celia was ruefully forced awake the next morning by the sound of harsh rapping against her door. groaning, she ran a hand over her sleepy face and stumbled out of bed, opening the door. "what?" she let out begrudgingly.

"morning, ceil." charlie said, his face looking smug. "bright and early!" he then called over his shoulder, going to give neil's door the same treatment.

the girl rolled her eyes, closing the door to get dressed. her uniform was the same as the boys, but she'd been given a plaid skirt in replacement of their pants. though pants were significantly more comfortable, in her opinion, she didn't really mind the mediocre skirt and sweater combination. she tied her hair back with a black ribbon; her typical lame attempt to keep it out of her face throughout the day.

once again, neil walked with her to their classes. he was very interested in her life, it seemed, and would ask her questions about her favorite books and poets.

"i like emily dickinson." she'd told him on their way to english, having been unable to answer the question before, claiming it was too difficult. "she was a woman, of course, which made people underestimate her in most everything, but her poetry.. her poetry was something to be marveled."

neil didn't think he'd seen her eyes light up like that ever before, so he pressed on. "i don't think i've ever read anything by her. what did she write?"

"well," celia smiled, "she wrote one of my favorite poems of all time. 'hope is the thing with feathers'. it's a metaphor, it.. it talks about hope as a bird that rests in your soul, sings on and on, and yet never demands anything, not even in the most dire of circumstances." when she looked over at him, he seemed captivated by her, as if he was holding on to every word she was saying. "if you want, i have a collection of her poetry. i can lend it to you." she offered.

"yes." neil replied immediately. "yes, i'd love to read it."

"awesome." she smiled up at him, noticing, for the first time, the crinkles by his eyes.

a throat being cleared distracted them, making them break out of each other's gaze and look over to charlie. "ceil and neil, how are my favorite nerds?" he asked, making the two roll their eyes.

"ceil and neil?" the girl asked, raising a brow. she couldn't say she didn't like the nickname.

neil shrugged his shoulders. "it's better than most of the other things he could say." he reminded her, looking down with a smile on his face. "oh, hey, if you're giving me a book, could i give you one, too?" he asked as he followed her into the classroom.

she sat down at her desk, nodding her head up at him. "yeah, that would be really nice! a mini book club." she suggested, making him chuckle and nod.

"sounds like a deal."

keating walking into the room made neil reluctantly leave her, sitting down at his seat and unfolding his reading glasses. "gentlemen, and celia," the classroom chuckled, "open your text to page twenty-one of the introduction. mr. perry, will you read the opening paragraph of the preface, entitled 'understanding poetry'?"

charlie tapped on the back of celia's chair, making her turn over her shoulder to him. "what?" she whispered.

"you and neil making a mini book club, huh?" he asked, his lips upturned in a smirk.

celia shrugged her shoulders. "yeah, so what?"

he didn't say anything more, only smirking at her before pointing his pen to the front of the room, as if reminding her that she needed to focus on the lesson. when she turned back around, neil had already begun to read the section, leaving celia to quickly flip through the pages until she landed on page twenty-one.

"understanding poetry," neil read, "by dr. j. evans pritchard, ph.d. 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."

keating then got up from his desk, grabbing a piece of chalk to follow along with neil, who continued to read.

"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."

her father quickly jotted down a corresponding graph on the board, and the students began to dutifully copy it down into their notebooks.

"a sonnet by byron," neil continued, "may score high on the vertical, but only average on the horizontal. a shakespearean sonnet, on the other hand, would score high both horizontally and vertically, yielding a massive total area, thereby revealing the poem to be truly great. as you proceed through the poetry in this book, practice this rating method. as your ability to evaluate poems in this matter grows, so will.." he stuttered, "so will your enjoyment and understanding of poetry."

neil, finished with the page, set down the book, folding his glasses on top of its open page. celia was still wondering what on earth charlie had been talking about when her father spoke up.

"excrement." he said, making the class all look up. "that's what i think of mr. j. evans pritchard. we're not laying pipe," he explained, "we're talking about poetry."

celia chuckled under her breath as she watched cameron, across the room, cross the graph out from his book.

"i mean, how can you describe poetry like american bandstand?" her father continued. "i like byron, i give him a 42, but i can't dance to it." the students chuckled, and even charlie seemed interested. "now i want you to rip out that page."

his daughter looked up, wondering if he'd gone mad. rip out the page? from the book? the students around her seemed equally as shocked and confused, all looking amongst each other.

keating only shrugged in response, looking back at them. "go on, rip out the entire page. you heard me, rip it out. rip it out!"

charlie was the first, ripping the page out without hesitation and holding it up in the air.

