The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet (26 page)

Mrs. Wimple rushed through the backstage area, shoo ing everyone to their proper places. Then she patted her hair, and, just as the late bell for third period rang, stepped in front of the curtain.

“I’d like to welcome all of you to Howard Hoffer’s first—and I hope annual—Salute to Shakespeare. Two of our eighth-grade classes have spent the term learning about his life and works . . .” She went on, but I was so nervous, I couldn’t pay attention anymore.

What if I flubbed my lines? What if people laughed? What if I sounded stupid in front of everyone? Panic clamped my chest. I wanted to run. I reminded myself that it was just Shakespeare—someone I lived with every day, grew up hearing about. And KC and my friends thought I’d do okay. Gradually my chest loosened. My heart still pounded a heavy rhythm, but I no longer wanted to flee. Onstage, Mrs. Wimple kept going.

“I’d like to introduce two members of our community who graciously agreed to help with our staged reading today. Using their expertise, they assisted in scene selections and pronunciation workshops, and have agreed to serve as our advisory board for next year’s projects. Please welcome Drs. Penelope and Roger Kennedy.”

Snickers and jeers came from the backstage shadows behind me. I started to feel the familiar burn of shame, but took a deep breath. They were Shakespeare-obsessed, but they were my parents.

Once onstage, my mother gave a deep curtsy to Mrs. Wimple, and Dad bowed. From the audience, I heard a few hoots, and then . . .

“Yeah, Professors K!”

“Whoo!”

“Huzzah!”

Clapping followed the cheering, which quickly spread to the rest of the audience. Then I realized—the older kids in the audience were my parents’ students. Mom and Dad waved at the crowd, grinning from ear to ear as the applause continued. I made out some dim shapes standing beyond the stage, nearly out of the reach of the lights. They were giving my mom and dad a standing ovation—just for being introduced. The snickers behind me dried up.

Mom laughed and made a “quiet down” gesture with her hands. When the students settled, she took the microphone from Mrs. Wimple, who seemed rather bewildered at the display of attention.

“We are so glad you invited us to share your merry day,” Mom said. “All the world’s a stage, isn’t it?” Her students hooted again. She passed the mic to Dad.

“’Tis a rare and noble undertaking which these young scholars hath accepted. And it is our privilege to participate in the endeavor’s execution.” They went on from there, speaking about the importance of the Globe Theatre and how happy they were to be involved with the event.

While they spoke, I noticed how happy they were and how much information they had. Call me crazy, but I’d never paid attention to that before, at home. I guess it’s hard to notice things when you see them every day. It was obvious that they not only knew what they were talking about, but that they loved sharing it. They wanted us to get just as excited about Shakespeare as they were. And if it took dressing in costume or using the language to capture someone’s attention and imagination, they’d do it.

Yeah, it was strange, but I was starting to “get” the strangeness a little more . . . maybe like they were starting to get me. KC was right—I needed to lighten up.

Next, Mom and Dad explained that their students had voted on the best Globes and scene stagings. Part of
their
grade would be to explain why when they returned to class at Chestnut next week.

They presented the award for best Globe Theatre to partners Chrissy Li from my math class and Padma Anjou from the other language arts/social studies block. I was sure Ty would be disappointed, but he really couldn’t expect that my parents would allow their students to pick our theater to win. Especially since Padma and Chrissy’s featured hand-embroidered draperies and a working curtain. Mom and Dad even got the crowd to give a big Renaissance-era “huzzah!” for them when they got up onstage. Chrissy’s ears were bright red, but both she and Padma wore oversized smiles on their faces. There was one on mine too.

When the other awards had been given—best scene staging, most creative—Mom and Dad took their seats in the audience and Mrs. Wimple came back to introduce the scenes.

“Before our
Midsummer Night’s Dream
scenes begin, we’d like to have a more formal introduction of the writer who brought us all here together. Saber Greene and Mauri Lee will introduce the life of the Bard.”

Applause swept across the audience again, and Saber and Mauri came out from the other curtain and stood in the center of the stage, each holding note cards. I held my breath, hoping our plan had worked.

“William Shakespeare was born in 1564, in Stratford-Upon-Avon, England,” Saber read, staring intently at her card. Mrs. Wimple, standing just offstage, nodded.

“As a child, he enjoyed horseback riding and playing the accordion,” Mauri picked up, also reading directly off her card. A light murmur swept through the audience. I can’t be sure, but I think it started where my parents’ students were sitting.

“Once he grew up, he started writing plays, haiku, and limericks,” Saber went on. Mrs. Wimple’s forehead crinkled in confusion. Hissing whispers and gasps came from the group of Chestnut College students.

