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[September 3rd, 1959, 10:28 am, the chapel, Welton Academy]
Charlie Dalton fidgeted in his seat on the wooden slab of a pew, tapping every finger against the opposite knuckle as if that would speed up Nolan’s dirge of a welcoming speech. Next to him, his mother tutted silently and nudged his elbow. She was always doing that - trying to impede his constant movement. So what if he was drawing attention? That was his absolute favourite thing.
He glanced over at the front row of boys. There sat the tiny ones - eleven or twelve year olds, like Charlie had been once, with their shoes untied and their anxieties loud in the stone chapel. Empathy pricked him, but he wasn’t really interested in their juvenile, uncombed backs of heads. Instead, he looked to the side where the banner-carriers stood to attention. Their backs and shoulders were enviably conformal. All in uniform, like books on a shelf. In particular, Charlie stared hard at the side of Neil’s head, as if sheer force of fixation would make his best friend turn and wink. To be honest, Neil was a little too good. He stood ram-rod straight, shoulders back, feet shoulder-width apart, hands folded one after the other on the banner pole - and he was pulling off a confident and pleasant expression? Unbelievable. No one was doing it like Neil Perry.
“..expect nothing but the best from our boys,” droned Nolan in what Charlie hoped were the closing remarks. “After all, they will receive so much from a Welton education… We hope they will give a lot back…”
Around the room, Charlie noted with derision the smug looks and nods of all the fathers in the pews. Men who had been Hell-ton boys back in the day, brainwashed into nostalgia and generous financial donation, now donated their sons to the rat race. He knew this all too well - his own father had done the same thing. Mr Dalton had planned for Charlie to finish up at Welton and go straight to law school, where no doubt he’d learn exactly how to get just what he wanted. Maybe one day (God forbid), he’d have a bright-eyed son, and so the cycle would go on, and on, and on, and on, and-
“Charles? Come along, sweetheart, the nice boy says he’s got the list for you…”
Charlie jumped at his mother’s voice and hand on his arm. He hadn’t realised Nolan had finally shut up and dismissed the room. Jumping up, he patted her hand and promised to return soon, before following his quiet classmate Stick at speed through the crowd.
“It’s by the common room,” Stick informed him.
“Take the side door out the chapel,” advised Charlie. Nolan was shaking hands and smarming with the parental units at the main door, so the two upperclassmen ducked through the smaller door in the side and entered the main school building. When they got to the common room, there was already a sizable group gathered there. Charlie saw and made a beeline for familiar backs, throwing his arms wantonly around Knox’s and Meeks’ shoulders from behind them.
“Boys!” he exclaimed. As cool as he always played, he couldn’t suppress the smile that rose when both other boys turned to him with identical, exasperated expressions.
“Welcome back, Charlie,” said Knox gamely. “Good summer?”
“Horrible,” Charlie replied. “How was DC?”
“Hot and sticky,” said Knox.
“Ooh, was it now?”
“Shut up, not like that, Charlie-”
“So, what’s the scoop?” he interrupted, directing the question at Meeks under his other arm. “I’ll be with Neil again, but who’re you guys roomed with?”
“Actually,” Meeks adjusted his glasses with that adorable half-smile, “Neil’s rooming with a new guy-”
Charlie’s mouth fell open. “New guy? We’ve got a new guy?”
“Well, unless someone’s changed their name and surname over the summer…”
“They seem to have switched a lot of us around,” said Knox. “I’m with Stick this year.”
“Ah, could be worse…”
“Yeah, it could be you…”
“I feel sorry for Stick though, you snore like my grandfather… ”
“Hey, guys,” said a new voice from behind them. Charlie spun the trio around to see Cameron walking down the hall towards them, hands in his pockets. “How are we?”
“Just unbelievably glad to be back,” Charlie said blithely. “Who cut your hair?”
Cameron’s hand went up to his hair immediately. “My barber?”
“Think he might need to use a razor next time instead of whatever garden shears he had on hand…”
“Yeah, nice to see you too, Dalton.” Cameron sighed, fixing his quiff with a shake of his hand. Charlie snickered and Meeks dug an elbow into his ribs. “Oh, is that the roommate list? Any reassignments?”
“Yeah, actually,” said Meeks as Cameron craned to read the list over the heads of the younger boys in front. “We’ve got a new guy called Anderson, they’ve moved all of us around because of him.”
