Falling for Hamlet

by Michelle Ray

  “Final y,” he said when we climbed onto my bed.

  I kissed his shoulder, then his neck, then his cheek.

  But he pul ed back and asked, “So, who have you been seeing?”

  “What?”

  “You told my mom you’ve been dating other people.”

  “Leave your mother out of this room, please,” I said, trying to kiss him again, but he stopped me.

  “No, seriously. Who?”

  “It was nothing,” I said, trying to sound casual, which is precisely what it had been, anyhow. He kept glowering at me. I added, “No one you would know.” It wasn’t true. Hamlet knew Sebastian from the lacrosse team in high school. He knew that Sebastian was in my circle of friends and that Sebastian and I were always in the art studio together. But Hamlet didn’t need to know that Sebastian took me to hear a band cal ed the Poor Yoricks and asked me out several times afterward. I wanted to torture Hamlet after al he’d put me through, but he didn’t need details.

  “That’s—”

  “Hey, we agreed: Don’t ask about last semester. This is what you wanted, so—”

  “Wel , I hate it.”

  “Oh, you hate it? Then I am tremendously sorry,” I said with exaggerated sympathy. “Last spring, I total y should have been thinking about your feelings in case we got back together.”

  He bit back a smile but then furrowed his brow and looked genuinely troubled, so I added, “Hamlet, it was nothing. If you want me to trust you, then you have to trust me. It’s not easy for me, knowing that once you’re back at school, you’l have those girls in little skirts fawning al over you. I’m not supposed to give that any thought?”

  He sat back on his haunches. “I don’t like any of them like I like you. I’ve broken things off in the past because I have been tempted… because I never wanted to cheat or lie. But honestly, Ophelia, there’s no one else for me.”

  My stomach jumped a little, but I didn’t want to get too excited. I was trying to keep my emotions more in check this year. I had to protect myself.

  “I think…” he started, “I want to stay together.”

  Again I felt fluttery, but I could not al ow myself to trust the sincerity of the sentiment. “Hamlet, you always do this. You decide one thing and then change your mind. It’s hard to know what to believe.”

  “Believe that I love you.”

  “I do.”

  “Let’s try then. Let’s commit to being together.”

  “If you say so,” I said, picturing Horatio’s “I told you so” face if Hamlet broke my heart again. But then Hamlet kissed me, and my fears evaporated. I sighed with happiness, thinking that this time things between us would work.

  Francisco: So you were tight with the royal family.

  Ophelia: We spent a lot of time together.

  Barnardo: How much of that time did you spend plotting against them?

  Ophelia: None. Why would I—

  Francisco: Okay. Different question. You were alone with Hamlet constantly, yet your father, from what we understand, was very protective of you.

  Ophelia: My dad was too busy and too tired to notice what I did a lot of the time.

  Barnardo: So you took advantage of his schedule and his position?

  Ophelia: (pause) No more than any other teenager.

  Francisco: So that’s a yes?

  2

  “Did the queen take you out for ‘girl time’?” Zara asks as a picture of Ophelia and Gertrude in front of Elsinore’s most notoriously expensive shop is projected.

  “Sometimes.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  Ophelia blinks a few times and then her mouth curls into something resembling a smile. “I’ll never tell.” Zara leans in. “I guess a girl has to keep her secrets. But, just between us, did you talk about Prince Hamlet?” Ophelia winces almost undetectably but then flips her hair. “What do you think?” she asks as she reaches for a glass of water. Her hands shake slightly, and she spills a few drops on the armrest of the couch.

  Zara seems not to notice and winks at the audience.

  “Gertrude may dress you up and welcome you at her table, but she’s not your mother and you’re not her child.” I turned away from my reflection, letting my new dress slip to the floor.

  Laertes continued. “You can never have what they have. You can never be rich, like they are. This whole thing with Hamlet can only end in disappointment.”

  I picked up the dress, threw it across the plaid couch as if it didn’t cost a month of my father’s salary, and stomped toward our kitchen. “Laertes, I’m aware of al that. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “Sometimes I think you are,” he said while fol owing me.

