Poetry. Not exactly a strength among the Ducks - though Guy's poems to Connie have proven to be rather nauseating at times. At the start of the school year, we got a new English teacher. Mr Flanagan. He's only the second in this preppy hell-hole (the first being our music teacher Miss Spence). One of the first things he did was show us Dead Poets Society. It's obvious he's trying too hard to be like Mr Keating - but we appreciate the effort.

At the start of the week, Mr Flanagan gave us the most daunting task of our lives. We were given until the end of the week to write an original poem. Now that the end of the week has arrived, we must recite them in front of the entire class. Totally original, definitely not taken from the movie. Poor Kenny is so petrified that he got me to forge a signature on a fake doctors note. Dwayne just finished his lengthy poem about farm life back in Texas. It was just what I expected from the cowboy - kinda makes me want to go there. This is one of the few classes where everyone on the team is together. So, we share looks and some fake gag as Guy wraps up his poem.

"She is the sun, she is the sky. I see that beauty in her eyes." Guy recites his final lines and gives Connie a wink.

"Get a room!" Charlie chirps from the front row as others clap.

"We get it, you're in love!" I join him making Guy playfully roll his eyes on his way back to his seat.

"It was beautiful, Guy." Mr Flanagan shoots us a look before continuing. "I didn't expect the people in relationships to heckle that one."

"They've been together since we were like 3." Charlie sets me up to finish the story.

"Yeah, we've been doing this for years."

"Alrighty then... Luis, step up to the plate. Your turn." Dumbfounded with no response, Mr Flanagan quickly moves things along.

With his name being called, Luis strolls to the front of the class with a certain smugness that he carries when he thinks he's about to do something smart (it's always dumb). Whispers grow with each step he takes. This should be good.

"I..." He pauses as a smirk creeps onto his face. "Like big butts and I-"

"No!" Mr Flanagan yells to cut him off as the class cracks up. "While I appreciate the comedy, it lacks originality. Do you have anything else to present?"

"...No."

"Then you can redo it on Monday. Fail to present something original and I'll present you with an F. Go sit yourself down."

"Good job, Speedy McGee." Russ smacks his back as he goes to sit down.

"Okay, moving swiftly along. Y/N, front and centre."

I wasn't overly thrilled about doing this poem - poetry has never really been my thing. Well, I've never thought about it. I help write most of the Bash Brigade songs but this is different. Being out of my depth, I struggled to find a subject. So, I did what I assume a handful of the team have done. I wrote about my favourite pass time, my passion, the love of my life. With a deep and slightly shaky breath, I face the class poem in hand.

"Ice and stage, I rule them all. Skates or shoes, you'll never see me fall. Deafening whistles with missed calls, or lighters looking like stars, that electrifying feeling is ours. Home and freedom are one and the same. That's how I feel when I'm playing the game." I look up to clapping and a brief standing ovation from the band. "Thanks, boys."

"Clear theme through and through. Not a bad effort. Not bad at all." Mr Flanagan commends my efforts.

"Thanks. Took me about 5 minutes this morning." I admit nonchalantly.

"Imagine what you could do if you actually put some thought into it." Hey, he didn't say it was bad, so I'll take it. "We don't have much time left, so, I'd say we can squeeze a couple more in. Uh... Goldberg.

I know for a fact that Goldberg didn't prepare, so this will be short and sweet. He steps in front of my desk, gives me a nod and clears his throat.

"The cake... Took time... To bake." He pauses to stretch it out before leaving everyone waiting.

"Is that it?" Mr Flanagan asks, clearly not knowing Goldie well enough yet.

"Well, yeah. I couldn't think of anything else."

"Goldberg, I gave you this assignment on Monday."

"Yeah?"

"It's Friday!"

"Well, I've had hockey, teach!" That excuse isn't working much at this point.

"So has half the class. Goldberg, I suggest you come up with something by Monday or it's an F."

"Oh, alright."

With only a couple of minutes left before lunch, and before Mr Flanagan can pick the final poet, a knock at the door. Perfect timing from my little Bash Brother. I taught him well.

"Ken! Where have you been?" Mr Flanagan asks in a cheerful tone.

"Uh, I was at a doctors appointment." I sense some nerves as he hands over the note.

"No worries, I hope everything's alright." He calms Ken's nerves before reading the note properly. "Hm..... L/N, I didn't know you had a PhD." I stare at him confused as I realise what's happening. "Look, I know this assignment scares you, but you won't get anywhere if you hide away because you're scared."

"Yeah, I know." He sighs and hangs his head in shame.

"You'll have to do it on Monday with everyone who didn't get time today."

"Okay."

"Sorry, Kenny. I'll do better next time." I apologise as he walks past me.

"How about we make sure there is no next time?" Flanagan speaks up.

"I didn't say which class. In some sports, a note for him is life or death."

