cAllister pulled out a chair next to Keating at the teachers’ dining table and sat down. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, as he plopped his huge frame into the seat and signaled to a waiter for service.

“My pleasure,” Keating smiled. He looked out at the room filled with blazer-clad boys eating lunch.

“Quite an interesting class you had today, Mr. Keating,” McAllister said sarcastically.

Keating looked up. “Sorry if I shocked you.”

“No need to apologize,” McAllister said as he shook his head, his mouth already filled with the mystery meat of the day. “It was quite fascinating, misguided though it was.”

Keating raised his eyebrows. “You think so?”

McAllister nodded. “Undeniably. You take a big risk encouraging them to be artists, John. When they realize that they’re not Rembrandts or Shakespeares or Mozarts, they’ll hate you for it.”

“Not artists, George,” Keating said. “You missed the point. Free thinkers.”

“Ah,” McAllister laughed, “free thinkers at seventeen!”

“I hardly pegged you as a cynic,” Keating said, sipping a cup of tea.

“Not a cynic, my boy,” McAllister said knowingly. “A realist! Show me the heart unfettered by foolish dreams, and I’ll show you a happy man!” He chewed a bite. “But I will enjoy listening to your lectures, John,” McAllister added. “I’ll bet I will.”

Keating grinned with amusement. “I hope you’re not the only one who feels that way,” he said, glancing at several of the boys from the junior class who were seated nearby.

The boys all turned as Neil Perry walked quickly into the dining room and sat down with them.

“You guys won’t believe this!” he said, puffing breathlessly. “I found his senior annual in the library.” Neil looked toward Keating, who was engaged in animated conversation with Mr. McAllister at the teacher’s table. He opened the annual and read: “‘Captain of the soccer team, editor of the annual, Cambridge-bound, Man most likely to do anything, Thigh man, Dead Poets Society.’”

The others tried to grab the old annual. “Thigh man?” Charlie laughed, “Mr. K. was a hell-raiser. Good for him!”

“What is the Dead Poets Society?” Knox asked, as he leafed through the book of old photos of Keating’s Welton class.

“Any group pictures in the annual?” Meeks asked.

“Not of that,” Neil said, as he studied the captions. “No other mention of it.”

Neil looked through the annual as Charlie nudged his leg. “Nolan,” he hissed. As the dean approached, Neil passed the book under the table to Cameron, who immediately handed it over to Todd, who looked at him questioningly, then took it.

“Enjoying your classes, Mr. Perry?” Nolan asked as he paused at the boys’ table.

“Yes, sir, very much,” Neil said.

“And our Mr. Keating? Finding him interesting, boys?”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said. “We were just talking about that, sir.”

“Good,” Nolan said approvingly. “We’re very excited about him. He was a Rhodes scholar, you know.” The boys smiled and nodded.

Nolan walked to another table. Todd pulled out the annual from under the table and leafed through it on his lap as he finished lunch

“I’ll take the annual back,” Neil said to Todd, as they got up to leave the dining room.

“What are you going to do with it?” Todd asked hesitantly.

“A little research,” Neil said, smiling smugly.

After classes, Neil, Charlie, Meeks, Pitts, Cameron, and Todd headed back to the dorm together. They spotted Mr. Keating, wearing his sport coat and a scarf, walking across the lawn with an arm full of books.

“Mr. Keating?” Neil called after him. “Sir? O Captain! My Captain?” Keating stopped and waited for the boys to catch up with him. “What was the Dead Poets Society, sir?” Neil asked. For a split second, Keating’s face reddened. “I was just looking in an old annual,” Neil explained, “and …”

“Nothing wrong with research,” Keating said, regaining his composure.

The boys waited for him to say more. “But what was it?” Neil pressed.

Keating looked around to make sure that no one was watching. “A secret organization,” he almost whispered. “I don’t know how the present administration would look upon it, but I doubt the reaction would be favorable.” His eyes scanned the campus as the boys held their breaths. “Can you boys keep a secret?” They nodded instantly. “The Dead Poets was a society dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That phrase is by Thoreau and was invoked at every meeting,” he explained. “A small group of us would meet at the old cave, and we would take turns reading Shelley, Thoreau, Whitman, our own verse—and the enchantment of the moment let it work its magic on us.” Keating’s eyes glowed, recalling the experience.

“You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?” Knox asked, bewildered.