“I wonder what he’s like,” Meeks mused.
“I think I saw him when I was walking the banner in,” said Knox. “Looked kinda scared.”
“Well, maybe it was his first time hearing a bagpipe,” Charlie suggested.
“Hey, Charlie, we’re roommates,” interrupted Cameron. “See that?”
“What?” Charlie broke free from Knox and Meeks, pushing through the sophomores to get to the list. He traced the pencil line between his name and… yep, Richard Cameron . He pulled away with a groan.
“Hey!” Cameron protested. “What’s wrong with being my roommate?”
“I mean, would you like a list?” Charlie said while his mind was scrambling. He’d always roomed with Neil, since their very first year at Hell-ton together. They’d met on a first day just like this one and clicked instantly, each other’s comfort and confidant; meanwhile, Cameron was… well…
“Charlie!” exclaimed a bright and familiar voice. He turned to see Neil bounding up to him, smiling from ear to ear. “Junior year!” he declared. “Can you believe it?”
“Crazy,” Charlie replied. “Neil, they’ve put you with this new fellow.”
“Oh, really?” Neil leaned in to read the paper himself. “No way. Todd Anderson? Anyone know him?”
The boys all shook their heads. “No idea.”
“Huh,” said Neil. “Maybe I’ll go find him. Must be hard being new, here especially. Hey, Charlie-” with a hand on Charlie’s shoulder - “rough luck that we’re not rooming together, isn’t it?”
“Too bad,” Charlie agreed. “You’ve been replaced by Cameron.”
“Aw, no,” Neil played along through that beloved grin. “Take care of him, Cam?”
“Hmm?” Cameron hadn’t been paying attention.
Neil laughed and shook his head. “Well, I’d better go find my own replacement, this Anderson guy. Bye forever, Charlie!”
“Bye, I’ll miss you!” Charlie waved back enthusiastically as Neil departed down the stone hall. “See you at dinner.”
With Neil gone, the boys began to move in the opposite direction towards the dorms, talking through the mess of students, parents and suitcases. Charlie fell to the back of the group, thinking. He’d covered it up in front of the others (Neil especially), but their separation really bothered him. He’d never been a Hell-ton student without Neil. Which was dramatic, wasn’t it - Neil would only be just down the hallway, right? With his new roommate, whoever this Todd fellow was. Meanwhile, Charlie was stuck with Cameron…
As if summoned by thought alone, Cameron turned around and looked right back at him. “By the way, Charlie,” he said (a bit smarmily, just a bit). “I know about your little study group, so don’t try and keep me out of it this year, yeah? I’m good with Math.”
“Yeah, OK,” Charlie grumbled. “Fine.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets because it was juvenile but he really, really wanted to give Cameron just one little sock in the jaw in that moment.
[September 12th, 1959, 11:02pm, dorm room, Welton Academy]
Welton gave out fancy cloaks, like a witches’ coven or something, to every boy. Charlie wrapped his around his shoulders and gave it an experimental twirl. The corner whacked Cameron’s elbow as he leaned over his desk chair, lacing his boots.
He gave a frustrated huff. “Get a grip, Charlie.”
“Why don’t they give us rain slickers and sou’westers like a normal school?” Charlie asked. He flipped the cloak around again, sending a drift of papers from his bed cascading along the floor. “Or, better yet, give us no coats and let us freeze to death.”
“Don’t be an ass,” said Cameron, standing up. “Maybe they wouldn’t have cloaks if we were a state school.”
“Oh, sure,” Charlie said. They left the dorm, creeping, voices dropping the instant they were in the dark hallway. “They’ll let you freeze at a state school, they don’t give half a hoot.”
“Shut up a minute.”
“Shutting.”
Cameron was inclined to pause overlong at every corner and junction, a habit which made Charlie inclined to bash his head against a wall. Spotting the cloaked silhouettes of the other boys framed in the light of a window down the hall, Charlie grabbed his roommate’s elbow and dragged him forward. There was a stifled protest from Cameron, cut off by Charlie’s hand over his mouth. The other boy slapped him away angrily, but stayed quiet.
