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Todd Anderson was fairly certain that singling out a student to the extent Mr. Keating did was frowned upon in most educational circles. And yet, every English class seemed to become a personal challenge, as if Keating had made it his mission to draw Todd out of the shadows and into the light, whether Todd wanted it or not.
He did not.
He was equally certain that if there were an award for Most Likely to Be Called on Against His Will, he’d have won it by now. Every English class felt like an exercise in disappearing: shoulders hunched, gaze lowered, hands firmly on the desk instead of in the air. But no matter how much he tried to blend into the background, Keating always found him.
It didn’t help that his assigned seat was directly in front of the man, leaving him with no hope of hiding behind the taller, more confident boys in the class. There was no escape.
However, Todd's daily writing of poetry was a silver lining. There was possibly a small chance that Keating’s class had boosted his confidence enough to explore what he loved and was good at.
All of this to say, Todd was beginning to suspect that certain lessons in Keating’s class were designed specifically to torture him. Case in point: he walked into class one dreary Monday morning, already bracing for whatever challenge awaited him, only to freeze in horror at the sight before him.
Keating stood at the blackboard, his handwriting bold and deliberate, the chalk in his hand leaving behind a single word that sent a spike of dread straight through Todd’s chest.
LOVE.
The word sat there, stark and inescapable, as if it were staring back at him. Todd swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the strap of his bag. He had no idea what today’s lesson would entail, but if past experiences were anything to go by, he was fairly certain it would be excruciating.
Charlie slipped past Todd with a wolf whistle, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he gestured toward the blackboard. "Oh my," he drawled, turning back to the rest of the Society with a dramatic sigh. "Is this today's lesson or an invitation?"
He waggled his eyebrows for good measure.
Todd barely had a moment to cringe before Neil rolled his eyes and shouldered past Charlie, paying him no mind. "Out of the way, Casanova," Neil muttered before reaching for Todd, hands firm on his shoulders as he steered him toward their desks. Todd let himself be guided, wishing he could disappear through the floor before this lesson even began.
As soon as Todd sank into his chair, his usual strategy of invisibility already in progress, Neil gave him a sympathetic look. "Hey," he said, leaning down slightly. "Maybe we'll just be analyzing some random poems. Could be harmless."
Todd appreciated the effort, but he could see the glint of curiosity and excitement in Neil’s eyes, just like the rest of the class. Still, Todd nodded, forcing a small smile. It was the least he could do.
Neil grinned back, radiant as ever, and clapped Todd’s shoulder once before finally sliding into his own seat.
Todd exhaled. This was going to be a long class.
Once the bell rang, Mr. Keating turned to the class with a grin that, to Todd, bordered on mania.
“Hello, my soon-to-be romantics!” Keating declared, his voice ringing through the room as he swept his gaze over them like a general surveying his troops. His eyes gleamed with something—anticipation? Amusement? A terrifying combination of both? Todd wasn’t sure, but either way, he had a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Glancing back, he saw the expected mix of reactions across the room. Knox was practically glowing, his expression alight with starry-eyed enthusiasm. Charlie, of course, was smirking, already poised to make a joke at the first opportunity. Cameron, on the other hand, looked like he was about to be sick.
Todd couldn’t bring himself to look at Neil.
Instead, he focused on his desk as if sheer force of will could make him invisible. It had never worked before, but he figured it was worth another shot.
“As I’m sure most of you know, the number one topic of poetry is love,” Keating continued, pacing before the blackboard with a glint of mischief in his eye. “Whether it be Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers or Petrarch’s pining sonnets, love—be it adoration, obsession, or heartbreak—has driven ordinary men to write extraordinary things.”
He paused, letting the words settle, his gaze sweeping across the room like a man about to drop a bombshell.
“And this, gentlemen, is what we will be studying this week.”
A murmur rippled through the class; some groaning, some snickering, and at least one dramatic whoop coming from Charlie’s direction.
Keating clapped his hands together. “Before I get too ahead of myself, pair off and move your desks so you’re facing each other.”
Todd looked around anxiously as desks scraped against the floor, the classroom breaking into chaotic shuffling and whispered negotiations. He weighed his options, and none of them were particularly appealing.
Working in partners with anyone but Neil was unpleasant. But the alternative? Doing something love-related with Neil? That thought made Todd’s stomach churn.
Todd had already lost sleep over the idea that Neil—bright, perceptive Neil—had somehow picked up on the fact that Todd’s feelings toward him weren’t strictly platonic. Neil had a way of reading people, of seeing through them, and Todd wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pretending his admiration was anything less than dangerous.
However, it seemed the choice had already been made for him.
Neil dragged his desk over to Todd’s without hesitation, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. He settled in with an easy grin, leaving Todd no room for argument. Neil tended to do that.
