where all the poets went to die [dead poets society]

3 - fertilizing dandelions, indeed

Her uncle stepped out through the secondary door of the classroom. A rustle of curiosity and confusion roused the boys as they looked around at one another, uncertain of what to do. Then her uncle stuck his head back in through the door. "Well, come on," he said before walking back out of the door.

"Well, we should probably follow him," someone said and like a flick of a switch, the classroom of boys grabbed their poetry books and flowed out.

Maria waited until the last of the boys left before picking up her book and following along. She kept her steps slow and well behind the tall, dark-haired boy who walked leisurely in front of her.

The group of students stopped at the school's trophy cabinets, clustering around them and Mr. Keating. As the last of the boys filtered around, finding a spot amongst the crowd, the boy that Maria had been walking behind suddenly stepped aside for her.

"Ladies first," he said smoothly.

"Oh, thank you," Maria managed to reply, a little taken back by him.

He stood about a head taller than her. He was only wearing his white button-down and his tie was loose and haphazardly tied around his neck. His hair was messy and mused like he had run his fingers through it and tugged at the roots in frustration.

But what caught Maria off-guard was how handsome he looked.

He had this boyish, preppy, handsome look about him and Maria almost cowered into herself when he winked at her.

"It's my pleasure," he said, before crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against a doorframe. "Though, I doubt you'll be able to see much over their heads at your height, doll."

Maria gave him a funny look. "Doll?"

He replied with a smirk. "You look like one," he said, his eyes flicking up and down. "Like I could shrink you and give you to my little sister. Though I probably don't have to shrink you that much considering your height."

"I'm not that short," she said quietly and nodded toward a boy a few steps away from her. "I'm taller than him."

The boy only gave her an amused look and smirked.

"O Captain, My Captain!" Mr. Keating said from the front of the group, standing in front of a display of photos and awards. "Who knows where that comes from? Anybody?"

Sniffles and coughs were the only replies.

Her uncle caught her eyes amongst the crowd and lifted a brow, prompting her to reply, but Maria shook her head firmly. Even though she knew this particular piece was from Walt Whitman, she wasn't particularly keen on speaking in front of the group of boys yet.

"Not a clue then," Mr. Keating continued, his eyes leaving his niece's to sweep over the group. "It's a poem by Walt Whitman about Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Now in this class, you can either call me, Mr. Keating or if you're slightly more daring 'O Captain, My Captain'."

Everyone laughed slightly at that.

"And if you're my dear niece, Maria Keating, then Uncle John will do just fine," her uncle said and gestured loosely to where she stood.

Eyes turned back to her again and Maria gave a shy smile as her face flushed pink, gripping the side of her poetry book until her fingers grew white.

"Now let me dispel a few rumours so they don't fester into facts. Yes, I too attended Hell-ton and survived. And no, at that time I was not the mental giant you see before you. I was the intellectual equivalent of a ninety-eight-pound weakling. I would go to the beach and people would kick copies of Bryon in my face," Mr. Keating started.