𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘴 ೃ⁀➷ 𝘴. 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴

𝑪𝑨𝑹𝑷𝑬 𝑫𝑰𝑬𝑴

"O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, the ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, the port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, while follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."

-I.W. POV-

The boys and I slowly filed into the hallway, filling in the open spaces around an old-looking table. I chose to stand next to Steven, obviously. As we wait for Mr. Keating to explain our lesson, I felt our hands brush together. A surge of energy shot through my body; not exactly the energizing type, but the kind of energy that gives you chills. That was a feeling I wouldn't get tired of any time soon. A small smile etched on my face, I looked up to Steven, only to see he already had his eyes on me. As I have learned in the past few days, I blush far too easily.

"Oh Captain, my Captain. Who knows where that comes from?" Mr. Keating looked around the room, waiting for an answer.

I, of course, knew it good and well, but didn't want to attract too much attention to myself. "Walt Whitman," I say under my breath.

"Anybody? Not a clue?" My eyes searched around the room for anyone else who knew the answer, but when nobody responded, I sighed and raised my hand. Mr. Keating's chest puffed out in excitement. "Yes, Miss. .."

"Westworth, sir. Iris Westworth. It's a poem by Walt Whitman," I say proudly. The teacher smiles down at me and nods.

"Ah, correct! Its 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.'" The class broke out into poorly hidden giggles and snorts, we all wondered if he was joking or not. Knox was in the back, giving the man a once over with a look that said 'you have to be kidding'. "Now let me dispel a few rumors, so they don't fester into facts. Yes, I, too, attended Hellton and have survived. And no, at that time, I was not the mental giant you see before you. I was the intellectual equivalent of a ninety-eight-pound weakling. I would go to the beach, and people would kick copies of Byron in my face," He declared. Gerald and I made eye contact while we tried not to burst into a cackling mess. Cameron, on the other hand, did not find this humorous in the least.

I leaned into Meek's side to gain his attention. "God, does Richard have any bone in his body that isn't low as hell?" The boy snickered at my question and shook his head.

"Not as far as I know, love." Love. That word rolled off his tongue perfectly. I often found myself thinking of how words sounded when other people said them, such as 'you' or 'tree'. One could say it's the poet in my head, constantly scratching random phrases or sentences into my memory. But the way Steven Francis Meeks said the word love set off a whole new infatuation with both the word and the boy.

Mr. Keating pulled my thoughts away from the red head next to me and back to class. "Now, Mr. Pitts? That's a rather unfortunate name. Mr. Pitts, where are you?" Gerald bashfully raised his hand. "Mr. Pitts, would you open your hymnal to page 542? Read the first line of the stanza of the poem you find there." I pulled out the rough, tweed-ish covered book. Running my hands over the robin's-egg blue material, I flipped almost directly to the desired page. The corners of the paper had yellowed with time, and the once pristine, white edges were now dirtied and flaking. I find the old, weathered things in life the most beautiful, though. They seem to hold the most knowledge and passion.