At first, it drove Todd crazy—the way Neil swept in and made decisions for him, the way he refused to let Todd shrink away from things. But over time, Todd had come to realize that Neil wasn’t just pushing him for the sake of it. He was pulling him into something better.
Todd had been convinced he would die if he joined the Dead Poets, that he’d crumble under the attention, the expectations, the sheer aliveness of it all. But instead, he found himself surrounded by friends for the first time in his life.
So, perhaps it was actually a good thing that Neil had made the choice for him. If left to his own devices, Todd probably would have frozen in place, ended up alone, and then suffered the true worst-case scenario: Mr. Keating choosing a partner for him.
That thought alone was enough to make Todd shudder.
Speaking of which, Mr. Keating was already weaving through the classroom with the energy of a man far too excited about what was to come. He moved from group to group, handing out sheets of paper with a flourish. Occasionally, he would snatch one back with a mutter about it being a “better fit,” swapping it with another group’s handout before moving on with a gleam in his eye.
At last, every boy held a handout. Todd stared resolutely at the grain of his desk, avoiding the paper clutched between his fingers and, most importantly, avoiding Neil’s. If he didn’t look, there was a chance it wouldn’t be as horrible as he feared.
Todd wasn’t feeling particularly lucky.
He snuck a glance at Neil’s face, trying to gauge the situation. For a split second, Neil looked as queasy as Todd felt. When Neil’s eyes flickered up to meet his, Todd’s heart stuttered, and he quickly glanced away, cheeks burning. But when he dared to look back, Neil seemed completely unaffected beside the slight clench of his jaw. Todd hesitated, second-guessing what he’d seen. Maybe he’d imagined that flicker of nerves. If he hadn’t, though, what could have made Neil look uneasy?
The paper in Todd’s hands suddenly felt heavier. He stared at it without really seeing it, dread curling tight in his stomach. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face whatever poem Keating had decided to torment them with. Something about the gleam in Keating’s eyes earlier made him suspect this wasn’t just a lesson in recitation.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Mr. Keating glided back to the chalkboard, his grin widening with barely contained mischief. His eyes swept the room, landing on each of them with an unnerving amount of excitement. When his gaze settled on Todd, it lingered—just for a heartbeat too long—enough to send a fresh wave of anxiety skittering down Todd’s spine.
“As most of you have now realized,” Mr. Keating began, voice almost too cheerful, “in your hands are an assortment of classic love poems from a variety of sources.” His tone was light, almost conversational, but the words hit like a death sentence. Todd’s fingers tightened involuntarily around the paper.
The classroom seemed to hold its breath, a mix of horrified silence and poorly concealed snickers. “Your assignment for today,” Keating continued, dragging out the words with an almost theatrical flair, “is simply to read the poem you’ve been assigned to your partner.” He paused deliberately, eyebrows lifting.
Todd’s throat went dry. His palms were starting to sweat, and he fought the urge to crumple the paper completely. Read, as in out loud , as in, directly to Neil, with nowhere to hide.
Keating’s grin didn’t falter. “You are not required actually to mean the words on the page,” he assured them, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. “I’m well aware, Knox, that you likely do not feel the same way about Meeks that Lord Byron feels in She Walks in Beauty —”
“Meeks does walk in beauty, though,” Charlie cut in smoothly, drawing a ripple of laughter and a few exasperated eye rolls.
Keating chuckled, waving a hand. “—Regardless,” he pressed on, eyes gleaming, “I would like you to read these poems as if you were reading them to the love of your life. Or at least to someone you feel romantic toward.” He let that sink in, his grin widening as if he could feel the collective horror in the room. “This will help you to understand where these poets were, emotionally, when they wrote these poems. In doing this, you will hopefully be able to put yourself in this same place.”
Todd’s heart was beating too fast, loud in his ears. He hadn’t even looked at his poem yet, but already, his mind was spinning with the implications. This was going to be a disaster.
“If there are no questions, begin!”
Todd finally looked down at the page in front of him. For a second, the words didn’t register. Then his eyes caught on the title, looping script sharp and delicate against the paper:
“At Last” by Elizabeth Akers Allen.
His stomach swooped.
The title alone felt like too much, like a confession someone else had written on his behalf. But then he read the first line—and that was worse. The poem was beautiful. Soft, yearning, and filled with a kind of quiet devotion that Todd could barely let himself think about, let alone speak aloud, especially not to Neil.
His eyes darted over the opening lines, pulse picking up speed. The edges of the page went fuzzy for a moment as warmth crept up the back of his neck, blooming hot across his cheeks. How was he supposed to say this to Neil without giving everything away?
Across the desk, there was a small shift, the sound of someone leaning back in their chair. Todd glanced up on instinct. Neil had tipped his head toward the ceiling, as if searching for divine intervention—or maybe just stalling.
