Found || Dead Poets Society

two

There Amanda sat, in her father's own room; John Keating was peering out the door at the chatter of the students in his classroom. His plan was a decent one, she thought. The students had not settled yet. To do so, her father stepped out of his quarters and into the hallway whistling Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. As expected, it shut all of them up. He peered his head back in. "Well, come on," he said encouragingly.

One by one, all the students got up with their things, a confused chatter developing among them. Amanda trailed behind the last student out, the one and only Charlie Dalton. "Are you trying to make it seem convenient that we constantly run into each other, Mr. Dalton?"

The boy smirked as he usually did. "We may never know."

Once everyone formed a crowd around him did her father begin. "O Captain! My Captain! Who knows where that comes from? Anybody?" The only response was a sickly looking student at the front blowing his nose loudly. The other boys called him Spaz, Amanda recalled. Unusual. "Not a clue? It's from a poem by Walt Whitman, about Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Now, in this class, you can either call me Mr. Keating or, if you're slightly more daring, O Captain! My Captain!" A ripple of chuckles echoed through the hall, some from Amanda. "At the same time, you can call our lovely Ms. Keating," all eyes turned to her with this, "Ms. Brontë, as she constantly aspires to be one hell of an author as those sisters were." More chuckles came, though not in humor, but in encouragement. "Now, let me dispel a few rumors, so they don't fester into facts. Yes, I, too, attended Hel-ton, and survived, and no, at that time I was not the giant you see before you. I was the intellectual equivalent of a 98-pound weakling. I would go to the beach, and people would kick copies of Byron, in my face."

The laughter came in layers; a wave of silence, then slowly filling the group. It was as if each boy was hesitant to laugh at their teacher. Mr. Keating looked at his roster. "Mr... Pitts? That's a rather unfortunate name. Mr. Pitts, where are you?" A tall boy at the front raised his hand rather awkwardly. From her spot at the back Amanda could see that Mr. Pitts could tower above her. Charlie Dalton chuckled at her side. Must be a friend. "Mr. Pitts, can you open your hymnal to page five forty-two? Read the first stanza of the poem you find there." He did so, the other students flipping to that page. "To The Virgins, To Make Much of Time?" Some playful laughter broke out from among the students. Some even daring enough to look at her at the title's mention. She shot right back. "Can I help you?" she said in a mockingly stern tone. Carpe diem, she thought, even if it meant striking some fear into the hearts of others. The reaction was one she intended on; several of them blushed and dipped their heads to their books. Next to her, Charlie Dalton smirked.

"Yes, that's the one. Somewhat appropriate, isn't it?"

Gerard Pitts' voice was mundane in the verbally artistic ears of Amanda.

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying."

If there was disappointment in Keating's voice he didn't show it. "Thank you, Mr. Pitts. 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.' The Latin term for that sentiment is 'carpe diem.' Now who knows what that means?" A hand shot up immediately, from a boy at the front with ginger curls and thick glasses. Mr. Keating pointed at him. "Carpe diem," he replied, "That's 'seize the day.'"

"Very good, Mr...."

"Meeks."

"Meeks! Another unusual name." The boy himself smiled politely.