Keating smiled. “Both sexes participated, Mr. Overstreet. And believe me, we didn’t simply read … we let it drip from our tongues like honey. Women swooned, spirits soared … gods were created, gentlemen.”

The boys stood silent for a moment. “What did the name mean?” Neil asked. “Did you only read dead poets?”

“All poetry was acceptable, Mr. Perry. The name simply referred to the fact that, to join the organization, you had to be dead.”

“What?” the boys said in chorus.

“The living were simply pledges. Full membership required a lifetime of apprenticeship. Alas, even I’m still a lowly initiate,” he explained.

The boys looked at one another in amazement. “The last meeting must have been fifteen years ago,” Keating recalled. He looked around again to make sure no one was observing, then turned and strode away.

“I say we go tonight,” Neil said excitedly when Keating was out of sight. “Everybody in?”

“Where is this cave he’s talking about?” Pitts asked.

“Beyond the stream. I think I know where it is,” Neil answered.

“That’s miles,” Pitts complained.

“Sounds boring to me,” Cameron said.

“Don’t come, then,” Charlie shot back.

“You know how many demerits we’re talking about here?” Cameron asked Charlie.

“So don’t come!” Charlie said. “Please!”

Cameron relented. “All I’m saying is, we have to be careful. We can’t get caught.”

“Well, no kidding, Sherlock,” Charlie retorted sarcastically.

“Who’s in?” Neil asked, silencing the argument.

“I’m in,” Charlie said first.

“Me too,” Cameron added.

Neil looked at Knox, Pitts, and Meeks. Pitts hesitated. “Well …”

“Oh, come on, Pitts,” Charlie said.

“His grades are hurting, Charlie,” Meeks said in Pitts’s defense.

“Then you can help him, Meeks,” Neil suggested.

“What is this, a midnight study group?” Pitts asked, still unsure.

“Forget it, Pitts,” Neil said. “You’re coming. Meeks, are your grades hurting, too?” Everyone laughed.

“All right,” Meeks said. “I’ll try anything once.”

“Except sex,” Charlie laughed. “Right, Meeks, old boy?” Meeks blushed as the boys laughed and horsed around him.

“I’m in as long as we’re careful,” Cameron said.

“Knox?” Charlie continued.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t get it.”

“Come on,” Charlie encouraged. “It will help you get Chris.”

“It will?” Knox looked mystified. “How do you figure that?”

“Didn’t you hear Keating say women swooned!”

“But why?” Knox asked, still uncertain.

The group started to break up, and Knox followed Charlie toward the dorm.

“Why do they swoon, Charlie? Tell me, why do they swoon?” Knox’s question remained unanswered when off in the distance a bell rang, summoning the boys to dinner.

After dinner, Neil and Todd went to study hall and sat down at a table together.

“Listen,” Neil said to his roommate in a hushed voice. “I’m inviting you to the society meeting.” Neil had noticed that no one had asked Todd if he was in. “You can’t expect everybody to think of you all the time. Nobody knows you. And you never talk to anyone!”

“Thanks,” Todd said, “but its not a question of that.”

“What is it then?” Neil asked.

“I—I just don’t want to come,” he stammered.

“But why?” Neil asked. “Don’t you understand what Keating is saying? Don’t you want to do something about it?” Neil quickly turned a page in his book as a study proctor walked by, eyeing the boys suspiciously.

“Yes,” Todd whispered, after the proctor was out of earshot. “But …”

“But what, Todd? Tell me,” Neil begged.

Todd looked down. “I don’t want to read.”

“What?” Neil looked at him incredulously.

“Keating said everybody took turns reading,” Todd said. “I don’t want to do it.”

“God, you really have a problem, don’t you?” Neil shook his head. “How can it hurt you to read? I mean, isn’t that what this is all about? Expressing yourself?”

“Neil, I can’t explain it.” Todd blushed. “I just don’t want to do it.”

Neil shuffled his papers angrily as he looked at Todd. Then he thought of something. “What if you didn’t have to read?” Neil suggested. “What if you just came and listened?”

“That’s not the way it works,” Todd pointed out. “If I join, the guys will want me to read.”

“I know, but what if they said you didn’t have to?”

“You mean ask them?” Todd’s face reddened. “Neil, it’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not,” Neil said, jumping up from his seat. “Just wait here.”

“Neil,” Todd called, as the proctor turned and gave him a disapproving look.

Neil was off before Todd could stop him. He slumped miserably in his seat, then opened his history book and began to take notes.