Henry Hamlet's Heart

by Rhiannon Wilde

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter darkly.

  ‘No prob.’

  ‘I’m being—’

  ‘Listen. I’m just going to go meet that hot kayak girl from mixed sport outside. You be right on your own for a bit?’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever.’

  There are rows of long plastic tables set against the back wall so uniformly I suspect Martin spaced them apart with a tape measure after I left. I grab a lukewarm Coke and some Doritos and make a beeline for one of them, settling in for a long night as the village outcast.

  I pull out my phone and play Snake for a good twenty minutes, hoping it looks like I’m texting my significant other who couldn’t be here because they’re busy modelling. In Paris.

  I get a text from Mum: How is it? R U OK?

  Mr Schiffer is here in fine form, standing by the entrance and policing new arrivals for any signs of fun. He has a sack of mobile phones slung across his back, so I stash mine back in my jacket pocket.

  Len reappears some time later, plopping down beside me heavily. His face is flushed, hair coming loose from its style. ‘Tell me you’re not playing Snake,’ he says, breathless but still sardonic.

  (Be normal.)

  ‘Guilty.’ I hold up my phone. ‘I’m almost at the final level.’

  ‘It’s your last ever high school dance. Get amongst it.’

  I look over at him. ‘You mean like you? Willa looks especially … spidery this evening.’

  ‘She’s actually a cool person, if you’d bother to give her a chance.’

  The green monster in me roars. I manage to keep my face smooth. ‘Right. I’ll be sure to do that, seeing as she’d totally let me after Vomka-gate.’

  He smirks. ‘You’ve got a point.’

  ‘I know I do.’

  ‘Because you’re always right, and everyone else’s opinion is just secondary evidence?’

  ‘Yep. Exactly.’

  Len picks up my Coke and takes a long sip. He sets it back down slowly, staring at me.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Sometimes you’re wrong.’

  His voice is soft but his eyes on mine aren’t flinching. It’s so unexpected I stare back. There’s a moment slipping through my hands like water.

  ‘Nah,’ I say awkwardly after a pause, my voice vaulting through several octaves. ‘Don’t think so.’

  He looks away, then stands up with sudden finality. ‘You okay here?’

  I shake the fuzz out of my head. ‘Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m sitting here by choice,’ I say, a little too forcefully.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  I slump back in my chair, watching as he rejoins Willa. Vince and his date are on the dance floor too, vigorously shaking it to Metro Station.

  Willa brushes Len’s sleeve with her black-painted fingers, tilting her head to laugh at something he’s said. His left hand cups one of her bare shimmering shoulderblades.

  I feel sick.

  I flip my phone open and closed to distract myself, and it buzzes with another text.

  Mum: Henry??

  Helloooooo

  Dad: Narrowly managed to dissuade Mum from calling. Welcome.

  I’m just punching out a reply begging them to pick me up early, when a familiar voice calls, ‘Henry!’

  Emilia, ever my guardian angel, is crossing the dance floor, narrowly avoiding Ged and Jess, who are gyrating by the drinks table.

  ‘I thought you were busy tonight,’ I accuse half-heartedly. I never officially asked her to be my date. It seemed too blurry a move to make in light of everything else.

  She blushes slightly. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s just that I’d already said yes to Martin.’

  ‘Wait, Martin as in The Fincharoo?’

  ‘Oh, don’t! He made me promise months ago. You know our mums are friends, and—’

  A tweed-clad arm appears out of nowhere and winds its way around her shoulder.

  ‘Evening, Hamlet,’ Martin snivels. ‘You know my date, I presume.’

  Emilia widens her eyes at me warningly. Tonight has been just shitty enough that I focus on Martin.

  ‘Fincho,’ I return. ‘I didn’t know they did entire suits made out of tweed.’

  ‘Yes, well – Buckingham Palace called, looking for you.’

  ‘Martin,’ Emilia interrupts with put-on sweetness. ‘You said you’d go get me a Sprite, remember?’

