Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (6 page)

Ian liked him too. I made sure to sit beside Ian in class, and I stuck to him like glue because all the girls were checking him out, even Sherrie Cumberland, who already has a boyfriend. She was practically gobbling him up with her eyes. Mind you, I can’t blame her. Ian is definitely the best-looking guy in grade eleven, maybe even in the entire school. Of course, he’s not a big talker, so I still don’t know what lies underneath that sexy, rugged veneer, but I’m going to find out. Ian Slater is a mystery, and I love mysteries. I am going to read him from cover to cover.

“Desolation Row”

I’m sitting against the black-curtained wall of the theater studio, listening to a guy named Benjamin Osborne tell me that he has a photographic memory and top marks in physics, when who walks into the room but Carla Cabrielli and Ian Slater. Both of them. In my drama class. Just when I thought my courses were Carla-free. I immediately consider switching electives. The history of Inuit ice fishing? The mating habits of the earthworm? I’m about to slink out of the class and go straight to Mr. Squash’s office when Mr. Gabor walks in, and suddenly all thoughts of dropping this course vanish.

Mr. Gabor is a large man dressed in black, built like a bull. He has powerful shoulders, a thick neck, a pitted face and dark wizard eyes. When he strides into the studio, he’s like a general taking command of his troops. When he takes attendance, chanting our names, it’s like he’s reciting poetry. “Julia Epstein” never sounded so good.

Mr. Gabor gives us an overview of the course. He tells us that this year, we’ll be focusing on character development, monologue and scene work, and—as part of our physical
training—we’ll be learning the art of stage fighting, primarily fencing. When he mentions
fencing
, there’s a rumble of excitement from the guys, and Ian sits up straight.

Across the room, two lanky boys in red lumber jackets whisper to each other. They both have long frizzy hair and remind me of Dr. Seuss’s Thing One and Thing Two. One of them raises his hand and says, “Mr. Gabor, Mr. Gabor …”

Mr. Gabor turns to face the boys. He arches an eyebrow. “Ah yes, I see we have the two
J
s with us again, in their handsome matching attire.” The class chuckles.

“Jason and Jeremy,” Benjamin whispers.

The
J
s grin goofily.

Mr. Gabor says, “Yes, Mr. Titlebaum, you have a pressing question?”

“Uh, yeah, what musical are we doing this year?” Jason asks.

“There will be two theater productions this year,” Mr. Gabor announces. “A musical and a Shakespeare play. The musical,
Oklahoma
, will be directed by Mrs. Farnell.”

Carla looks stricken. Several people gasp. Mr. Gabor silences them with a sharp stare. “As for myself, I will have the pleasure of directing
Hamlet
.”

There’s a collective groan. Benjamin says, “Mr. Gabor, with all due respect, aren’t we all too immature and unskilled to tackle one of the greatest plays ever written in the history of theater?”

“Yeah, we’re too stupid to do
Hamlet
,” Jeremy says.

“You may be lazy, Mr. Ginsberg, but you are not stupid,” Mr. Gabor says firmly.

“I’m stupid,” Jason calls out, “ ’cause when I read Shakespeare, my eyes glazeth over. All those thees and thous …”

“Yeah, man, it’s so outdated. It’s, like, irrelevant,” Jeremy says.

“Ooh, big word,” Jason says. “
Irrelevant
. Wow. Style points, man.” They high-five each other and the class laughs.

Mr. Gabor glowers at the
J
s. “For your information,” he says icily, “I have not chosen to produce
Hamlet
because it is
easy
, but because it is
compelling
.” His gaze sweeps across our faces like the harsh white beam of a searchlight, and our laughter fizzles into an uncomfortable silence. “Do you want to become actors?” he asks in a scathing voice. “Because there is no better tutor than William Shakespeare. Do you want to try on the skin of a man who faces adversity? Meet Hamlet. Imagine that your father has been murdered by your uncle, your mother is behaving like a whore, your girlfriend is being used as a pawn against you, the people you thought were your friends have betrayed you, and the society you live in is seething with corruption. Watch Hamlet wrestle with this, and then discover how, even in the most desperate of times, a man can act with dignity and courage.”

Mr. Gabor glares at us, and we sit cowering in our chairs, a bunch of blundering initiates yearning to join his secret
society, if only he will find us worthy. We bow our heads and wait for judgment. Mr. Gabor’s eyes come to rest on Jeremy Ginsberg’s sheepish face. “And is this
relevant
, Mr. Ginsberg?” he asks. “I believe that Shakespeare has more to say about alienation, madness and morality in 175 eloquent pages than you or I could cobble together in a lifetime.”

Jeremy gulps.

Mr. Gabor marches into his office and returns with a stack of
Hamlet
paperbacks. “I was going to give these out next month,” he says briskly, “but I think some of you need an early start.” He passes out the books, one by one, placing them in our hands like precious gifts.

After school, I sit on the back deck and crack open the play. I figure that if Mr. Gabor loves
Hamlet
, so will I. I’m hoping that
Hamlet
will hit my soul like a bolt of lightning. But it doesn’t. Instead, I struggle with the language, looking up the meaning of old English words and obscure sexual puns. Finally, I skim through the hard parts to the climax—and I don’t get it at all. Why does Hamlet agree to fight a “friendly” duel with Laertes when he suspects that something is fishy? He even tells his best friend, Horatio, that he has a really bad feeling about the fight, and Horatio says,
“If your mind dislike any thing, obey it.”
In other words,
Listen to your instincts and don’t do it
. It’s good advice, but Hamlet
ignores it. He says:
“There is a / special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be / now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be / now; if it be not now, yet it will come. The / readiness is all.”