"thank you mr. dalton. tell you what, don't just tear out that page, tear out the entire introduction." keating instructed. "i want it gone, history. 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."

celia looked around the room, which all seemed quite hesitant. "what the hell." she shrugged, ripping out a handful of pages from the front of her book.

"it's not the bible," keating said to the still reluctant cameron, "you're not going to go to hell for this. go on, make a clean tear, i want nothing left of it."

"we shouldn't be doing this." cameron said to neil, who sat behind him.

the other boy grinned, turning him back around in his seat. "rip, rip, rip!"

charlie leaned forward, slapping his pile of papers on top of celia's. "your dad.. he's method." he said to her, making her chuckle.

the excitement (and aggressive ripping) was brought to a halt when mcallister, the infamous latin teacher, burst into the room. "what the hell is going on here?" he asked. all of the boys looked around at each other, and celia turned to look at charlie as he stuffed a crumpled page into his mouth.

keating then emerged from his office with a waste basket, holding it up into the air. "i don't hear enough rips!" he accused, turning to see the other teacher.

"mr. keating." he said in shock.

"mr. mcallister." he responded calmly.

the other man now seemed uncomfortable as he stammered over his words. "i'm sorry, i- i didn't know you were here."

keating smiled. "i am."

"ahh, so you are. excuse me." he slowly, and awkwardly, backed out of the room.

"keep ripping gentlemen." keating encouraged, walking around the room with the waste basket. "this is a battle, a war. and the casualties could be your hearts and souls." he held the basket out to charlie, who spit out his paper wad. "thank you mr. dalton." he said, smiling as his daughter dumped both her and charlie's paper stacks into the bin.

"armies of academics going forward, measuring poetry." the teacher continued, collecting trash as he walked. "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.' i have a little secret for ya. huddle up. huddle up!"

celia got up from her seat, joining the boys in a huddle in the center of the room. from her spot next to charlie, she leaned in, taking in her father's words.

"we don't read and write poetry because it's cute." he said "we read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. and the human race is filled with passion. medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. but poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for."

he looked among the students as he continued. "to quote from whitman: o me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. what good amid these, o me, o life? answer: that you are here. that life exists, and identity. that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." he looked up. "what will your verse be?"

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

"i'm guessing we're not going to be having many tests in this class." cameron said as they walked to lunch.

charlie looked over to him in mock surprise. "aren't you just so clever, cameron!" he said sarcastically, hitting the boy on the back of the head.

"stop giving him such a hard time." celia scolded, hitting charlie's arm with her elbow. "do we know the lunch menu for today?"

"probably some other shade of awful." knox replied, groaning.

neil laughed, nodding his agreement. "don't worry, the food doesn't get any better." he told her.

"o me, o life." she replied through a groan.

while the boys all kept their quick pace, hoping for a good seat in the cafeteria, neil stopped for a moment to walk with the girl. "hey!" he greeted. "i was wondering if you maybe wanted to accompany me to the library? i wanted to get that book for you to read."

celia smiled, moving her books under her arm. "yeah, that would be fun!"

the two walked to the library, once again making conversation about mundane topics such as the best color on the rainbow (which neil argued was brown) and the best crystal (they had agreed on malachite and clear quartz). when they got to the library, they'd almost entirely forgotten where they were headed in the first place.

"here it is." neil said as he retrieved 'the waste land' by t. s. eliot. he held the book out in front of him, and she took it, examining the cover.

"t. s. eliot?" she asked, quirking a brow up at him.

he nodded, smiling down at her. "this is what got me into poetry." he explained, pointing at the book. "the free verse.. the scope.. you'll love it!" he assured her. "it's about a broken man who goes through emotional collapse." he said, clearly full of love for the work.

"so i give you a collection about a woman and you give me a depressed man?" she teased.

neil laughed, going up to the front desk to check the book out. on his way there, he paused, scanning the collection of annuals. "do you think there's a picture of your dad in one of these somewhere?" he asked, looking over at celia.

she shrugged. "probably."

it took a moment, but neil eventually found the correct year, pulling out the annual and flipping to keating's picture. "this is too good." he laughed, looking at his favorite teacher at his age. "do you know what this is?" he then asked, turning the book around so she could read it.

celia scanned through the list of extracurriculars her father had been involved in, her eyes eventually landing to where neil was pointing. "the dead poets society?" she read out, brows furrowed. "no, i've never heard him talk about it. do they mention it anywhere else?"

neil flipped through the pages, and, sure enough, the back of the book didn't mention this society as a thing at all. "whatever it is, i can't find it anywhere else." he thought for a moment. "you know, we should take this to him and ask him what it was."

the two checked out their two books before heading to lunch (at which they were given a hard time for arriving late). "hey," neil said as he sat down at the table, opening up the annual, "we found his senior annual in the library."

the other boys laughed as they took in the photo of younger keating, who didn't resemble the man they'd grown to love and respect.

