✔︎ DAYLIGHT, neil perry

chapter II

"Your study of trigonometry requires absolute precision," our teacher says. "Anyone failing to turn in any homework assignment will be penalised one point off their final grade. Let me urge you now not to test me on this point."

Suddenly, as I'm about to drop my head on my desk, the end of a pointing stick is slammed down in front of me, jolting me awake.

"Is that clear, Miss Williams?" my teacher says, looking at me with a strict look on his face. I nod quickly. "Since it is your first day of classes at Welton, I will let it slide this time. But the next time I see you falling asleep in my class, it will be straight to the Headmaster's office. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," I say, staring straight ahead.

The teacher tuts. "Good." Then, he continues on with the lesson.

Finally, the bell rings again. I check my timetable. English, it says.

When I get to the classroom, I sit in the far left column, third row, next to the window again. Renee takes a seat behind me, and we start talking, waiting for the teacher to come.

The chatter dies down once the teacher comes out from his office, whistling a tune a cannot recall. He, with his clipboard, walks down one of the aisles and makes his way outside the classroom.

I look at Renee and then Neil, who is next to me, in confusion.

The teacher then peeks back into the classroom. "Well, come on."

With some chatter and quiet questioning, Neil finally speaks up. "Let's go." He snaps his book shut and the rest of the class follows, murmuring in confusion.

We all make our way out into the hall, gathering around a table in front of Mr. Keating. I look up at Neil as he looks down at me, both of us with looks of confusion and excitement, curious for the happenings.

Mr. Keating stops his whistling.

"O Captain! My Captain!" he recites. "Who knows where that comes from?"

Walt Whitman. I think to myself. I don't raise my hand.

"Anybody?" he asks. The only answer is someone blowing his nose.

"Not a clue?"

Reluctantly, I decide to raise my hand.

Mr. Keating points at me. "You there."

With a dry throat, I manage, "A poem. By—um—Walt Whitman."

He nods. "About?" he urges.

"Um, Abraham Lincoln?" I say. It came out as more of a question than an answer, despite me knowing that I was right.

Keating smiles. "Good work! What's your name?"

I fiddle with the buttons on my blazer. "Williams. Emmeliah Williams, sir."

"Lovely, Miss Williams," he says. "Now, in this class, you can either call me Mr. Keating, or if you're slightly more daring, O Captain, My Captain."

Some of the class chuckles. I smile at the comment.

Mr. Keating—no, O Captain, My Captain—continues. "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 98-pound weakling. I would go to the beach and people would kick copies of Byron in my face." The class chuckles.