“Ready, boys?” Even in the middle of the night, Neil’s eyes managed to be lit up in a way no one else’s were - the glint of adventure, this time, or maybe the serendipitous moon. He led the charge down the wide staircase, through the doorway arch into the courtyard, out through the pillars and down the field. As they hustled along, Charlie noted that Todd seemed to be staying very close to Neil’s side, while the other boys ranged out, secure in their knowledge of these stomping grounds.
They entered the woods. At once, the branches folded over their heads and the darkness was absolute. Only the odd bobbing flashlight showed up a tree root, or patch of rot, or trunk, but they stumbled on. Pitts began to giggle nervously, which set Neil off. Charlie - who’d received many a detention or beating for being in places where he shouldn’t have been - couldn’t relate to their glee of illegality, but he recognised it.
He let Neil lead the way mostly, but did step out to the side a couple of times to angle Pitts back on the right track. He’d read the map and knew these woods pretty well, even the cave. Still, this night in particular had an odd feeling about it - not eerie, not sacred, but something delicate and portentous. Something significant was on its way. It was a shivery sensation, this premonition, and he wanted to shake it. Almost at the entrance to the cave, Meeks paused just ahead and tipped his head back to admire the trees. Charlie saw his opportunity and ducked around behind him. He burst from the shadows behind his friend, hood up, and Meeks’ flashlight blinded him as he growled,
“Aaaargh!! I’m a dead poet!!”
Meeks shrieked back but composed himself in a millisecond, and had the gall to roll his eyes. “Very funny, Dalton…”
“Guys, it’s down here!” floated Neil’s laughing voice up to them.
Charlie scrambled down, closely following Meeks and tailed by Cameron. Of course, Cameron began scolding.
“You really shouldn’t yell like that, Charlie, we’re only a mile or so from school. What if someone heard us?”
“What if,” Charlie grumbled back. “You’re right, we’d all most likely die.”
“Oh, it’s not a joke,” Cameron griped. He was always griping. Gripe, gripe, gripe. Unbearable.
The other boys were laying out their Welton-issue cloaks on the floor and collating their ill-gotten gains (half a roll and some cookies). Neil tried to start a fire and Charlie jumped in to help, but with their lack of knowledge and finesse, the fire expired into an excess of smoke, which filled the cave like a river into a bucket. Coughing madly and fanning the air, Cameron announced they should probably stop trying to be Boy Scouts, it clearly wasn’t working. They settled down sans campfire. Neil pulled out a thick tome from his box of wonders (his pockets) and opened it to the first page.
“We’ll read the customary opening address,” he announced. Customary, even though this was the first meeting. Trust Neil to take a single idea and run with it, losing himself in the daydream of “it’s always been like this”. Not that Charlie was complaining - he wouldn't have Neil any other way. Neil cleared his throat. “ I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately…”
[October 1st, 1959, 3:45pm, Mr Keating’s classroom, Welton Academy]
Todd was something different, to be honest. When he’d arrived, Charlie had been convinced this was your standard shy boy, probably a guy without a single opinion or any guts to speak of. His stammer and those ridiculously big baby-deer eyes kinda confirmed this. But for whatever reason, Neil seemed to think Todd Anderson was gangbusters, and who was Charlie to disregard the Neil Perry Stamp of Approval? It didn’t come around every day of the week, that was for sure. Maybe, Charlie reflected, being roommates meant that Todd got all his personality out on Neil when it was just the two of them, then transformed into the human version of a mouse when anyone else was around. Maybe.
But Todd also frustrated Charlie sometimes, because who would dread Mr Keating’s class? In Charlie’s tried, tested, and very professional opinion, Mr Keating was the best thing that had ever happened to Welton. Certainly, the best adult Charlie had come into contact with. The “J. Evans Pritchard PhD.” episode had been the only time he could remember that an adult had not only encouraged but initiated his destructive inclinations. The sweet, sweet sound of ripping paper. Sweet freedom and release! If only he could do the same to his Trig textbook. By all accounts, Mr Keating was something special and if Todd couldn’t see that - wanted to sit by the window and avoid eye contact and refuse to play - well, sorry Neil, but there was something wrong with him. Seriously.
So had his opinion been as he walked into the English classroom on assignment day, with a freshly-written poem in his book. Was it any good? No. Of course not. But it existed. Which, apparently, was more than could be said for poor ol’ Todd.