  “Nice.” I scowled. “It’s a dress.”

  He slid onto a bar stool at the kitchen island. “It’s not just a dress. Every time that woman gives you something, there is a reason behind it.”

  “That is not true.”

  “If you broke up with Hamlet— you, and I mean you crushed him—do you real y think she’d invite you the next morning for tea and shopping?” I shook my head, knowing he was right.

  “Be careful, that’s al I’m saying.”

  I handed him a soda before slumping on the kitchen island and asking, “Where were you last night?”

  “Movie. I heard Hamlet leave around two.”

  I had to concentrate to swal ow my tea.

  “What if Father saw him?” he asked.

  “He didn’t.”

  Laertes shook his head. “You shouldn’t trust Hamlet. This thing you two have, it’s like… like a violet.”

  “A violet?” I asked.

  “Yes, a violet,” he overenunciated. “Sure it’s beautiful and perfect, but it can’t last. This is a diversion, nothing more.”

  “Nothing?” I asked, my blood starting to heat.

  “No. And even if it was, let’s say he loves you now… do you real y believe he has a choice in who he marries?”

  “Marries? Laertes, no one is thinking of marriage.”

  “You’ve been together on and off for, what, two years?”

  I nodded as I counted.

  “In another few, you’l be at an age where people do think about marriage.”

  The thought was too foreign to me.

  He continued, “Let’s say you do stay together. You know Hamlet can’t make any major decisions alone. And he certainly can’t choose the daughter of an employee as his queen.”

  “But—”

  “I know you’l say he loves you, but if something goes wrong, what’l happen to your reputation? Worry about that, Ophelia.”

  “My reputation? Jesus, Laertes, exactly what century do you think we live in?”

  “Have you seen the tabloids? You think there is no such thing as public shame these days? You’re so naive.”

  “Shut up,” I said, walking toward the dress I had cast aside.

  “Very eloquent,” he retorted.

  I spun around, annoyed as much by his implying that I was stupid as by his cal ing me naive. “You are such a hypocrite. Are you saying you’ve never treaded on the primrose path of dal iance?”

  “On the what?”

  I was enjoying one-upping my bril iant brother. “I asked if you’re tel ing me you’ve never screwed around.”

  “You and those poetry classes.” He sighed. “Of course I have.”

  I lifted my hands in a grand “touché.”

  He added, “But never with someone famous.”

  I dropped my arms and threw myself onto the couch. I hated that he was always right.

  He sat next to me and said, “I worry about you. That’s al . Mom’s gone, and Dad’s, wel , Dad. You have no one to say these things to you. I’m tel ing you, Ophelia, this thing with Hamlet can only end in disaster.”

  “I know it’s been rocky, Laertes, but I actual y love him. I don’t know how to be without him.” He sighed and said, “Then we have a problem,” and sympathetical y stroked m
y hair.

  Before I could knock his hand away and tel him to cut the crap, the elevator ding ed, and out stepped our father.

  Laertes whispered, “We should talk more about this later.”

  I shoved a pil ow over my face and groaned. I didn’t need another father. My first father was frustrating enough. And why couldn’t Laertes just let me be happy about Hamlet?

  My father said, “Ah, Laertes, come with me into my office, my boy. Before you go back to school, I would like to have a word with you.” Laertes stood heavily, bracing himself for one of my father’s wisdom-fil ed lectures, and winked at me. My father, down the hal already, was stil talking and did not notice. I stayed hidden until the door to the study was closed. Then I ran back to my room to text Hamlet about going out that night.

  Francisco: Our records show that Gertrude took you shopping. Quite a bit, actually.

  Barnardo: Seems odd.

  Ophelia: Gertrude was odd. And manipulative.

  Francisco: So she took you shopping to manipulate you?

  Ophelia: Yeah.

  Barnardo: She punished you with expensive dresses. Scary.

  Ophelia: No, she took me with her to get information about my life and about her son.

