Falling for Hamlet (23 page)

I could hear my father pounding as I whispered to Hamlet, “I’m sorry.” Guilt and terror were fighting equally inside me.

He grabbed my shirt collar and pulled himself close to my face again. “If you ever manage to find someone else to be with,” he began, spitting venom with every word, “no matter what you do, this will follow you. You will never be able to undo it.” His grip tightened, and my shirt cut into the back of my neck. He face was red, and veins were popping at the temples. “And if you ever find someone to marry, make sure he’s a fool, because anyone with half a brain knows that women screw up men’s lives.”

He let go, and I scooted into the corner away from him, but he dove at me again. “Why don’t you become a nun? Or a whore? Seems sometimes you are both, no?” The first smile crept across his face, only it wasn’t the least bit joyful or kind. He mused on, “Better a nun. Why would you want to bring more sinners into the world?” He patted my stomach, then let his hand drift lower. I tried to push his hand away, but he gripped my jeans, his fingers digging into my flesh. Then he released me and reached for the button to open the sunroof.

I was breathing hard, terrified. As he waited for it to open, I pleaded, “I’m sorry. They made me—”

“I can’t take this anymore,” he muttered as he climbed onto the roof. “You’re making me crazy with these lies!”

I scrambled to unlock the door and bolted out. Hamlet had climbed on the top of the car, attracting the attention of passersby who had not already stopped to watch when our car slammed to a halt and the king emerged unannounced onto the street. Hamlet had his arms up in the air and was addressing the crowd. “I say no one else should marry. Everyone who’s married already, except one,” he declared, pointing at Claudius, “should go on living as they are, but no one else can marry.” He jumped onto the hood of the limo and pointed at me. “Go become a nun, you whore!” he shouted, and ran down the street toward the subway.

“Love?” Claudius yelled at my father. “You still think he’s insane with love?” His look was of pure disrespect and distaste for my father, and for me, too. “The kid’s just plain insane. And violent. You heard that threat. He means to do all of us harm. I’m sending Hamlet to England. He’ll be on a plane by week’s end. Maybe that’ll do him some good. And if not him, then us.” He signaled to the driver, who opened the door for him.

My father came over and tried to put his arms around me. I yanked my body away from him and stumbled down the street.

Ohgod ohgod ohgod, what had I done? How could I have been so stupid? How could I have hurt him like that? I hated myself more than I ever had, more than I ever would. I knew at that moment that I was no better than his mother or Claudius or Rosencrantz or Guildenstern. In fact, I was worse, because I still loved him and, despite what he said, I knew he still loved me, and I chose to hurt him anyway. And if there was a breaking point for him, I had to guess this was it. I wanted to scream or curse or weep or all of the above, but there were people watching, and I didn’t want my reaction to become news. As I ran away from my father, I wished I could erase every second of the last ten minutes. No, the last few months.

“What’s wrong? Ophelia, why are you crying?” asked Laertes.

I couldn’t stop myself long enough to tell him. I leaned against an office building’s cinder-block wall, looking through my tears at the end of the deserted alleyway. I hoped no one would come around the corner.

“Is it Dad? Are you hurt? Ophelia, what is it?”

“I… I…” I kept sobbing. I shouldn’t have dialed his number. I wanted to confide in him and had calmed down before I hit Send, but as soon as I heard his voice, I fell apart again. “It’s nothing,” I managed finally.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” he replied, but it was enough of an answer for him to stop asking questions.

“I did a really bad thing to Hamlet.”

“Speak of the devil,” Laertes replied. “He’s on TV. And so are you. And Dad. What’s going on? Why is Hamlet screaming? Has he completely lost his mind?”

I couldn’t believe it was out there already. The speed with which life became news mystified me. It was so fast, I couldn’t even comprehend what had happened—and I was there. I didn’t know how to explain it to Laertes. It was too much, and I couldn’t admit what I did. I was embarrassed for myself. I was embarrassed for our father. I was embarrassed for Hamlet.