“I didn’t do it,” said Todd. His voice echoed weirdly to the back of the classroom where Charlie lounged in his seat. Oh, this might be interesting.
“What?” Mr Keating.
“I, uh, I didn’t do it. I didn’t do the assignment, the poem. I didn’t write one.”
Around the room, Charlie observed the reactions of the other Dead Poets. Cameron looked a little scared; Knox, Meeks and Pitts just looked confused. No one looked more confused than Neil, which confirmed Charlie’s suspicion that it had been a poem by Todd that they had chased around his dorm room that one time. Charlie smelt a rat too - Todd wasn’t the top of the class, but he wouldn’t miss a piece of homework for any reason.
“Come on up here,” said Mr Keating, dragging Tood from his chair.
Charlie felt rather than heard Neil’s sharp intake of breath. Todd never spoke in front of a crowd. Not even in the cave, with no one but the other poets, would he read aloud. This was about to be horrible.
But something miraculous happened. Somehow - with a few magic words from Mr Keating - Todd closed his eyes and opened up and poetry spilled out. No idea how, it was all Greek to Charlie, but it seemed like second nature to Todd. His hands still shook, his eyes still glittered with repressed tears when he opened them, so he clearly wasn’t intended for the stage. But he had a gift, that was for darn sure. Charlie glanced at Neil, expecting Neil to be looking back with a raised eyebrow reaction. Instead, Neil’s eyes were stuck to their shy friend with a planetary magnetic field. It was far beyond admiration and Charlie saw that immediately. It was plainly written on Neil’s face, and Todd’s, too. For a second, it was like they were the only two people there. Charlie got the sudden urge to vacate the room and give them some privacy.
Mr Keating pulled Todd in, whispering something in his ear, and let him go. Overhead, the bell rang for the end of the day. The class exploded into desks and chairs and books and conversation, set free from the incantation they’d been held by. Todd moved like a ghost back to his seat to collect his things.
Hours later, Charlie was still thinking about it in the back of his mind. It was after dinner and he lay on his bed in the dorm, book flat open on his chest, throwing a ball of paper up and catching it. Cameron sat at his desk, scribbling feverishly away with his scrunched-up forehead in his other hand.
“So, that poem sure was something, wasn’t it?” Charlie broke the studious silence.
Cameron looked up, frowning. “Latin.”
“What?”
“I’m studying Latin, I can’t talk.” He returned to the page.
“Cameron.” No response. “Cam.” Nothing. “Richard Murphy Cameron!” He threw the balled-up paper, hitting his roommate square in the shoulder.
“Ouch!” Cameron complained - really? It was a piece of paper, not a shot put - “I’m studying! ”
“I want to talk about our studies!” Charlie propped himself up on one elbow. “Todd’s poem! Wasn’t it tops? I mean, I’ve no idea why he doesn’t want to read at the Dead Poets Society meetings.”
Cameron frowned again, but not at the Latin, instead like he was thinking. “I don’t know. It - something about it - I mean, didn’t it feel a bit off to you?”
“Off?” he echoed incredulously. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Oh, I…” Cameron waved his pencil in frustration. “You know.”
“I don’t.”
“OK, fine, I’ll say it!” burst out Cameron. “I thought the way Neil reacted to it was a bit weird. Queer, even.”
Charlie stood up without realising. “What?”
“I know, I know, he’s your friend, I shouldn’t make accusations like that but…” Cameron had hunched his shoulders. “I mean, we all saw it. Didn’t we? Something wasn’t quite right.”
Not quite right. Charlie’s hands balled to fists at his sides. He thought back to the look on his friends’ faces. Already, the beauty of the moment was tinged at the edges by Cameron’s stupid meddling.
“Cameron,” he said loudly.
“And it’s a bit queer that Keating gets us to write poetry,” Cameron plunged on. “Most schools will just read it, study it. We don’t need to write it. I mean, when are you ever going to need that, as a lawyer? When in law school are they ever going to ask you to write a poem? Or Neil, at medical school?”
“Don’t you listen to anything Keating says?” Charlie shot back. “God, you’re just like them. ”
“Who, Charlie?” demanded Cameron. “Who am I just like? Go on!”
Every nerve in Charlie’s body was telling him to swing. And he might just have too, had the door not opened at that moment. Knox poked his head into the room.
