry, we must first be fluent with its meter, rhyme, and figures of speech. Then ask two questions: One, how artfully has the objective of the poem been rendered, and two, how important is that objective. Question one rates the poem's
perfection, question two rates its importance. And once these questions have been answered, determining a poem's greatest becomes a relatively simple matter." Mr. Keating slowly got up from his desk, walking up to draw on the chalk board. "If the poem's score for perfection is plotted along the horizontal of a graph, and its importance is plotted on the vertical, then calculating the total area of the poem yields the measure of its greatness." Mr. Keating drew a corresponding graph on the board while some of the students copied it down. Cove and Charlie sat in the back with her brother, passing notes and laughing as Neil finished. The tall boy softly sat the book down before taking off his glasses.

"Excrement. That's what I think of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. We're not laying pipe, we're talking about poetry." Cove watched as Cameron looked down at the graph he copied into his notes before quickly scribbling it out. "I mean, how can you describe poetry like American Bandstand? I like Byron, I give him a 42, but I can't dance to it." Charlie and Cove looked at each other suddenly before turning to their teacher. "Now I want you to rip out that page." The Overstreet girl looked down at her book before pulling the page out, the sound of her page tearing echoing throughout the class. "Thank you, Ms. Overstreet." Charlie grinned as Mr. Keating looked around at the room full of his students.

"Go on, rip out the entire page. You heard me, rip it out. Rip it out!" Charlie quickly looked around at the others and then down towards his book. "Go on, rip it out." The Dalton boy smiled as he quickly ripped out the paper, making their teacher grin. "Thank you Mr. Dalton. Gentlemen and Ms. Overstreet, tell you what, don't just tear out that page, tear out the entire introduction. I want it gone, history." Cove and Charlie were very quick to tear out the rest of the introduction, the other students hesitating. "Leave nothing of it. Rip it out. Rip! Begone J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D. Rip, shred, tear. Rip it out. I want to hear nothing but ripping of Mr. Pritchard." Cove watched as Meeks looked around reluctantly before finally beginning to tear out pages. "We'll perforate it, put it on a roll." Cove noticed Cameron sitting in his seat, looking at his book, debating on whether he should actually rip out the introduction or not.

"Rip it out, Cameron. It's not a bible or anything."

"Ms. Overstreet is right, Mr. Cameron, you're not going to go to hell for this. Go on, make a clean tear, I want nothing left of it." While Mr. Keating walked over to his small office, Cameron suddenly turned around to talk to Neil.

"We shouldn't be doing this."

"Rip, rip, rip!"

"Rip it out, Cameron. Don't be an idiot. He told you to, so listen to him. You're not going to disobey our teacher, are you?" Cameron rolled his eyes at the girl, scoffing as he turned back around to face the front of the room. From outside the classroom, Mr. McAllister suddenly heard all the noise coming from the class. He quickly walked up to the door, looking inside to see the students deconstructing the book page by page. The man was quick to burst into the room, making everyone freeze.

"What the hell is going on here?" The boys and Cove turn around in shock as Charlie stuffed a crumpled page into his mouth, Cove doing the same but shoving it into her bra. Mr. Keating emerged from his room with a waste paper basket, telling the class he wasn't hearing enough rips.

"Mr. Keating." The man grinned as he stood in front of his desk, the basket in hand. "I'm sorry, I- I didn't know you were here." Cove and Charlie turn to each other, the two of them trying to stifle a laugh with their hands.

"I am."

"Ahh, so you are. Excuse me." The older man softly nodded as he backed out of the classroom, some of the boys letting out sighs of relief.

"Keep ripping gentlemen. This is a battle, a war. And the casualties could be your hearts and souls." Mr. Keating walked up and down the isles of desks, making his way towards the back. When he got to Cove and Charlie, he held out the basket to the Dalton boy, who spit out the wad of paper he had been holding. "Thank you Mr. Dalton." The older man grinned as he turned to Cove, who had already removed the paper from her bra before tossing it in the basket. "Armies of academics going forward, measuring poetry. No, we will not have that here. No more of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. Now in my class you will learn to think for yourselves again. You will learn to savor words and language. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world. I see that look in Mr. Pitt's eye, like nineteenth century literature has nothing to do with going to business school or medical school. Right? Maybe. Mr. Hopkins, you may agree with him, thinking "Yes, we should simply study our Mr. Pritchard and learn our rhyme and meter and go quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions."