Chapter Text
Every teacher in Hellton knew Charlie Dalton — forgetful, inattentive, lazy, stupid — the bad kid.
They knew he could never recall anything that was taught only a day before. They knew even the faintest chirping of the birds outside the windows would rob his focus from them. They knew he never put in the effort into his work, always leaving things to the last minute. They knew his reading level was far below his fellow peers.
But none of them knew Charlie Dalton.
They didn’t know his expertise in music — particularly the alto sax — how he was able to go on for hours, about “Jazz’s Golden Age”, how it slowly integrated into mainstream music, the difference of its role in an orchestra and a big band — anything. They didn’t know he noticed details other people never noticed, like how the lights in the English classroom were always flickering (in a 3:2 polyrhythm, his music brain piped up). They didn’t know the amount of hours he spent slaving over his work, willing his brain to just do it, feeling worse and hating himself for every second that he blankly stared at the work in front of him, paralysed. They didn’t know how the words on the papers would seem to float and swirl around, switching their order every time he blinked.
Since Year 7, his teachers have stopped calling on him in class, claiming he was too talkative and asked too many questions. Since Year 7, his teachers have stopped asking him to read out loud in class, claiming he was too slow and deliberately messing up words to make the class laugh. Since Year 7, his teachers have sat him alone, claiming his tics and fidgets were disruptive to the class.
Since Year 7, Charlie Dalton has decided that if he was going to be treated poorly, he would behave poorly.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried — he did, he really did — but once his teachers had him labelled, there was no use trying to change it.
So when Mr. Nolan announced that they had a new English teacher — Mr. Keating — he didn’t really care. He was sure that the other teachers would fill him in on what a troubled kid he was. He didn’t see the point in trying.
With his AirPods playing Charlie Parker in one ear, and the other left free for the chatter of his friends, Charlie sauntered to the English classroom, lining up outside.
What he didn’t expect was Mr. Nolan strolling out of the classroom, his stare stern and disapproving, resolutely unwavering until Charlie took out his earphones and put them in his bag.
When the boys had quieted down, Mr. Nolan spoke.
“I expect you all to treat Mr. Keating with utmost respect.”
With that, he stalked away from the classroom, and the boys slowly started to file in.
Walking to his usual seat at the back of the classroom — assigned by the previous English teacher so he didn’t “disturb other students” — Charlie played with his pen, staring the man in the eyes as he made a show of putting his legs on the table, as if already challenging Mr. Keating’s authority before the class even started.
Mr. Keating did not react. If anything, the corner of the man’s mouth twitched upwards, seemingly impressed by his blatant act of disrespect.
Scoffing, Charlie turned his attention to the birds outside.
With Mr. Nolan’s warning fresh in their heads, the boys sat in attentive silence, waiting for their teacher to speak.
“Now, in this class, you may call me Mr. Keating. Or — if you’re slightly more daring — o captain, my captain.”
The pen halted in Charlie’s hand as he turned and faced the teacher. Light, amused chuckles filled the room.
“Now, I want you to grab a piece of paper.”
Above the soft shufflings of papers and notebooks being pulled out of their bags, Mr. Keating continued.
“Since this is our first lesson, I’m not going to make you much,” he said, smiling knowingly at the relieved grins sent his way, “all I want you to do — for this entire lesson — is to fill the paper.”
Furrowed brows and bewildered glances were thrown all over the room.
“That’s right, gentlemen. It can be filled with anything you want — poems, stories, pictures — anything that comes to you during this period. The important thing, lads, is not to force it. Just let it come to you.”
Pleased to be off the hook, and careful not to push his luck, Charlie begrudgingly put his legs down and set his paper on his desk.
Without the teacher calling out instructions and making jokes, though, the room felt too still. Restless, Charlie looked around the room, seeing all his classmates burying their heads into their papers.
Reluctantly, Charlie uncapped his pen followed suit.
He reasoned that if Mr. Keating essentially gave them a free period, the least he could do is fulfill the task.
However, his mind was blank as the paper staring back at him. Well — not quite. The paper, not his mind. He could see the ceiling lights reflected onto the empty canvas, those damn flickering lights drawing his attention.
Letting out a quiet sigh, he tore his gaze away from the reflections and to the real things.
Inadvertently, his feet began to tap to the rhythm, his mind wandered from the stifling classroom.
In his head, he could hear the kick drum and the electric bass playing the 3:2 polyrhythm respectively. He could hear the guitar and keys following the bass’ chord progression, playing in block chords to set a firm foundation.
A beautiful sax melody filled his mind. Every note seemed to float — all of them dying and falling, just like the night. He embraced the uncontrolled music in his head — so haunting, lovely, and bold — Charlie could taste it.
The harsh school bell made Charlie jump in his seat. Blinking out of his stupor, he hastily grabbed his bag and his paper, running up to join Neil, who had been waiting for him while the rest of the class shuffled out.
Encouraged by Neil’s friendly grin, Charlie shoved his paper into Neil’s hands, flapping his own as excited ramblings about his piece tumbled out of his mouth.
Stopping slightly in front of Mr. Keating, Neil, ever the polite boy, thanked him and bade him goodbye. Just as Charlie paused to take a breath, Neil nudged him gently and cocked his head to the teacher.
When Charlie turned his head from Neil to Mr. Keating, he saw the teacher reading his paper curiously.
Embarrassed, Charlie looked down, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“Sorry, my handwriting’s messy,” he muttered.
Neil’s gentle “hey” was cut off by Mr. Keating.
“A Charlie Parker fan. Nice.”
Charlie’s head snapped up so quickly, Neil couldn’t stop the endearing smile from his face if he tried.
“You know him?” Charlie asked, eyes shining with hope.
“Well, I’m more of a Bill Evans fan myself,” the captain said, no hint of teasing in his voice, “but I’d like to say I know a thing or two about jazz music, and I’m definitely not opposed to learning more about the alto sax.”
Charlie’s eyes lit up, flapping his arms.
“And, from what I can tell,” the teacher continued, completely genuine, looking Charlie in the eyes, “I have a very skilled musician in my class.”
Charlie’s jaw dropped as he stared at Mr. Keating.
His brain short-circuited.
Were his ears deceiving him?
A Hellton teacher, a grown person, deciding he was good?
The only thing grounding him was Neil’s warm hand softly rubbing the small of his back.
“Uh- what- yeah! Yeah, uh,” Charlie stammered, floundering for a response, “uh, thanks! Thank you.”
“Of course,” Mr. Keating smiled kindly, “see you tomorrow.”
For the first time since Year 7, Charlie walked out of the English classroom with a smile.