“Everything OK? We heard yelling,” he said.
“Everything’s fine ,” said Charlie. He scooped up a pile of the nearest books to him. “It’s so fine that I think I’ll take my studying outdoors. Come, Knox.”
He swept out of the room, going who-the-hell-knows where. From behind him, Knox called out, “Charlie, it’s raining!”
He ignored it and walked on. He stomped all the way to the library, which he entered with a bang, scaring a freshman on the other side into dropping a stack of books, which he also ignored. He made his way all the way over to a window table before he saw who was currently occupying it. Neil and Todd sat very close next to each other, heads bent over a thick book. Probably, it was poetry. They didn’t notice Charlie at all, lost in their private, shared dreamworld. As Charlie watched, he thought that Keating would have been very glad to see how his students were spending their evening.
[October 22nd, 1959, 4:50pm, dorm room, Welton Academy]
“Neil, I’m going criminally insane ,” Charlie announced, slamming open the door of Neil’s dorm.
On the bed opposite, reading something as usual, Todd actually jumped, which was kinda cute. Todd was cute, like a little mouse. Neil, at his desk, took off his reading glasses and set them down on his book.
“What, you weren’t already?”
“I’m going extra crazy tonight,” he declared, and flopped down in the other desk chair. What? Todd wasn’t using it. “If I have to spend another evening in there listening to what a screw-up I am, I’m going to do something dramatic, I really am.”
“Cameron?” Neil asked with sympathy.
Charlie smacked his flat palm down on the desk. Todd jumped again. “I’m sick and tired of it! He’d never have the guts to do it, so is he jealous?”
“Probably-”
“But he’s such a wet rag, it drives me crazy. Urgh!”
Neil regarded him for a moment. Then he turned his head and addressed Todd. “Is it all right if I leave you for a few minutes?”
Wide-eyed, Todd nodded. “Where are you going?”
“Out in the grounds.” Neil was putting his arms into his coat sleeves and wrapping a long scarf around his neck. “Charlie, come on, let’s go on a walk. Bye, Todd, see you in half an hour?”
“Bye…”
He closed the dorm door. The two of them walked through the hallways in the gathering darkness, passing the occasional student or stone-eyed professor. Neil chewed his lip but walked with a steady gait, his usual princely outlook. Charlie put on just enough swagger to make the smaller boys disperse like a puddle under a bicycle wheel before them. He usually ran hot so didn’t bother with going back for a coat. Plus, he’d have to face Cameron again, the cause of his current insanity. The heavy oaken door banged shut after them, and Neil led them down along the tree line.
“So?” he said after a minute of walking. “What did you think of what Keating said to you?”
Charlie shrugged petulantly. “I don’t know. A bit sick he took Nolan’s side.”
“He just wants us to be more careful.” Neil looked out over the hill pensively. “He must know we’re the new Dead Poets, he doesn’t want it to end badly for us.”
“Well, surely. It’s his legacy, right?”
“Yeah!” said Neil. “Ah… be honest, did you know what you were going to say when you brought that telephone in?”
“Oh, well, yeah!” said Charlie. “I thought it all out ahead by ten whole minutes, maybe. A whole plan.”
Neil’s face split into that all-encompassing grin of his and he collapsed his weight onto Charlie’s shoulder, giving him a friendly shake. “Ten whole minutes!” he exclaimed. “Phone call from God!”
The smile was unbearably contagious. Charlie felt the years fall off his mind as he shook Neil back. He managed to tackle the taller boy to the floor, where they promptly rolled down the hill and into a pile of leaves. Neil came up cackling and spitting.
“Ah, there’s one in my mouth! Bleh.”
“Eat your greens, Perry,” crowed Charlie, throwing another handful in his face. “They’re good for you.”
“Ah! Help!” Neil disappeared under a storm of leaves with a laugh. “I already ate that spinach at lunch, don’t send me to hell twice in one afternoon.”
“Too bad.”
When they’d run out of energy, they flopped on their backs in the leaf-strewn grass. Glancing across at his friend, Charlie remembered with a jolt the poisonous words Cameron had spewed then. His face screwed up involuntarily at the memory, which Neil caught as he glanced over.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just thinking,” said Charlie.
“Thinking?”
“Poetry.”
