Dead Poets Society by N.H. Kleinbaum Page B

books, some pretty tattered looking, lay on the bed. Charlie walked to the desk and picked up a framed picture of a beautiful girl who looked to be in her twenties. “Whoa, look at her!” he whistled. Lying next to the picture was a half-written letter. Charlie picked up the paper and read: “‘My darling Jessica: It’s so lonely at times without you … bla bla bla. All I can do to put myself at ease is study your beautiful picture or close my eyes and imagine your radiant smile—but my poor imagination is a dim substitute for you. Oh, how I miss you and wish—’”
    Charlie kept reading as the other boys heard the door creak open. They backed away from Charlie, who suddenly stopped reading when he saw Keating standing in the doorway.
    “Hello! Mr. Keating! Good to see you!” Charlie cried.
    Keating walked over to him and calmly took the letter, folded it, and put it in his pocket. “A woman is a cathedral, boys. Worship one at every chance you get,” Keating said. He walked to his bureau, opened a drawer and put the letter in. “Anything else you’d care to rifle through, Mr. Dalton?” he asked, looking at Charlie.
    “I’m sorry,’ Charlie apologized. “I, we …” Charlie looked around for help. Neil stepped forward.
    “O Captain! My Captain, we came here so I could talk to you about something,” he explained.
    “Okay,” Keating said, looking at the group. “All of you?”
    “Actually, I’d like to talk to you alone,” Neil said, looking back at the boys. Charlie and the others looked relieved to leave.
    “I gotta go study,” Pitts said. “Yeah,” the rest of the boys added. “See you, Mr. Keating.”
    They all hurried out and closed the door behind them. “Drop by any time,” Keating said as they left.
    “Thank you, sir,” they called back through the closed door.
    Pitts punched Charlie in the shoulder. “Damn it, Nuwanda, you idiot!” he said.
    “I couldn’t stop myself,” Charlie shrugged.
    Keating couldn’t help smiling to himself. Neil paced back and forth, looking around. “Gosh,” he said. “They don’t give you much room around here, do they?”
    “Maybe they don’t want worldly things distracting me from my teaching.” Mr. Keating smiled wryly.
    “Why do you do it?” Neil asked. “I mean, with all this seize-the-day business, I’d have thought you’d be out seeing the world or something.”
    “Ah, but I am seeing the world, Neil. The new world. Besides, a place like this needs at least one teacher like me.” He smiled at his own joke. “Did you come here to talk about my teaching?”
    Neil took a deep breath. “My father is making me quit the play at Henley Hall. When I think about Carpe Diem and all that, I feel like I’m in prison! Acting is everything to me, Mr. Keating. It’s what I want to do! Of course, I can see my father’s point. We’re not a rich family like Charlie’s. But he’s planned the rest of my life for me, and he’s never even asked me what I want!”
    “Have you told your father what you just told me? About your passion for acting?” Mr. Keating asked.
    “Are you kidding? He’d kill me!”
    “Then you’re playing a part for him, too, aren’t you,” Keating observed softly. The teacher watched as Neil paced anxiously. “Neil, I know this seems impossible, but you have to talk to your father and let him know who you really are,” Keating said.
    “But, I know what he’ll say. He’ll say that acting is just a whim and that it’s frivolous and that I should forget about it. He’ll tell me how they’re counting on me and to put it out of my mind, ‘for my own good.’”
    “Well,” Keating said, sitting on his bed. “If it’s more than a whim, prove it to him. Show him with your passion and commitment that it’s what you really want to do. If that doesn’t work, at least by then you’ll be eighteen and able to do what you want.”
    “Eighteen! What about the play? The performance is tomorrow night!”
    “Talk