he brisk Vermont winter engulfed the campus at Welton. The once colorful foliage of the fall now blanketed the landscape, and fierce winds blew the brittle leaves in torrents.

Todd and Neil, bundled in hooded down jackets and scarves, walked along a path that wound between buildings, the wind howling as Neil rehearsed his lines for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“‘Here, villain, drawn and ready. Where art thou?’” Neil called dramatically from memory.

“‘I will be with thee straight,’” Todd read from the script.

“‘Follow me, then, to plainer ground!’” Neil boomed, over the winds. “God I love this!”

“The play?” Todd asked.

“Yes, and acting!” Neil bubbled. “It’s got to be one of the most wonderful things in the world. Most people, if they’re lucky, live about half an exciting life. If I could get the parts, I could live dozens of great lives!”

He ran and, with a theatrical flourish, leapt onto a stone wall. “‘To be or not to be, that is the question!’ God, for the first time in my whole life, I feel completely alive! You have to try it,” he said to Todd. He jumped down from the wall. “You should come to rehearsals. I know they need people to work the lights and stuff.”

“No thanks.”

“Lots of girls,” Neil pointed out impishly. “The girl who plays Hermia is incredible.”

“I’ll come to the performance,” Todd promised.

“Bluck, bluck, bluck … chicken!” Neil teased. “Now where were we?”

“‘Yea, art thou there?’” Todd read.

“Put more into it!” Neil urged.

“‘YEA, ART THOU THERE?’” Todd bellowed.

“That’s it! ‘Follow my voice; we’ll try no manhood here.’” He bowed and waved to Todd. “Thanks, buddy. See you at dinner,” he called, running into the dorm. Todd stood outside watching him, then shook his head and walked off toward the library.

Neil leapt and danced down the hallway, jestering his way past other students who eyed him curiously. He pushed open his door with a flourish and jumped into the room, fencing the air with the jester’s stick.

Abruptly, he stopped. Sitting at his desk was his father! Neil’s face turned white with shock.

“Father!”

“Neil, you are going to quit this ridiculous play immediately,” Mr. Perry barked.

“Father, I …”

Mr. Perry jumped to his feet and pounded his hand on the desk. “Don’t you dare talk back to me!” he shouted. “It’s bad enough that you’ve wasted your time with this absurd acting business. But you deliberately deceived me!” He paced back and forth furiously as Neil stood shaking in his shoes. “How did you expect to get away with this? Answer me!” he yelled. “Who put you up to this? That Mr. Keating?”

“Nobody …” Neil stammered. “I thought I’d surprise you. I’ve gotten all A’s and …”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? ‘My niece is in a play with your son,’ Mrs. Marks says. ‘You must be mistaken,’ I say. ‘My son isn’t in a play.’ You made a liar out of me, Neil. Now you will go to rehearsal tomorrow and tell them you are quitting.”

“Father, I have one of the main parts,” Neil explained. “The performance is tomorrow night. Father, please …”

Mr. Perry’s face was white with rage. He moved toward Neil, pointing his finger. “I don’t care if the world is coming to an end tomorrow night, you are through with that play! Is that clear? IS THAT CLEAR?”

“Yes, sir.” It was all Neil could force himself to say.

Mr. Perry stopped. He stared long and hard at his son. “I’ve made great sacrifices to get you here, Neil. You will not let me down.”

Mr. Perry turned and stalked out. Neil stood still for a long time, then, walking to his desk, he started pounding on it, harder and harder until his fists went numb and tears began rolling down his cheeks.

Later that evening, all of the society pledges sat together in the Welton dining hall, except Neil, who said he had a headache. They appeared to be having difficulty eating, and old Dr. Hager approached their table, eyeing the boys suspiciously.

“Mr. Dalton, what is wrong, son?” he asked. “Are you having trouble with your meal?”

“No, sir,” Charlie replied.

Hager watched the boys. “Misters Meeks and Overstreet and Anderson, are you normally left-handed?” Hager asked after a moment.

“No, sir.”

“Then why are you eating with your left hands?”

The boys looked at each other. Knox spoke for the group. “We thought it would be good to break old habits, sir,” he explained.

“What is wrong with old habits, Mr. Overstreet?”

“They perpetuate mechanical living, sir,” Knox maintained. “They limit your mind.”

“Mr. Overstreet, I suggest you worry less about breaking old habits and more about developing good study habits. Do you understand?” he said firmly.

“Yes, sir.”

“That goes for all of you,” Hager said, looking at the table of boys. “Now eat with your correct hands.”

The boys obeyed. But once he moved away, Charlie switched hands and began eating with his left hand again. One by one, the others followed.

Finally Neil came to the dining room and walked over to their table. He looked solemn and upset. “You okay?” Charlie asked.

“Visit from my father,” Neil said.

“Do you have to quit the play?” Todd asked.

“I don’t know,” Neil said.

“Why don’t you talk to Mr. Keating about it,” Charlie suggested.

“What good will that do?” Neil asked glumly.

Charlie shrugged. “Maybe he’ll have some advice. Maybe he’ll even talk to your father.”

“Are you kidding?” Neil laughed shortly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

In spite of Neil’s objections, the boys insisted that Mr. Keating might be able to help Neil solve his problems. After dinner they walked to the teacher’s quarters on the second floor of the dorm. Todd, Pitts, and Neil stood outside Keating’s door. Charlie knocked.

“This is stupid,” Neil protested.