“His famous friends included Benjamin Franklin, Leonardo DaVinci, and Mozart,” Mauri continued. With each piece of incorrect information, the atmosphere in the room turned even more cold and tense. Saber and Mauri were saying
exactly
what Dezzie had told them. They hadn’t even double-checked to make sure that her information was accurate! A small part of me felt embarrassed for them—once they found out that nothing except Shakespeare’s birthday was right, they were going to be mortified, furious, and not able to go on their trip—but the other, larger part of me remembered what they’d done to deserve it—ruined my father’s favorite project, stole from my sister, and pretended to be her friend to get what they wanted. As the Bard never said, “Payback’s a witch.”

When they got to the part about Shakespeare having a working submarine built for rides up and down the Thames River, Mrs. Wimple coughed and a chuckle moved through the audience. Clearly unable to take it anymore, Mrs. Wimple climbed the steps to the side of the stage and signaled to the girls that they were out of time. Still totally unaware of what just happened, Saber and Mauri stepped offstage. Principal Obin stood there, waiting for them. They were going to have a lot of explaining to do . . . and wouldn’t be skiing this winter, I was sure.

Just before the principal led them away, I caught sight of Dezzie, waving at them. She’d taken off her tunic, and was wearing a Shakespeare tee all her own. Printed in big block letters on it were the words: “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” Based on the expressions on Saber’s and Mauri’s faces, they didn’t need Dezzie’s help to understand what it meant.

Mrs. Wimple introduced the scene, and the other actors took their places. I was to wait in the wings until Puck’s cue.

Nirmal, as Oberon, said, “How now, mad spirit! What night-rule now about this haunted grove?” He looked into the wings, straight at me.

For a second, I froze. What if I couldn’t do it? What if they laughed? What if my parents laughed? Behind me, someone sneezed, snapping me out of my statued state. I took a deep breath and stepped onstage.

At first, the glare of Ty’s lights made it hard to see. This was a good thing. I focused on Nirmal’s face.

The words rolled in my mouth about as easily as triangular marbles. “My mistress . . . with a monster is . . . in love,” I tried. I was near panic. I couldn’t do it. I clunked through the next line. I touched my scarf, and I could stand a little straighter. I put my hand over the still-tingly spot on my cheek where KC kissed me, and something kicked in. My mother and father, KC, Ty, Ely, Judith, James, Dezzie, even Nirmal . . . they accepted this stand-out me. Maybe they
liked
this me. And maybe I could too.

Suddenly I felt like Puck, like a mischievous fairy, and the words flowed from me like Shakespeare himself was whispering them in my ear. “While she was in her dull and sleeping hour,/A crew of patches, rude mechanicals . . .” I finished the lines with a grin and a flourish, and glanced out at the audience.

My parents were front row, center, smiling wide and waving. Off to the side, I could see Dezzie’s halo of curls and her proud expression. And then more faces popped out from the shadows—Judith, Ely, and even a flicker from the light booth and Ty.

And on the other side of the room, toward the back of the seats, two sneakers up in the air. KC, doing a hand-stand. I nearly broke character and laughed.

 

Offstage, scene over, I returned to my spot in the wings and waited for my heart to calm down. I tinkled one of the bells on my scarf, too soft for anyone to hear, and as I watched the story onstage unfold in front of me, I thought about the unexpected ways the start to this school year unfolded, as well. Anxiety provoking, annoying, and scary—yes. But also unique, creative, and distinctive. Maybe being anything but average wasn’t a total tragedy after all.

Denouement, or What Came Later

I liked how it sounded.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writi ng this book required a full cast:

The Editor:
Alisha Niehaus—who pushes, supports, and encourages me

The Agent:
Sally Harding—who believes in my work and in me

The Cover Designer:
Jeanine Henderson—for the beautiful cover

The Book Designer:
Jasmin Rubero—for the beautiful interiors

The Copyeditor:
Regina Castillo—who doesn’t let me get away with anything

The Writing Group:
Gary Crespo, Phoebe Sinclair, Megan Mullin, Ruthbea Clarke, Heather Hubbard, Annette Cinelli—who work as hard as I do on each of my novels

The Art History Expert:
Dr. Kimberlee Cloutier-Blazzard—who made sure I knew my Pollock

The Ren Faire Expert:
Kayte Bellusci—who helped me humiliate Hamlet even more

The Title Bestowers:
Mandy Hubbard and Aprilynne Pike—who named
Total Tragedy

The Support System:
The 2009 Debutantes—who are always there for me

The Early Readers:
Saundra Mitchell; Colleen, Chris, and Eliza Michaels—who gave their time to review the manuscript

The Artist:
Judith Heiden Shimer—who gave her name to a character and created an amazing trailer for
Models Don’t Eat Chocolate Cookies

The Chorus:
January O’Neil, Lauren Barnholdt, Scott & Dianne Simonini, and my friends and family—who cheer me on, every step of the way

The Husband:
Frank—who loves me even when I’m writer-crazy

The Baby:
CP—who has already given me new stories to tell

The Fans:
Readers of
Models
—who let me know how much they liked that book

 

 

All of you have my deepest gratitude for the role you played in helping this story come to life. Thank you!