"listen to this," neil continued, "captain of the soccer team, editor of the school annual, cambridge bound, thigh man, and the dead poets society."

cameron read from the page on the other side of neil. "man most likely to do anything."

charlie laughed. "thigh man. mr. k was a hell-raiser." he joked, nudging celia with his arm.

"what's the dead poets society?" knox asked.

"that's the thing," celia told him, "we can't find out."

"is there a picture in the annual?" meeks asked.

neil shook his head. "we looked. nothing. no other mention of it. we're gonna go ask him about it, you guys in?"

charlie smirked. "i wanna find out more about this whole 'thigh man' thing."

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

when the group found him, keating was walking towards the lake, whistling once again. "mr. keating? mr. keating?" neil called as he caught up to him. "sir?" he tried again. "oh captain, my captain?"

he then turned around instantly, making the boys smile. "gentlemen, and celia."

"we were just looking in your old annual." neil said, handing the book to him.

"oh my god. no, that's not me. stanley 'the tool' wilson-" he crouched down, looking through the annual.

"what was the dead poets society?" neil asked, crouching next to him.

the man shook his head, looking over at him. "i doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that."

neil seemed only more interested now. "why? what was it?"

keating looked to the group. "tell me, can you keep a secret?"

"sure." they all crouched around him.

"the dead poets," keating explained, "were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. that's a phrase from thoreau that we'd invoke at the beginning of each meeting. you see we'd gather at the old indian cave and take turns reading from thoreau, whitman, shelley; the biggies. even some of our own verse. and in the enchantment of the moment we'd let poetry work its magic."

knox didn't seem convinced. "you mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?"

he shook his head. "no mr. overstreet, it wasn't just 'guys', we weren't a greek organization, we were romantics. we didn't just read poetry, we let it drip from our tongues like honey. spirits soared, women swooned, and gods were created, gentlemen, not a bad way to spend an evening eh?" he quickly changed the subject. "thank you, mr. perry, for this trip down amnesia lane. burn that, especially my picture." with that, he stood and whistled away.

neil remained crouched on the ground, looking at the annual in his hands. "dead poets society." he mumbled. the sound of the school bells ringing made the group all stand up, beginning to head back to the school. "i say we go tonight." neil suggested, making everyone stop walking.

"tonight?" charlie asked.

pitts looked over to the group. "where's this cave he's talking about?"

"it's beyond the stream." neil said. "i know where it is."

"that's miles." pitts complained.

"sounds boring to me." cameron added.

"then you don't have to go." celia replied, earning a chuckle from charlie.

"you know how many demerits we're talking?" he continued.

charlie laughed again. "so don't come, please."

cameron didn't respond to anyone in particular as he went on. "look, all i'm saying is that we have to be careful, we can't get caught."

"no shit, sherlock." charlie replied.

hager had now noticed the group lagging behind, and started yelling at them when neil turned. "all right, who's in?"

cameron groaned. "come on neil, hager's right-"

"forget hager, no." neil shook his head. "who's in?"

"i'm in." charlie said.

celia nodded. "yeah, me too." she didn't miss neil's small smile over at her.

"me too." cameron agreed.

pitts, however, grimaced. "i don't know, neil..."

"what? pitts-"

charlie turned to him. "pitsie, come on."

meeks looked over at him. "his grades are hurting, charlie."

"you can help him, meeks." neil suggested.

"what is this, a midnight study group?"

neil only shook his head. "forget it pitts, you're coming. meeks, are your grades hurting, too?" he asked somewhat sassily.

the red head shrugged his shoulders. "i'll try anything once."

"except sex." charlie teased.

"ha ha ha."

"what about you, knox?" charlie asked when it was just the two boys and celia still standing outside.

the boy frowned. "i don't know, charlie."

"come on, knox," charlie begged, "it'll help you get chris."

he now seemed interested as he looked up. "yeah? how?"

"women swoon." celia said.

charlie nearly fell over laughing as he ran into the building, the girl following as knox trailed behind. "but why do they swoon? guys, tell me why they swoon. charlie!"