𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑

07. 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒕

The facts of life were cement. They were unavoidable. Inevitable. Like how all living things must die and how what goes up must eventually come back down. But when all of this is said and done, there was one non-fact that remains: Air always smells sweeter on Saturdays.

Logically, you knew this couldn't be true. But you felt it in your heart as you flipped through the worn pages of your poetry textbook on the steps of the library on that brisk Saturday morning.

Uniforms weren't mandatory on weekends. It was the one Welton rule you could find within yourself to tolerate. You were, however, expected to dress in your church best whenever this rule applied. So naturally, you also despised it.

The courtyard was the emptiest you had seen it all semester. No first-years were running around, kicking up grass and slinging flat stones into the lake. No upperclassmen were there to crowd around you, asking you senseless questions about your life in a vain hope that you would take interest in theirs. And no teachers ever bothered to wake up before eleven on the weekends anyway, so you were completely and utterly at peace with yourself.

Until all of a sudden, you weren't.

"(Y/N)!"

Neil Perry had a wonderful gift for interrupting you at your most comfortable. You looked up just as he rounded the corner, eyes locking with yours and making his curious smile grow even wider. But you could never be mad at Neil. Not even for interrupting your most perfect morning. Not even when he brought all of his friends with him to stir up trouble.

Knox, Pitts, Meeks, Todd, Charlie, Cameron. They all marched on behind him like an army of preppy soldiers in various stages of formal dress. Aside from Cameron, of course, who was wearing his uniform just as stiffly and proudly as ever.

You closed your book just as they came to stand at the base of the steps. "You guys look like you're about to storm a castle," you observed, tucking the thick hardcover under your arm.

Neil propped his leg up on the first stone step that led up to the Welton Academy library. "You've been here forever, right?" He asked. There was something about his tone that made you think he knew the answer already.

"Unfortunately."

A look of hope flickered across his gaunt features and the rest of the boys rolled their eyes in near-unison. "Do you know anything about a Dead Poet's Society?" He pressed excitedly.

"A what?" you asked. Not only was the name not even slightly familiar, but it sounded akin to some sort of fictional organization. Whimsical and mysterious. Nothing you would ever hope to find at a place like Welton. "Is that a club or something?"

Meeks scoffed, dropping his arms against his sides dramatically as if to remind everyone just how stupid this was. "So she has no idea. Are we seriously going to ask him about this?"

Ignoring his significantly smarter friend, Neil grinned mischievously and extended his hand to you. "C'mon. I saw him walking by the lakefront earlier."

"Who?" you asked in a half-gasp as he pulled you to your feet and began dragging you further down the cobblestone path. His league of accomplices trailed behind you, looking equally confused and only half as amused as Neil.

"Why, Mr. Keating of course," he cackled, steering you directly toward the water's edge. The surface of the lake was calm and unaffected by the wind that swept through the surrounding trees, coaxing leaves off of branches and collecting them in short piles all over the green lawn.

A few groups of students had trickled out of their dorms and were walking to breakfast with their heads down to hide their tired faces. You favored taking your breakfast in the professor's lounge. One reason was that they had actual coffee brewing there where the boys couldn't access it. Another more compelling reason was that there weren't any boys there to begin with.