"Okay, before we run out of time, Averman warmed us up with a stand-up comedy routine. Dean, how about you close us out?"

We've been giving Dean a lot of crap about this lately. I mean, Portman and poetry isn't a pairing you'd particularly put together. We're all expecting to hear something rage filled. You know, fire, skulls, wanting to smash someone's face in, some horror themed stuff. Anything that reflects his anger issues and Chicago street life. Maybe something about how much the band rocks. He knows this - we've been giving him a lot of razz all week.

"You got this." Fulton reassures his best friend.

"Oh, this is gonna be spectacular!" Averman exclaims 4 rows in.

"Showstopper coming up!" Russ pipes up.

"You go this, bud." I give him a thumbs up as he shakes it all off and glues his eyes to his slightly crumpled piece of paper.

"It's not that long."

"That's fine. Quality over quantity." Mr Flanagan quickly assures him to try and fit him in before the bell.

"If you ever need me, with my team is where I'll be. Whether on the ice or in the crowd, know I'll be around. Win or defeat, it doesn't matter to me because when Ducks fly together, we can never be beat."

When Dean looks up, he's met with collective shock. No anger or anything - even in his tone. He slides the paper back into his pocket as he receives feedback.

"Excellent effort, Mr Portman. You clearly care a great deal about your team."

"That was actually pretty good." Julie comments.

"Yeah, good job, Portman." Adam adds.

"Thanks." He responds somewhat quietly as the bell beings blaring.

With the signal for lunch, everyone floods through the doors, creating a stampede in the hall. Thankfully, we all manage to make it to the cafeteria in one piece. Once we get through the rush hour lines and reach our usual table, a collection of conversations ensue. Despite essentially having a mini band meeting, Portman remains a little quiet.

"You okay, Dean?" Ken asks.

"Yeah, you've seemed a little off ever since we watched the movie." Connie cuts in, causing other conversations to cease.

"I'm fine. It just reminded me of me and my dad. You guys know what an ass he is." Some of us more than others. "And why did everyone chrip me so much?" He becomes more like himself as his frustration shows. "Why didn't you say anything to Fulton? You guys didn't believe in me at all."

"Of course we believed in you, dude." Fulton breaks the brief silence caused by the shock of his vulnerability.

"We just didn't pin you as a poetry guy." Connie explains.

"Yeah, we were just joking around." Averman shrugs.

"Sorry we made ya feel like dirt on the bottom of our boots, partner."

"You didn't do nothing, Tex." Dean denies him.

"Well, the rest of us are sorry." I apologise on behalf of the guilty group.

"Yeah, sorry." Scattered apologies are heard around the table.

"I guess we just didn't realise how much the movie and chirps were affecting you. Sorry, man." Charlie extends his apology.

"It's cool." Dean shrugs it off. "How come you didn't give Fulton any razz though?" He questions considering the known behaviour of the Bash Brigade barring Ken.

"We did a little." Guy remembers the remarks.

"But it's mainly because of the Valentine situation." Connie pulls out a well kept secret among the old Ducks.

"Valentine situation?" The newer Ducks are puzzled.

"They haven't told you the story?" Adam seems surprised.

"No..." They all turn to me for information as childlike smiles illuminate their faces as Fulton questions his life choices beside me.

"Spill it, sister." Julie is intrigued.

"Okay, so back in 2nd grade there was an assignment to make valentines cards for someone else in the class." I begin the story but quickly get interrupted.

"Yes, Connie and Guy were still being sickening sweethearts." Charlie confirms suspicions.

"I gave my card to the lunch lady." Goldberg recalls.

"So did Karp." Averman adds.

"Who?" Luis questions.

"Who cares? What happened?" Portman hurries us along.

"Well, I wasn't in that day because I was sick. Fulton didn't get a card and I certainly didn't. He felt bad and had a bit of a crush on me, so he made me a card with a crappy but cute poem inside and brought it to my house with some flowers he picked by his house."

"Aw, well, ain't that sweet?" Dwayne smiles.

"Is that true?" Portman laughs in disbelief, unsure if he should believe it.

"Yep, 100%." Fulton confirms.

"Shut up!" He can't believe it.

"It's true! I still have it." I confess.

"Like, actually?"

"Yep. And that's how you start a love story. Take notes, bud." I settle the debate as I grab Fulton's hand and rest my head on his shoulder.

"Look, Portman, we're sorry we made you feel crappy." Charlie changes the topic. "What can we do to make it up to you?"

"Uh... Pizza and a horror marathon at Y/N's place?"

"Sure thing."

"Oh, and I might need to see that card."

"Me too!" Russ shouts.

"Same here." The others agree.

"You got yourself a deal." I agree to his terms.

So, it's settled. Who would've thought that poetry would strike a chord in Portman? And despite the endless library of thought provoking and beautiful poems, nothing will ever top the poem Fulton wrote for me in the 2nd grade.