  Francisco: And you went along with it?

  Ophelia: It was part of the game.

  Barnardo: And it was fun to have expensive things.

  Ophelia: Yeah.

  Francisco: And a mother for a few hours.

  Ophelia: That’s not how it was.

  Barnardo: Oh come on. Every girl needs a mother.

  Ophelia: Not one like Gertrude.

  3

  “So what was it like jetting all over the world with the royal family?” Two dome-haired women exchange wistful glances. Ophelia catches them, as does Zara. “Sounds like a fairy tale,” she says, beaming.

  “Well, we didn’t actually go that many places.”

  “Come now, Ophelia.” Photos are projected of the two families in Africa, China, and Paris. “What are all of these?”

  “Official business,” Ophelia answers, her mouth drawn into a line, though she fights to turn it into a smile. “My father had to go, and sometimes he brought me and my brother along.”

  Not to be hindered, Zara presses, “So did you and Hamlet ever get away? Just the two of you?”

  “Once.”

  “When you and Hamlet went to Florence? Last summer, right?” Ophelia nods. “Was that trip as romantic as it looks in this picture?” Zara winks and the audience oohs as a striking photo is shown of the couple on a flight of marble steps. They look tan and happy with their arms around each other, each wearing sunglasses and sandals, casually fabulous.

  Ophelia smiles, relaxing a little. “Yeah. That was a great trip. That picture was taken our last day.”

  “Was it a good day?”

  “Perfect, start to finish.”

  “So, Dad, what do you think?” I literal y held my breath as I squeezed Hamlet’s hand. It had been a few weeks since my argument with Laertes, and things had been going so wel with Hamlet. We had never been so at peace, never had so much fun. My father had seemed to notice and had been less wary of our being together. So when I asked if Hamlet and I could go on a vacation alone, I was fairly confident he would agree.

  He nodded gravely. “Yes, that sounds fine.”

  I clapped excitedly. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “A few things first, though,” my father said, scooting forward. I felt Hamlet shift in his seat, but I elbowed him subtly and kept smiling. “It goes without saying that you wil have separate rooms. And you need security with you at al times, even if they’re in plainclothes. You can never be too careful.”

  “Polonius, we know,” Hamlet said with a sigh.

  “Do you?” my father asked him, squinting and leaning farther toward us. “Has Marcel us told you about the latest rash of threatening mail your father has been getting?” Hamlet grew very stil . “I thought not,” he said, leaning back again for emphasis. “And please, please remember that when you are abroad, you are representatives of your kingdom. Ambassadors, as it were. Thus, let me be clear”—and he leveled his gaze at Hamlet—“that you should behave accordingly.” Hamlet was fighting a smirk. “Plus you wil be in charge of my daughter. See that neither of you embarrasses yourself, your parents, or Denmark.” His last words built to a crescendo, and I swear if he had pul ed out a flag, I would not have been altogether surprised.

  Once we were in the hal , Hamlet muttered sarcastical y, “Wel , that was fun.”

  “Hey, at least he’s letting us go.”

  Hamlet rol ed his eyes and said, “I can’t wait til you’re out of high school and we’re free to do what we want.”

  “You’re fol owed everywhere. We’l never be that free.”

  “Being fol owed doesn’t bother me. Neither do the tabloids. You’re the one who has to stop caring what everyone thinks.” I was going to argue, but instead I started to laugh as a thought occurred to me. “We could scandalize everyone and run through Florence naked.” Hamlet’s mouth twisted. “If you would agree, I would agree.”

  Thing is, I knew he would. How he could be immune to public scrutiny amazed me.

  “Maybe next time. Let’s go pack,” I suggested.

  The trip was incredible. It was the first time Hamlet and I had slept in the same bed for a whole night, and to be honest, it was almost too shocking to enjoy. I couldn’t believe that my dad had al owed it. I mean, he kind of didn’t when he asked us to get separate rooms—which we got, though Hamlet’s bodyguard, Marcel us, not I, slept in the second room. Did my dad real y expect us to be in one of the most romantic places in the world and then, like, not stay together? Maybe he did, but if so, that was a little naive. I was worried that he would find out, but Hamlet rightly asked, who was gonna tel ? The hotel staff was paid for discretion, and Marcel us never divulged secrets.