“Oh, that’s good.” Neil settled his head back on his arm. “You know what, Charlie? I told you this year was going to be good.”
“No, you didn’t. When?”
“Didn’t I?” he echoed. “Well, it is. Good, I mean. It’s a good year.”
“Oh, yeah?” Charlie teased. “With that new roommate of yours?”
“Yeah…” Neil didn’t seem to be in control of the smile spreading across his face. “Well, I mean, and the Dead Poets Society, of course-”
“Oh, of course.”
“- couldn’t forget that.”
“Course not.”
The sun was setting as they eventually made their way back up to school. It warmed the back of Charlie’s neck, brought out the golden elements in Neil’s hair, and glared on every west-facing glass window at Welton. They walked slowly and without speaking, and it felt almost like the autumn evening would last all night, all week, maybe forever. The hard bite of anger in Charlie’s jaw was fading away. Overhead, the birds flew in V-formation straight home.
[December 16th, 8:14am, in bed, Welton Academy]
Adamant as he was that he wouldn’t sleep, Charlie had fallen victim to uneasy dreams. In them, lines of verse twirled and twisted around like falling snowflakes, the uneven staccato of Todd’s anxious breathing in tandem with the engine of a retreating car. He must have woken up several times in the night, because when the knock on the door came, his covers were discarded on the floor. He was cold.
“Mr Dalton.” It was Hager at the door, which was weird. The light from the hallway made a sharp-edged shape on the floor and the clock read 8:14. “Come with me, please.”
Charlie rolled off the bed, reaching for his dressing gown. Damn, but it was cold. He never wore socks to bed and never felt the need to, but for some reason, regretted it now as he followed Hager down the hallway. Little gusts of drafts emitted from under the outside doors, curling around his frozen toes. Hager led him to a staff room on the first floor, where a single lamp on a table had been switched on. It lit up the shoulders of Mr Keating, who sat slumped in a chair. He held the receiver of a telephone up to his cheek. Charlie froze as soon as he caught sight of the ice on his teacher’s face - the utter desolation, like the sound of a glacial cliff collapsing into the sea miles and miles away. Mr Keating was listening to some far-off murmur on the other end. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie was aware of Hager puttering around to make a cup of coffee in the dark.
When the tone for the call termination came, the receiver dropped like a dead tree branch into Mr Keating’s lap. He rubbed his face slowly, then looked up and saw Charlie without surprise.
“Mr Dalton,” he said in a whisper. “I’m sorry, my boy, but I have some bad news…”
And the lead weight was back. As Charlie listened, it settled in like snow around his ears. Neil was gone. Neil was never coming home. He stared at the wall, seeing instead the falling curtain, Todd’s shaking hands, a retreating car, the curtain, the tears that hadn’t yet fallen, the car, the snow, the curtain, the tears…
“Charlie?”
And, God, hadn’t he been stupid? How long had he known Neil? How many times had Neil come to him after a fight with his father and sat in stony silence, staring into some unfathomable possibility Charlie could never keep up with? He’d been there, sure, and done nothing . It was unbearable that Charlie knew about Mr Perry and still had let him take Neil away last night forever…
“Mr Dalton.”
Had it all been for nothing? The years, the promises, the poetry in the dead of night in a cave. None of it had been enough in the end. Charlie had not been enough. Nowhere near enough, because a greater man would have noticed what must have been playing on repeat in Neil’s mind. Only - was that true? Since the beginning of the school year, Neil hadn’t given any signs that it would-
that it would-
it would-
end-
end- like this…
Like this…
Mr Keating had put a hand on his shoulder. Coming back to himself with a small gasp, Charlie shook it free.
“I have to go tell the others,” he said in probably the quietest voice he’d ever used. “Excuse me.”
“Wait!”
He turned and left, letting Welton’s dark hallway swallow him up. What force bore him back up the stairs and down the dorm room hall, he had no idea. Maybe some guardian angel, except that there was no way that God was still looking down on Welton. Charlie’s feet found their way to Meeks’ door, and his hand knocked.
Meeks opened the door after two seconds. He was wearing a shirt and trousers already, and the lamp on his desk was on.
“All right?” he whispered. “I couldn’t sleep, you too? Quiet, Pittsie is still out.”
Charlie followed him into the room and sat down on his bed. He swallowed about four times.