  He looks at her like he just remembered where we were. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to maybe go do that?’

  ‘Fine. But no dancing with my date, Hamlet.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

  He stalks off, and we only just make it until he’s out of earshot before we both collapse into laughter.

  ‘Shut up!’ Emilia whacks me on the arm with her tiny jewelled purse, which sets me off all over again.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I wipe my eyes. ‘I’m done, I promise.’

  She purses her lips. ‘And who are you here with, hmm? Don’t tell me I was your best option.’

  I put my hand over my heart. ‘Ouch. I don’t know which of us should be more offended by that.’

  She makes a soft tsk-ing noise.

  ‘You look nice, by the way,’ I say, because she does. Her hair’s piled on top of her head in glossy waves and she’s wearing a silvery Cinderella dress that flares out at the knee.

  ‘No flattering Martin’s date,’ she orders, but she’s smiling.

  We sit companionably, until Martin laser beams in on us from over at the drinks table, motioning for us to separate.

  I move over, scrunching my face as a disco light stabs my eyes.

  ‘You look sad,’ Ems says after a beat. ‘Let’s dance. Stuff him.’

  They’re playing ‘Don’t Dream It’s Over’. Everyone’s singing along disjointedly.

  ‘Very much not in the mood,’ I bite out.

  Ems smooths her dress over her knees and drops her voice. ‘Is this about the stuff you told me at the open day?’

  I jiggle my foot in its pointy shoe.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on. Talk to me.’

  I don’t know if it’s the music or the way it felt to be so close in the car. Or maybe because it’s Emilia, but I want to tell her everything. Right now. Let it out into the world, to see if it’s real.

  ‘Henry?’ she asks again when the song ends.

  The stereo clicks and switches to ‘Bleeding Love’ by Leona Lewis. I cringe inwardly. Not the best backing track.

  I take a deep breath and look up.

  (Now or never.)

  (Now.)

  (… Or never.)

  ‘I think I properly like him.’

  Emilia stares at me hard. ‘Martin?’ she says. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘What? No! Of course not Martin.’

  ‘Then wh—’ She follows my gaze, across the dancers, to the place it hasn’t left all night. ‘Oh.’

  I clear my throat.

  ‘You …’

  I wait.

  ‘Len?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Emilia puts her hand over her mouth, then down again. ‘You think, or you know?’

  ‘Know.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Can you say something besides “oh”?’ I ask.

  ‘Sorry.’ Her styled hair is jiggling. ‘I’m just … I’m processing.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know. Recently?’

  ‘After you … kissed? Len is who you kissed?’

  ‘Kind of? Yeah.’

  She pauses, eyes wide. ‘And now you … Have you told him any of this?’

  ‘Ems. I can’t.’

  ‘Why not!?’


  ‘It’d wreck everything,’ I say, because it would.

  ‘You don’t know—’

  ‘Yes, I do, okay? I just do.’

  Ems sighs, frowning. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘No. I get it.’

  I look at the streamers over her shoulder and sniff loudly. ‘It’s fine, though. I’m sure I’ll get over it, or … something.’

  ‘Right. I’m going to go try to ditch Martin, and then we’re gonna leave together,’ Emilia says decisively. ‘Okay?’ She squeezes my shoulder before disappearing.

  (It feels realer than ever. A solid, in-the-world Thing.)

  I can’t sit still.

  I get up and find Vince on the dance floor to say goodbye. Kayak girl had to leave early, so I hang out with him for a bit, ‘dropping it low’ as he insists on putting it.

  ‘I just—’ he says over the music, pushing an inky strand of hair out of his sweaty face. ‘I mean, it’s whatever. It’s not like we’re exclusive or anything.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘But you’d think she could at least tell me we weren’t. I did physical exercise for that woman.’ He takes a swig from his flask.

  ‘How much of that have you had?’

  He gives me the finger and chugs more.

  ‘Dude, if the Sniffer sees you—’

  ‘He’s not gonna see me. I’m stench.’