  The first night, Hamlet slept and I stared at him, unable to believe my luck, foolishly listening for the sound of my dad or brother coming down the hal .

  Old habits die hard. By the second night, even though it was stil pretty unbelievable, I could at least relax and appreciate a boyfriend who wanted to sleep with his arms around me and who told me he loved me before we both drifted off. If it was possible, I fel in love with Hamlet even more that night and each day of the trip.

  As for the sights, I was overwhelmed at seeing Michelangelo’s chisel marks stil in The Captives and Raphael’s subtle brushstrokes. The Ghiberti doors were glorious, and Brunel eschi’s cathedral dome transcendent. Vespas coughed shril y and constantly, a sound I wil forever associate with intense joy. Everything was perfection.

  Our room overlooked the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio, a bridge of unmatched romance and al ure. Three times a day I insisted on walking across, taking note of how the vendors and the pace of life changed. When not sightseeing, I sat with my colored pencils and pad, staring out the hotel window, so enraptured by how the sun painted the city anew that I kept forgetting to sketch it. But I remember how each morning pink light kissed the bridge awake.

  Midday, its yel ow and burnt-umber stucco beckoned. At dusk, the river looked like liquid sapphire, and the buildings, though plunged into darkness, seemed to glow from within as if fighting off the coming night.

  On our last ful day, I sat drinking espresso on the balcony of our room, watching and listening to the city already in motion. Hamlet was completely hungover from a party we’d attended the night before and was lying on a lounge chair with his eyes closed. We had planned on going to the Museo Firenze, but he looked so wrecked that I decided to leave him alone. As I slipped on my sandals, he asked where I was going.

  “I real y want to make the museum before we leave. I’l just go myself,” I said cheerful y.

  He slapped his face a few times and hoisted himself up. “Don’t be sil y. Of course I’m coming. Seeing the new sculpture gal ery is what you wanted most from this trip, right?”

  I n
odded, touched that he knew without my tel ing him.

  He took my hand, put on his sunglasses, and led me outside.

  A skeevy-looking photographer with too-tight pants fol owed us from the hotel to the museum and trailed us to the entrance. Marcel us started to go after him, but Hamlet told his bodyguard to let him handle it.

  Hamlet let go of me and calmly approached the photographer. He said, “Listen, we real y want to enjoy this alone. Take our picture now if you want, but don’t fol ow us in, okay?” To my surprise, the guy agreed, snapped a few posed pictures and a few of us walking inside for good measure, then sat down outside, leaving us in peace.

  Inside, the cool stone structure was dark and moody. Arm in arm we walked through the hal s with their vaulted ceilings, cluttered with paintings that were centuries old. The velvet overstuffed benches looked inviting, but I felt I did not even have a moment to sit. There was simply too much to see, and I wanted to get to the new sculpture gal ery before it grew too late or Hamlet grew too bored. He kept checking his watch as it was. Marcel us touched his earpiece and turned to Hamlet, nodding. I was afraid they were deciding to leave, so I quickly suggested we skip the il uminated manuscripts and go right to the new wing.

  As we exited the elevator and approached the exhibit, I was surprised to see the glass doors closed and museum guards standing in front of them. My stomach sank with disappointment and I slowed my gait, trying not to seem too upset.

  Hamlet looked at me proudly. “They closed it for us for the rest of the afternoon. I knew you’d want it quiet up here.” I was speechless and pul ed my arm tighter around his. He did this for me. Me! Hamlet had done sweet things in the past—sent flowers, written notes and poems—but this was the most romantic thing he’d ever done. And the fact that it wasn’t jewelry but a unique experience he knew I would treasure made my legs go to jel y. It’s a memory that I stil hold dear, even though it’s hard for me to think of Hamlet now.