“Well, don’t be shy, boys,” Keating called cheerfully. His voice rang through the classroom, far too delighted by their collective suffering. “Let’s hear it!”
Neil huffed out a quiet laugh and looked over at Todd, his expression somewhere between amused and apologetic. “At least it’s just me,” he said gently.
Todd wished that helped.
The words should’ve been comforting— just Neil —but of course, that was the problem. If it had been anyone else, he might have been more embarrassed, sure, but he wouldn’t be afraid of unraveling.
“Do you want me to go, or should you?” Neil asked.
Todd blinked, unsure whether either option was better or worse. His voice was currently missing in action, and the words on the page still felt like they were burning his hands. He gave a vague shrug, biting at the inside of his cheek.
Neil chuckled softly, and Todd noticed the pink dusting the tips of his ears. At least he wasn’t the only one feeling awkward. Probably not for the same reasons, though. For Neil, it was the assignment. For Todd, it was the tight, awful knowledge that the poem in his hand might as well be a love letter that he was going to read directly to its subject.
“Okay then, I’ll start, I guess,” Neil said.
He adjusted the paper in his hands, cleared his throat, and began reading.
The poem was Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
It didn’t take long for Todd to realize that Browning did not ease gently into matters of the heart. From the very first line, the poem was a direct plunge into raw, unfiltered emotion; bold declarations and intimate confessions laid out in plain, devastating language.
And Neil, of course, read it beautifully.
He didn’t hold back, either. His voice was steady, warm, and maddeningly sincere, every word landing with a weight that made Todd’s chest ache. It was the kind of reading only someone with acting experience could pull off. It was effortless and compelling, as if the words actually belonged to him.
Todd tried to keep his face neutral, tried not to visibly flinch at each new proclamation of love. But with every I love thee that fell from Neil’s mouth, Todd felt like the floor tilted slightly beneath him.
It was excruciating.
And worse, part of him never wanted it to end.
But end it did, and far too soon.
Now it was Todd’s turn.
He cleared his throat, readjusted the paper in his hands, then cleared his throat again, stalling, though he wasn’t sure if Neil noticed. Probably. He always did.
When Todd finally began to read, his voice came out too quiet at first. He forced it louder on the second line, hoping it didn’t tremble. The words felt heavy in his mouth—soft, wistful, aching. At Last was not a poem one could breeze through, and he certainly didn’t have Neil’s poise.
So he leaned into something else. He tried to focus on the language, the rhythm, the way each line curled with longing. He poured every bit of his anxiety and affection and aching into the words, hoping desperately it came across as an acting exercise and not a confession.
By the time he reached the final line, his hands were cold and his face too warm. He let the last syllable hang in the air for a beat longer than necessary, then lowered the paper slowly, unsure of what to do with his hands.
He didn’t look up immediately.
He couldn’t.
When he finally risked it, Neil was already looking at him.
There was a small, unreadable smile on his face. It was soft around the edges, almost sad. It made Todd’s breath catch. But then Neil blinked, and the expression shifted. The smile widened, brightened, turned into a grin. He reached forward and smacked Todd lightly on the shoulder.
“See?” Neil said, voice light. “That wasn’t so bad at all!”
Todd nodded quickly, his heart thudding like it wanted to escape his chest.
He had made it through.
Somehow.
And maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t given too much away.
As more groups finished their readings, Keating migrated back toward the blackboard, clapping his hands together again with the air of a man about to drop another bombshell.
“Well done, boys!” he said, beaming. “I hope you’ve managed to get into the minds of these lovestruck poets, because your assignment for this week is going to require it.”
He paused.
Long enough for Todd to feel the dread pool in his stomach again.
“Your assignment for Friday is this: write your own, original love poems.”
A collective groan rippled through the classroom, followed by scattered laughter and muffled curses.
Keating forged ahead, unfazed. “Just as young people have done for hundreds of years, I want you to make something beautiful out of those feelings. It can be about your past, your present, or your future love. It can even be about someone else’s love, imagined or observed. The point is: find these emotions and put them on the page.”
Todd’s heart sank. Writing poetry was one thing. Writing love poetry—on purpose, for an actual assignment, to be read and graded and possibly scrutinized—was another thing entirely.
“You have until the beginning of class Friday,” Keating concluded, sweeping the room with one final, knowing smile. “Make it magnificent. That’s all. Enjoy the rest of this dreary Monday, boys. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Todd didn’t move as the rest of the class began packing up. His hands were still folded tightly over his desk, his poem trembling slightly beneath them. A love poem. By Friday. He had no idea how he was going to do it.
Neil leaned over and nudged him gently with a grin. “Start brainstorming yet?”
Todd managed a weak smile, but the truth sat heavy in his chest.
He didn’t even know where to begin.