What does that mean? Is Hamlet resigning himself to fate or the will of God? Why would he willingly walk into a trap? I mean, all through the play, he agonizes about doing the right thing, and then, in the end, he goes and does the wrong thing. The fight is a setup. Laertes’s sword is dipped in poison and Hamlet is killed. So is Laertes, and the queen and king. It’s a blood bath. And, yeah, I know this is a tragedy, but what’s the point? What is Shakespeare trying to say?

I’m reading the scene for the second time when I see Carla, Debbie and Marlene slogging up the hill toward Carla’s house. Carla peers through the hedge that separates our two yards and stares at my book. “Doing homework already?” she sneers. I shrug. Carla says, “I hate Shakespeare. It puts me to sleep. If it wasn’t for
Coles Notes
, I wouldn’t know what the hell is going on.” She laughs sharply and then looks at me. “I bet you don’t use
Coles Notes
.”

“Well, no,” I admit. My English teacher at T.M.R. High said that using
Coles Notes
was cheating.

Carla juts her chin toward my copy of
Hamlet
and asks, “So, are there any good parts for girls?”

“Well, there’s Ophelia, Hamlet’s girlfriend, and Gertrude, Hamlet’s mother, the queen.”

“That’s all?” Carla exclaims. I nod. “Jeez! What kind of play is that?”

“You should audition for the girlfriend,” Debbie says to Carla.

“Yeah, you should,” Marlene says.

“What’s the girlfriend like?” Carla demands.

I begin to explain that Ophelia is a girl who gets dumped by Hamlet and goes insane, but before I can finish, Carla waves her hand dismissively. “Forget it. I don’t do girls who get dumped. What about the queen?”

“I’m not sure about her,” I say. “Either she’s so in love with Claudius that she doesn’t suspect that he murdered her husband or she’s trying to secure her position as the queen of Denmark.”

Carla nods. “I’m going for the queen. At least she’s not a wimp.”

Marlene asks me, “Are you auditioning?”

“I don’t know,” I say. But as soon as I say it, I realize that actually I do want to audition because if I’m going to learn anything while I’m stuck in this awful school, it’s going to be from Mr. Gabor. If he’s directing
Hamlet
, I want to be in it.

Carla’s eyes narrow. She says, “Well, Julia, whatever you do, don’t try out for the queen, ’cause that part has my name on it.” She laughs like it’s a joke, but it’s no joke. It’s a warning.

“Baby I’m-A Want You”

I’m walking down Hawthorne Crescent with Debbie and Marlene, looking for Ian’s house, and I’m in a bad mood. It’s hot and humid, and I should not have to be doing this.

Is this nuts?

Yes, it is.

Do I hate myself?

Yes, I do.

So why can’t I stop myself?

Because for the last ten days, I’ve been hunting Ian down in school, finding out where his locker is, learning his schedule by heart, and he still hasn’t asked me out! I mean, what’s a girl supposed to do? What
is
his problem? I’ve never had to wait this long for a date. Never. Debbie says that if I dangle myself in front of his face long enough, he’ll bite. Marlene thinks he’s psycho. Ian’s in her chemistry class, and last week he was sent down to the principal’s office for lighting his cigarette with a Bunsen burner. She thinks he’s dangerous. I don’t know what to think.

Marlene says, “There it is,” and we look over at number 47.
Ian’s parents must be loaded because the place looks like a mansion: white pillars, wrought iron gates, formal landscaping, the works. Ian’s motorcycle’s in the driveway. It’s a Honda 750 Four. It’s black, and he rides it to school wearing his scuffed-up black leather jacket with the buckles and zippers, or just a plain white T-shirt flapping up his back. He always parks his bike beside Jim Malone’s bike. They’ve become friends, probably because of their bikes. Jim Malone is in grade thirteen, and he’s a pig. He thinks he’s hot shit because last year his band had a gig as a warm-up band at the El Mocambo. I’ve been to the El Mocambo twice, even though I’m underage, and I say
Big deal!
It doesn’t make him a rock star.

Debbie lights a ciggie and says, “Now what?”

“You want to ring the doorbell?” Marlene asks.

“No.”

“Then what?” Deb asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Well, you’re the one who wanted to come here,” Debbie says.

“I know, I know. Just give me a second, okay?” I say. It’s not like I’m nervous or anything; I just want to play this right. Marlene taps her foot. Debbie smokes. A bead of sweat trickles down my back. Damn. Sweat is so unattractive.

A car cruises down the street. A silver Mercedes-Benz. We watch as it pulls into Ian’s driveway. A slim dark-haired woman in a soft green dress and matching heels steps out of
the car. She opens the trunk, takes out a couple of bags from Holt’s and glances over her shoulder at us. “Hello,” she says.

“Hi,” we say.

“Are you friends of Ian’s?” she asks. Her voice has a lilt to it. We nod. She spots Ian’s bike in the driveway. “Would you like to come in? I’m sure he’d enjoy a visit from three pretty girls.”

Marlene and Debbie look at me. I think
What the hell—she’s asking
. “Sure, thanks,” I say politely. I follow Mrs. Slater up the front steps. As she puts her key into the lock, I can’t help but notice her diamond ring—a rock that could knock your eyetooth out, as Ma would say. Mrs. Slater smiles at me. She has the same delicate skin and gray-blue eyes as Ian, but her eyes are more dreamy. I wonder if Ian’s eyes ever look dreamy. Maybe in the bedroom …

Mrs. Slater opens the door, and we step into a stunning marble foyer. There’s a vase of roses on a table, a spiral staircase leading upstairs, a crystal chandelier hanging from a second-floor ceiling and, off to the side, a living room full of puffy sofas and billowing drapes, all done in pinks and creams like the inside of a seashell.