“It’s better than doing nothing,” Charlie said. He knocked again, but no one came to the door.

“He’s not here. Let’s go,” Neil begged.

Charlie tried the door knob, and the door clicked open. “Let’s wait for him,” Charlie said as he walked into Keating’s room.

“Charlie! Nuwanda!” the others called from the hall. “Get out of there!” But Charlie refused to come out, and after a few minutes of talking and pleading the others gave into their curiosity and entered Keating’s room.

The small space was empty and lonely looking. The boys stood around uncomfortably, shifting on their feet. “Nuwanda,” Pitts whispered. “We shouldn’t be in here!”

Charlie ignored him and got up to look around the room. A small blue suitcase stood on the floor by the door. A few 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 to him, Neil,” Keating urged.

“Isn’t there an easier way?” Neil begged.

“Not if you’re going to stay true to yourself.”

Neil and Keating sat silent for a long time. “Thanks, Mr. Keating,” Neil finally said. “I have to decide what to do.”

While Neil spoke with Mr. Keating, Charlie, Knox, Pitts, Todd, and Cameron headed out to the cave. Snow was falling, and a soft white blanket seemed to protect the earth from the cold wind that howled through the valley.

The boys scattered around the candle-lit cave, each busy doing his own thing. No one called the meeting to order. Charlie blew sad, melodious notes on his saxophone. Knox sat in one corner, mumbling to himself, as he worked furiously on a love poem to Chris. Todd sat alone writing something too. Cameron studied. Pitts stood at the wall, scratching a quotation from a book into the stone.

Cameron looked at his watch. “Ten minutes to curfew,” he reminded them. No one moved.

“What are you writing?” Knox asked Todd.

“I don’t know. A poem,” Todd said.

“For class?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re asking for demerits, guys, if we don’t beat it out of here. The snow’s coming down hard,” Cameron said. Charlie ignored Cameron and kept playing the sax. Todd kept writing. Cameron looked around and shrugged. “I’m leaving,” he said and walked alone out of the cave.

Knox read his love poem to Chris to himself, then slapped it on the side of his leg. “Damn it! If I could just get Chris to read this poem,” he groaned.

“Why don’t you read it to her,” Pitts suggested. “It worked for Nuwanda.”

“She won’t even speak to me, Pitts!” Knox cried. “I called her, and she wouldn’t even come to the phone.”

“Nuwanda recited poetry to Gloria and she jumped all over him … right, Nuwanda?”

Charlie stopped playing his sax. He thought a moment. “Absolutely,” he agreed and started blowing notes again.

Off in the distance, the curfew bell rang. Charlie finished his melody, put his sax in its case, and moved out of the cave. Todd, Cameron, and Pitts picked up their papers and followed him out into the night. Knox stood in the cave alone, looking at his poem. Then, shoving it back in his book, he blew out the candle and ran out through the woods with desperate determination.

“If it worked for him, it will work for me,” he said to himself as he plotted a scheme to get his words to Chris.

The next morning the ground was thickly covered with snow. Knox left the dorm early, bundled against the freezing weather and icy winds. He cleaned the snow off his bike, carried it to a plowed path, and sped away, down the hills of Welton Academy over to Ridgeway High.

He left his bike outside the school and ran frantically into the crowded hallway. Boys and girls bustled about, hanging coats in lockers, getting books, talking and joking around with each other.

Knox hurried down one corridor and stopped to talk to a student. Then he turned and double-timed it up a flight of stairs to the second floor.

“Chris!” Knox spotted her standing in front of her locker, talking with some girlfriends. She quickly gathered her things and turned as Knox ran up to her.

“Knox! What are you doing here?” She pulled him away from her girlfriends into a corner.

“I came to apologize for the other night. I brought you these, and a poem I wrote.”

He held out a bouquet of wilted, frostbitten flowers and the poem. Chris looked at them but did not take them. “If Chet sees you, he’ll kill you, don’t you know that?” she cried.

“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head. “I love you, Chris. You deserve better than Chet and I’m it. Please accept these.”

“Knox, you’re crazy,” Chris said as the bell rang and students ran to their classes.

“Please. I acted like a jerk and I know it. Please?” he begged.

Chris looked at the flowers as though she was considering accepting them. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “And stop bugging me!” She walked into a classroom and closed the door.

The hallway was clear. Knox stood holding the drooping bouquet and his poem. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled open the door and walked into Chris’s classroom.

The students were settling into their seats. Knox pushed past the teacher who was leaning over a desk, helping a student with his homework.

“Knox!” Chris cried. “I don’t believe this!”

“All I’m asking you to do is listen,” he said, as he unfolded his poem and began to read. The teacher and the class turned and stared at Knox in amazement.

“The heavens made a girl named Chris,

With hair and skin of gold

To touch her would be paradise

To kiss her—glory untold.”

Chris turned red and covered her face with her hands. Her friends sat barely restraining giggles and looking at each other in amazement. Knox continued reading:

“They made a goddess and called her

Chris, How? I’ll never know.

But though my soul is far behind,

My love can only grow.”

Knox read on as though he and Chris were the only ones in the room.

“I see a sweetness in her smile,

Bright light shines from her eyes

But life is complete—contentment is mine,

Just knowing that she’s alive.”

Knox lowered the paper and looked at Chris, who, utterly embarrassed, peeked out at him through her fingers. Knox put the poem and the flowers on her desk.

“I love you, Chris,” he said. Then he turned and walked out of the room.