But Hamlet’s words stuck in me like a needle.
“You shouldn’t have believed it. I never loved you.… No matter what you do, this will follow you. You will never be able to undo it.”

Aching all over, I moaned, “I hate Hamlet.” Yes, I hated him for how he acted. Even before he realized what was happening in the car, he had hurt me with his indifference and then his accusations. But, no matter what he had done and said, I hated myself more for my part in what had followed.

Laertes paused. He had heard me say that I hated Hamlet so many times over the years. The first few times he had believed it and had become invested in my upset. Then he got used to the ups and downs and tried to stay relatively uninvolved.

“Can you come back?” I asked. “Things are so… I need you.”

“You never need me,” he answered. Probably realizing that since I never did need him, it must be bad, he added, “Listen, it’s a really busy semester. I can’t just leave. But call me anytime you need, okay? Anytime. Five times a day if you want.”

I slumped against the wall, my stomach aching even more. “Okay.”

I wouldn’t call him. I reached out that once, but I would go back to dealing with things on my own. Straightening out and ignoring the pain, I checked to make sure my face was dry and set out to find a cup of coffee.

As I walked, I texted Horatio:

i thnk i jst put the finl nail n th coffin. find H.

Barnardo:
Glad you weren’t my girlfriend.

Ophelia:
Thanks.

Barnardo:
With friends like his…

Francisco:
I know, right?

Barnardo:
“I put the final nail in the coffin.” How can you explain that away?

Ophelia:
It’s an expression.

Francisco:
Or proof of conspiracy.

Barnardo:
We think you asked Claudius and your father to get into that limo with you.

Ophelia:
I asked? You don’t know anything about anything.

16

“People say Hamlet grew very paranoid. Was there any reason for it?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Everyone he thought he could trust betrayed him.”

“Even you?” Zara asks with a twinkle in her eye.

Ophelia sighs, then her chin begins to tremble. “Yeah.”

Zara hands her a tissue. “In what way?”

“I didn’t believe him when he told me there was gonna be trouble.”

That night, against my better judgment, I called Hamlet’s cell phone. Each mini-click after the ring sent my heart into my throat. By the time his voice-mail message came on, I was barely able to stand. “Okay. You’re not there. Or you can see it’s me and you’re not picking up. Probably that. I wouldn’t pick up if I were you. So, well, here’s the thing. You were right. Your mother and Claudius blackmailed me. There’s this video. Of us. God, you knew I couldn’t deal with being embarrassed, and look what I did. I’m so sorry.”

I was standing outside myself, distracted by my own lameness.

“I’m not sure where you are, but when you get this, could you just call? You probably don’t want to. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to talk to me again, but… Listen, if I don’t hear from you in two days, I’ll have my answer. Okay? If I don’t hear from you within two days, I’ll know we’re really through and… I’ll leave you alone.”

Three days later, I still hadn’t heard from Hamlet or Horatio. I had kept to myself, staying out of my father’s sight, not talking to anyone at school, literally hiding in stairwells and bathrooms until the bell rang. But on the third day, I picked myself up and tried to act normal again. If a walk of a thousand miles begins with just one step, I figured the road to recovering from Hamlet might begin by getting out of his world.

I got to first-period art history early for the first time in a while, and though Mr. Norquest didn’t say anything, he did raise his eyebrows as I took my seat next to my friends Lauren and Sebastian.

“Wanna ditch PE and grab coffee after class? You look terrible,” Sebastian whispered as the lights dimmed for a slide show.

“Thanks,” I whispered back, elbowing his ribs. “Coffee sounds good.” The circles under my eyes had grown rather pronounced, and I rubbed my face, hoping to stay awake in the darkened classroom.

Mr. Norquest intoned, “Note the difference between Ingres’s
Grande Odalisque
and Manet’s
Le déjeuner sur l’herbe
, or
The Lunch on the Grass.
This painting caused quite a stir when it was unveiled. Comments?”