Meeks’ eyebrows contracted. “Damn, Charlie, are you all right? You look like hell.”
“There’s news,” Charlie managed to get out.
“About Neil?” Meeks grabbed his sleeve. “Is he coming back today?”
“He’s - not - coming back,” said Charlie. Every word he said was one word farther away from the moment Mr Keating had said it to him. And now - his mind quaked at the image - every word he ever said would be one more away from Neil. The days would keep coming. Didn’t they know everything was over? “He’s never coming back, Meeks, he’s gone.”
“Gone?” breathed Meeks. Then, “oh. Gone gone.” And he sat down too.
After a few minutes, Charlie stood up. “Wake Pitts. I’ll go get Knox, then I’ll-”
Meeks looked up at him through particularly shiny glasses. “What about Todd?”
Charlie quailed. “I want all of you to come when I tell him. I think he…” He couldn’t find the words.
“OK.”
It was ten minutes later. Since he’d told Knox, the other boy hadn’t let go of his sleeve, and was weeping under his breath. Charlie, who had almost had enough of closed doors, pushed open the door of his own dorm room. The morn light was beginning to pale the edges of the curtain though the dorm was frigid as ever, and Charlie grabbed his socks and shoes eagerly. Knox finally pried himself from Charlie and stumbled over to Cameron’s bed. Cameron was fast asleep, heavy in his unmoving form. Though Knox, still weeping, shook his shoulder, Cameron didn’t even budge. Sure, he was a heavy sleeper, but damn. Knox looked up through bleary eyes for help. Charlie came over and looked down at his sleeping roommate. An expression of bland peace rested on his face, cheeks still rosy as they were cradled by the sheets. His breathing was even and steady, while Charlie still felt as though his heart was plunging perpetually down through his body. He wanted to smack the contentment right off Cameron’s face. How dare he sleep - how dare anyone? - when the world had ended? Charlie’s hand itched for action but the weariness washed over him again. The burden of waking early and shrugging on the yoke of mourning weighed down his shoulders. He sighed massively.
“Come on,” he whispered. “We need to go tell Todd.”
And he turned away, towards the door.
[December 18th, 1959, 1:13pm, the attic, Welton Academy]
He’d had about four cigarettes. They weren’t cheap, they weren’t easy to come by at school, and the amount of them he’d consumed lately made Meeks look at him with that heavy crease in his forehead, but he needed them. The acrid taste of smoke in the mouth was a good pain to cling to, like a knife at your knee to keep you awake on the night watch. They were the only thing keeping him from slipping right now.
No one spoke in the attic. The only sounds were the puffing on Charlie’s smoke, the boys’ breathing, and Todd’s knuckles clicking again and again - he couldn’t seem to still his motions. There were five of them there; an odd number, but they’d always been odd. They occupied every possible surface except one box-seat, as if Neil could possibly walk in and take it. Charlie broke the silence finally.
“You told him about this meeting?”
He mumbled, but they all knew who he was talking about.
It was Pitts who answered. “Twice.”
“That’s it, guys,” said Charlie, anger suddenly rearing inside him. He snatched at his pocket for a fifth cigarette. “We’re all fried.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cameron’s a fink,” he spat. It felt good to spit some words, spew some fire out into the greige attic with its dusted-over windows and its abandoned relics. Maybe his final cigarette would slip autonomously from his knuckles and set the whole goddamn place alight. “He’s in Nolan’s office right now, finking.”
“About what?” asked Pitts, turning his innocent-cattle-eyes around the circle. It was incredible how he hadn’t added it all together. Hadn’t they all suspected Cameron of being a little rat? Cameron had never been as committed to “carpe”-ing any of the “diems” they’d spent together.
“The club, Pittsie,” he snapped. “Think about it!” The other poets turned to him as he waved his hands around in explanation. “The board of directors, the trustees and Mr Nolan. Do you think for one moment they’re gonna let this thing blow over?” He glared out of the grimy window, where, far below, the tree line marked the border of the forest. Somewhere beyond that, their nocturnal refuge. It made his skin crawl to imagine Cameron spilling all those hallowed secrets to Nolan while they sat, powerless to stop him. “Schools go down because of things like this. They need a scapegoat.”