  ‘D’you mean stealth?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  I snatch it off him. Then, without thinking about it, I drink what’s left of the bottle.

  Ugh. Whiskey.

  Vince whistles once. ‘You really are batshit.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Come on – it’s awards in a sec.’

  We head over to where there’s a crowd gathering in front of the stage.

  Ged and Jess take out Hottest Couple, and Vince wins Best Dressed for his pantaloons-and-cape ensemble. There’s no certificate for most successful awkward loner, so I settle for photographing my friends with theirs.

  Couples flock for the DJ’s final set – all slow songs, mostly sappy and only a few from this century. I go back to watching. Len and Willa are talking and dancing nearby; I try to look like I’m having at least a shred of fun.

  ‘Gatsby!’ Jake Clarkson calls from the opposite end of the dance floor. He’s flanked by Travis Burrell and three other guys.

  ‘Oi!’ he calls sloppily, coming closer when I don’t respond.

  ‘Sick burn, but I was Nick.’ I try to turn away. I’m hot.

  ‘Nah,’ Clarkson insists. ‘You’re Gatsby.’

  ‘Right. Cool.’

  He raises his voice to a holler and points. ‘Mr GAY Gatsby!’

  My blood boils like it’s going to shoot out of my ears.

  It happens fast. One minute Len’s in my periphery, then there’s a flash of white shirt and he’s here, his jacketless shoulder pushed up against mine.

  ‘Hey, Clarkson?’ he says. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  Clarkson’s face twists. ‘Or what?’

  Len moves forward so he’s in front of me. ‘Or I’ll make you.’

  Clarkson’s eyes dart between us. I don’t know what he sees in Len’s – what I’d see, if I could see them – but he falters.

  ‘It was just a joke, Cane. Get a sense of humour.’

  The back of Len’s shirt makes little movements – he’s breathing fast. ‘Get out of my face.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Do you wanna find out?’

  Clarkson waits a beat, then holds up his hands before backing away exaggeratedly with a sickly smile.

  I’m shivery-scalding. I sidestep away before Len turns around, and bolt across the sticky gym floor.

  The outside air hits my face like a wall.

  I undo my top three buttons with numb hands and head out to the car park to wait for Emilia.

  Willa Stacy is waiting by her brother’s car wearing a leather jacket and a pissed-off look. (No!)

  I try to walk past without her noticing, but she calls, ‘Hamlet.’

  (Dear God, no.)

  ‘Oh! Hello. Didn’t see you there!’ I shout.

  ‘Wow. You really are touchy.’ One side of her scarlet mouth lifts.

  ‘Who said I was …’

  Willa wraps her fingers around a stub of cigarette. ‘You know he and I broke up, right?’

  Revelry white-noise crashes in my ears. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘A while ago.’ Willa watches my face, tilting her head so her hair slips over one shoulder. ‘He didn’t tell you? Interesting.’

  ‘How come?’ I sputter.

  She exhales smoke, wrapping us both in grey. ‘He’s the best, but all walls.’ Her eyes flick away. ‘And I’m not into chasing people who don’t want me to catch them.’

  I open and close my mouth. ‘Why’re you telling me this?’

  Willa gives me a long look. ‘Don’t be obtuse, Hamlet.’

  ‘Henry!’ Emilia appears in the doorway behind us. ‘Are you out here?’

  ‘Seriously,’ says Willa and she melts away, stubbing out ash under her heel.

  Ems links her arm through mine – it’s warm and familiar. ‘Excuse me, but what did I just witness?’

  ‘I genuinely have no idea.’

  ‘I think,’ she says, pulling me away, ‘the only thing for us to do is get McDonald’s and watch half of The Exorcist until we fall asleep on the floor.’

  We end up making it through closer to three quarters, Emilia peppering me with her lawyerly questions until my eyes slip closed. When? What? How?

  She starts snoring first but keeps one hand out of the blankets, holding my shoulder, the whole night.

  12

  After leaving Emilia’s, I go through the next day’s classes half asleep, unable to keep my eyes open by the time I hit fourth period.

