Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic. Otherwise, I'd have Charlie all to myself! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Rating: FRT

Spoilers: None that I know of...

Content Warning: Possible Strong Language

Summary: Charlie Dalton is now at a new private school. Dare he start a new chapter in the DEAD POETS SOCIETY or does he close that book?

I celebrate myself, and sing myself…And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you…I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable…I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.

Charlie Dalton leaned back in his desk, reading those words over and over. He hadn't regretted hitting Cameron. After all, the boot-licker deserved it. He didn't regret being expelled from Hell-ton. He was trying to think of what it was that he regretted. He looked out the window and saw the snow starting to softly fall.

Charlie took out an old book and quietly read Herrick's poem to himself. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying" He smiled as he remembered Mr. Keating's words. "Carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary."

"Mr. Dalton Care to share your poetry?" Mr. Evans, the English teacher at his new school asked.

Charlie sat up. "No, not really sir."

"Then why did you read it out loud?" Mr. Evans stood by Charlie's desk.

"Because it's a beautiful poem." Charlie snuffed.

"Yes, but let's look at the poem on the Pritchard Scale, shall we?" Mr. Evans took the book to the front and started to explain how it fit on the Pritchard Scale. "Mr. Dalton, what do you think of your poem?"

"Sir?" Charlie shot back to reality.

"It's not up to par on the Pritchard Scale, now is it?"

"It's not pipe, Mr. Evans. It's poetry. J. Evans Pritchard is a lonely old prat who writes excrement, so he has to come up with some sort of scale to bring the best of the best poetry down. It's not Bandstand, sir."

"Pritchard's Scale is a tried and true method for analyzing poetry, Mr. Dalton."

"Why analyze something that speaks to people? Does everything in life need to be analyzed?" Charlie felt he was stepping out of himself. He learned how to suck the marrow of life without choking on the bone, and he was going to suck the marrow, even if he started to choke.

Mr. Evans looked at his brash new young student. "We are studying the Pritchard Scale here, Mr. Dalton…"

"Poetry isn't Bandstand and it shouldn't be treated as such."

"You don't interrupt a teacher, Mr. Dalton. I don't know who told you that the Pritchard Scale is an inaccurate method for analyzing poetry, but let me assure they were wrong. Without the Pritchard Scale, we wouldn't know what poems were well written."

"What of Shakespeare?" Charlie challenged.

"You are out of line, Mr. Dalton." Mr. Evans was half relieved when the bell rang, ending the school day. "Don't forget your assignments and, Mr. Dalton, I need you to stay behind."

Charlie sighed. "Yes, Mr. Evans?"

"You are to never challenge me again in class. I don't know what you were taught at Welton, but your attitude will not fly here. I suggest that you do a real check on yourself and adjust that poor attitude of yours. Dismissed."

Charlie stood up, resisting the urge to say anything. He made his way to his new room and was dismayed to see his roommate there already studying. "Peters." Charlie tossed his books on his bed and stared out the window.

"Dalton." David Peters tried to focus on his studies, but he was intrigued by the new guy. "Dalton?"

"Yeah?" Charlie never turned around.

"What were you taught at Welton?" Peters twisted in his chair to look at his roommate.

"We were taught 'Carpe Diem' and to learn how to speak for ourselves, even when no one will listen."

"The school taught you that?"

"Nope. Mr. Keating." Charlie looked at his roommate. There was something about Peters that reminded him of Todd. Peters wasn't a popular kid due to extreme shyness and in the couple weeks he'd been there, Charlie had grown to be considered the most popular one on campus. "Hey, there's something I have to do real quick. We can study our assignment when I get back, okay?"

Peters only nodded. "Sure." He turned back to his assignment and sighed. He was the only one that Charlie Dalton wouldn't speak to for more than one second.

Charlie made his way down to the phone area. He dialed a familiar number and was happy to hear a familiar voice on the other end. "John Keating speaking."

"Mr. Keating, it's Charlie Dalton." Charlie hoped Mr. Keating would remember him.

"Ah, yes. Still choking on the marrow of life?"

"No. I just really needed a friendly voice."

"Come now, Mr. Dalton, you have to have friends there."

Silence. "Mr. Keating, did I eve…"

"Speak, Mr. Dalton." Mr. Keating had given his beloved students a place to reach him should they ever need him. Until Charlie's call tonight, he had only heard from Todd Anderson, the mouse of the group.

"I want to thank you for giving us the opportunity to actually learn. I never got to say that."

"Mr. Dalton, you're amazing."

"What?"

"You call me to thank me for something I already knew." Charlie could picture Mr. Keating on the other end smiling. "The way you stood up for me. Oh, yes. Todd told me the full story." Mr. Keating knew that Charlie would ask. "The way you felt that you could stand up and walk how you wanted, speak how you wanted, and, most importantly, Mr. Dalton, how you have changed into a man, despite the circumstances surrounding you. I have heard the stories."

"How?"

"Mr. Crocelli."

"Our Latin teacher?" Charlie was dumbfounded.

"Yes. Good friend of mine. Went to Hell-ton with him. He was a member of the Dead Poets Society with me. He speaks very highly of you, Mr. Dalton."

"Mr. Keating?" Charlie hesitated.

"Yes, Mr. Dalton?"

"Could you call me Nuwanda?" Charlie grinned.

Mr. Keating laughed on the other end. "I must go now, Nuwanda." He spoke with a sense of humor. "Don't forget to call again to keep me posted."

"Thanks, Mr. Keating."

"Nuwanda?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Ask Mr. Crocelli for the package I sent your way."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n."

With renewed confidence and energy, Charlie made his way back to his room. ""Alright, Peters, where were we?"

Peters looked up at Charlie, surprised his roommate, who never studied with him, was now going to. "Uh, I was actually…"

"Never mind. What's the assignment?" Charlie sat down hard at his desk. He wasn't sure where the urge to be a better student was coming from, but he was going to continue keeping his grades at the A level they always had been at.

Peters flipped through his book. "We're to write a poem, using the Pritchard Scale as our guide." He didn't see it, but Peters knew Charlie rolled his eyes and he turned around and looked at his roommate. "Mr. Evans is a teacher and he knows this stuff and…"

"Alright! Relax!" Charlie sighed as he began to work on his assignment.