The class pontificated about the sexism in having the woman nude while the men were clothed, admired her direct gaze, and noted the fact that in Manet’s painting the woman seemed comfortable among the men. Additionally, students observed that she was clearly of their class, unlike the classic odalisques who were exotic slaves meant to be pitied while lusted after.

When the teacher called on me, I admitted in a rare moment of truth, “Sometimes I feel like her.”

“Why is that?” he asked, pulling his glasses off and tucking them into his pocket.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Regretting I had spoken up, I shrugged and slumped a little in my seat.

Sebastian nudged me and whispered, “Go on.”

I sat up slightly and fortified myself. “She’s so exposed, and everyone is completely casual about the fact.”

“But is she bothered by it?” prodded Mr. Norquest, leaning against an empty chair in the first row.

“Not always easy to tell just by an expression,” I mused. “Maybe she’s used to playing their game, hiding her true self.”

Mr. Norquest nodded and looked back at the painting, wondering at this perspective.

“Or maybe she really likes being the center of attention,” retorted a snippy girl with purple hair sitting right in front.

“At least she doesn’t have to dye her hair crazy colors to get people to look at her,” I jabbed.

Mr. Norquest’s head whipped around and he shot me a look. Dye Job was one of his favorites, and I was not to mess with her. I slumped down in my seat again as Lauren snickered.

“You’re awesome,” Sebastian whispered to me when the next picture flashed on-screen. When Lauren rolled her eyes at him, he muttered, “What? She is.”

“You don’t have to try so hard. She already knows you’re in love with her.”

It was true. I did. That said, I didn’t want to think about love or boys or the trouble both brought, so I slumped further in my seat and let the two of them whisper-fight over my head until Mr. Norquest shushed them.

I sat silently for the rest of class and managed to stay awake. After coffee, I considered going home. If I went, my father might ignore me, or he might be working late. Either way, I would end up eating alone. I could stare at my phone and hope that it would ring. Or I could finish out the day and try to enjoy an evening out.

After school, our friend Justine invited us all to her parents’ condo for pizza, and that night we sat around talking and laughing. Well, they laughed. I mostly sat back and watched normal life going on. People who didn’t watch everything they said. People who didn’t think anyone was out to kill them. People who didn’t use anyone to learn secrets or to get ahead. Or if they did use people, the whole world didn’t have to know about it.

We were waiting for the start of
Denmark Divas
, which everyone except me seemed to be obsessed with. My friends were all talking about which singer might win this season, and everyone was completely ignoring the entertainment “news” show that preceded it. I had gone into the kitchen to grab a soda when I heard the name Hamlet spoken by the hosts. I hustled out of the kitchen and caught an image I’ll never forget: a still photo of a girl wearing boxing gloves, skimpy satin shorts, and a sequined sports bra being carried by Hamlet, who was wearing horns and a painted-on mustache.

“Lord Hamlet is the devil, indeed. Here he is at a party in Amsterdam, and look at that knockout with him.”

“When Ophelia sees this, she’s gonna call for a rematch.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t greet him with a sucker punch!” The reporters smirked at each other.

Everyone in the room was silent and staring at me. Dan was merciful and grabbed the remote. The screen snapped to black, and I swallowed hard. Looking around the room, I realized I could have been stark naked and doing the chicken dance, and they would not have been more embarrassed for me.

After a prolonged, awkward silence, Lauren offered, “Hamlet’s a jerk.”

“Don’t know what you saw in him,” added Keren.

“Duh. He’s the future king and he’s loaded.” Dan laughed. Keren slapped his leg.

“He’d better at least be great in bed,” Greg offered, shoving a handful of potato chips into his mouth.

Justine grabbed the bowl from Greg and said to me, “Men are dogs.” Turning back to Greg, she added, “All of you are dogs.”

He grabbed the bowl back and kissed her. “And you love us anyway. So who’s more ridiculous?” She threw a chip at him, and they started to laugh.

My pain had been quickly forgotten, and so I started backing out of the room. If I was going to be miserable I preferred doing it alone anyway, and I certainly didn’t want to hear any more hackneyed quips or assurances.