  At lunch I find my usual seat with the guys by the quad. Ged and Vince are already there nursing their heads and looking dejectedly at their food.

  ‘Oh God,’ Vince whispers. ‘I’m never drinking again.’

  ‘You say that every time,’ I remind him.

  He throws a chip at me.

  ‘How did you go last night?’ I ask Ged.

  His entire face and neck turn pink.

  ‘I take it Jess and the Hilton were a success?’

  ‘The woman’s magic,’ Ged says dreamily. ‘Perfection in every way.’

  ‘Cut the sappy stuff, please,’ Harrison says, sitting down carefully. ‘I feel sick enough already.’

  ‘Can’t help it, mate,’ Ged says. ‘I’m in love.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say, concealing the confusing spurt of jealousy I feel.

  ‘Where’s Cane?’ Ged asks.

  My stomach tightens. ‘Don’t know. I left early.’

  ‘I think he was talking to someone,’ Vince says. ‘Jamila, or something? Jam doughnut? Might’ve been a late one.’

  I exhale so sharply into my tuckshop pie that I carve a hole in the tomato sauce on top.

  Harrison points across the quad. ‘There he is.’

  ‘D’you know,’ Vince says, ‘I’m just gonna go to the loos for a mo.’ He rushes off, hand over his mouth.

  ‘Poor bloke,’ Ged says. ‘He doesn’t know what love is.’

  ‘It’s from whiskey. Not lovelessness,’ Harrison says, a little green around the edges himself. ‘Why do you look so chipper?’ he asks Len as he sits down next to me.

  (My whole body’s tense now.)

  ‘I’ve decided,’ Len announces.

  ‘Decided what?’ Ged asks, his mouth stuffed with lasagne.

  ‘My major artwork,’ Len says. ‘I’m going to do portraits. Black and white, on film.’

  ‘Of
who?’ Harrison asks.

  ‘Myself. Life. You guys.’

  ‘Sod off,’ Vince says weakly, plopping back down and paper-towelling the edge of his mouth. ‘I’m not posing with my meat and two veg on display just so you can get an A.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be nude, Vincent van Hoe. I was thinking more like a series of profiles, close up.’

  He used to do portraits like that when we were younger, obsessing over lighting, getting every freckle and fine line.

  ‘Of our faces?’ I ask, and then regret it when our eyes meet. I pull mine away.

  ‘Exactly. I think that’s probably my best bet at getting into the gallery show at the end of the year.’

  ‘As long as you only shoot me from the left,’ Vince grumbles. ‘I don’t want the whole school seeing my bad side.’

  ‘Sounds awesome,’ Ged says. ‘Doesn’t it, lads?’

  ‘Yep!’ I say, standing up quickly and grabbing my untouched lunch. ‘Awesome. I’ve just gotta go … do some stuff. I’ll see you guys later.’

  I manage to dodge him for the rest of the day, both miraculously and out of sheer necessity.

  I only need to make it through an awkward modern history lesson clutching the corner of my desk before I can retreat to the library.

  It’s study period last up and the supervisor’s away, so we scatter off to do our own thing and my brain goes into overdrive.

  He didn’t bring it up, but last night’s still in my skin.

  Emilia’s questions.

  Clarkson’s face.

  Len’s shoulders covering me.

  (Why did he do that?)

  (When did we stop treating each other like we were radioactive?)

  When the bell rings, I don’t go home.

  I drive the streets around school where the houses are older and proud until sunset. It’s after five thirty by the time I pull up at home.

  I take my time getting out of the car, gathering my school stuff and whatever’s left of my wits.

  Someone clears their throat when I lock the door.

  I look up to find Len waiting, leaning with one foot against the siding.

  ‘God!’

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hi! Uh. You scared me. What are you doing?’

  He smiles in the falling dark. ‘Robbing you.’

  ‘I’ve got five bucks and a hairy stick of chewing gum,’ I say with affected drama when I catch my breath. ‘Leave my family alive and you can have it all.’