The door to the attic opened. Immediately, the boys scrambled to hide their cigarettes, waft the smoke out the window, and stand to attention. But it was only Cameron. He looked smaller than usual, his hair and shoulders and ego shrunk a little to fit in some box. He looked around the room, feigning blase with every fibre of his treacherous being.
“What’s going on, guys?” he asked.
“You finked, didn’t you, Cameron?” Charlie said. He stood and flicked away his cigarette. In his peripheral vision, it fell to the dusty floorboards and the tiny light at its end winked out. Charlie took a step towards Cameron.
Cameron drew himself in. “Finked?” he said as if he’d never encountered the idea before. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You told Nolan everything about the club, is what I’m talking about,” stated Charlie, fighting the urge to jab his finger in Cameron’s puny chest like a cheated merchant at a haggle-deal.
Scorn flicked across Cameron’s face. “Look, in case you hadn’t heard, Dalton, there’s something called an honour code at this school, all right? If a teacher asks you a question, you tell the truth or you’re expelled.”
“You little-!”
Knox and Meeks surged forwards just in time to catch Charlie before he swung. He pushed against their strong arms, his mind on fire with indignation. Tell the truth? What truth? It was Welton’s fault Neil was dead, Welton’s and Mr Perry’s, and they would never admit to that. So anything else was a lie.
“Charlie!” Meeks chided - some self-restraint he had that Charlie couldn’t comprehend.
“He’s a rat!” Charlie yelled. “He’s in it up to his eyes, so he ratted to save himself.”
“Don’t touch him, Charlie,” Knox said in a low voice, not taking his eyes from Cameron. “You do and you’re out.”
“I’m out anyway!” And the terrible truth of it came crashing down. Neil was gone forever and now Charlie would be too. He’d be cast out into the world without even the comfort or cruelty of Neil’s ghost in every familiar classroom or cave. Even with arms wrapped around him, Charlie was utterly alone.
“You don’t know that,” pleaded Knox. “Not yet.”
Cameron had pulled himself together, appropriating the posture of some speech-giver. A valedictorian. “He’s right there, Charlie. And if you guys are smart, you’ll do exactly what I did and cooperate. They’re not after us. We’re the victims. Us and Neil.”
Meeks’ grip got a little tighter.
“What’s that mean?” Charlie demanded. “Who are they after?”
“Why,” said Cameron, the smarmy, smug, slug, “Mr Keating, of course. The ‘captain’ himself. I mean, you guys didn’t really think he could avoid responsibility, did you?”
“Mr Keating… responsible for… Neil?” mumbled Charlie. “Is that what they’re saying?”
“Well, who else do you think, dumb ass?” Cameron shouted. “The administration? Mr Perry? Mr Keating put us up to all this crap, didn’t he?” Cameron took a deep breath, dredging up his vitriol from the bottom of his lungs, and stabbing the air with his index finger, for the final blow. “If it wasn’t for Mr Keating, Neil would be cosied up in his room right now, studying his chemistry and dreaming of being called doctor-”
“That is not true, Cameron,” wailed a voice behind them. Todd had stood up. The other poets froze - it was the first time Todd had spoken all day. His eyes were haunted. If Cameron seemed more shrunken than usual, Todd looked harrowed, weighed down double under the weight of the loss. It hurt Charlie’s heart to look at him, and still Todd spoke: “He didn’t put us up to anything. Neil loved acting.”
His voice didn’t even waver on Neil’s name. Todd was made of something different, Charlie thought, worlds away from cowardly Cameron.
“Believe what you want,” the coward spat. “But I say, let Keating fry. I mean, why ruin our lives?”
This time, neither Knox nor Meeks held Charlie back when he lunged. His fist slammed into Cameron’s nose. With a wet crunch, it broke under the weight of a punch that had been waiting all year to be thrown. Charlie pulled back and for the first time, his fist didn’t tingle with the urge for a second hit. It was enough. The blood that Cameron put a shaking hand up to catch was scarlet, like a scarf in the snow. Knox caught Charlie and gently pulled him away.
Behind him, Cameron was waving threatening words that were probably true, but Charlie wasn’t paying attention. He was looking down at the hand he’d dedicated to that punch, and feeling nothing. His hand shook slightly but no more than Todd’s had when he’d told him Neil was dead. Charlie kept walking towards the light of the window.