by Michelle Ray
He was never one to speak without thinking. He was careful never to begin a fight, but if pul ed into one, his opposition quickly realized he was a force to be reckoned with. He was not flashy or gaudy. He was neither a borrower nor a lender.…” I slid down slightly in my chair and hoped my father would not speak for so long that he would embarrass himself. A few years back he had delivered a speech at Gertrude’s birthday party that was so long, the candles on her cake had nearly melted away. Final y, the king had tapped my father on the shoulder and raised his glass to toast his own wife. Gertrude had sighed and blown out the few candles that were stil ablaze.
“… And so we bid him a solemn farewel .” My father tucked his speech into his pocket.
Too many others spoke, but I couldn’t focus on their words. Most of the speeches were about the position, not the man. Even the portrait on display looked little like the king I knew from sitting around the dinner table, the one who liked card tricks and to play racquetbal in his rare free moments. Al I wanted was to sit with Hamlet on the green hil above us and remember the man we’d loved.
After an extraordinarily long time, the ceremony came to a close. The final song, sung by the kingdom’s most treasured soprano, was one of the king’s favorites. As the coffin was lowered, I got goose bumps and could think only of my mother and the king lying under deep piles of dirt for al eternity. Unable to consider it for another second, I distracted myself by checking on Hamlet. He had dropped his head, apparently unable to watch anymore, and I wished I were sitting at his side so I could comfort him.
As soon as the minister nodded the end, Hamlet stood and turned around. His face was flushed, and I could see he was fighting back tears. A folding chair separated us, so he put one knee on it to get closer to me and I quickly embraced him. He buried his face in my shoulder and whispered, “This sucks,” before he lost it and wept into my neck. When his shoulders had stopped shaking, he lifted his head and wiped his face, which was streaked with red and white. He pushed his hair back and I reached up and touched his cheek. Hamlet looked so pitiful and alone, despite the hundreds who surrounded the grave.
“This wil be over soon,” I whispered. He pushed his hair back again and looked around. When he saw the grave behind him, he shuddered. “What can I do?” I asked.
“Ride back with me,” he said, his eyes scanning the crowd.
“I can’t. My dad—”
“I need you, Phee,” he pleaded.
I turned to ask my father, but he was talking to a visiting dignitary. “Ask your mother,” I said quietly.
“It’s not her decision.”
“Hamlet, she doesn’t like surprises. You have to tel her.”
Gertrude was shaking hands with a duke when Hamlet tapped her on the shoulder. “I’m going with Ophelia to the car. She’s riding with us.” Gertrude’s face grew stony and, barely opening her lips, she replied, “I said it before. There is a plan in place. No.” Turning back to the duke, she continued her conversation.
“Then I’m going with her.”
“No.”
Frustrated by my inability to help Hamlet hurt less, and too ful of emotion to control myself better, I stepped forward. “Let him do what he wants for once,” I said quietly. “This day is hard enough.”
She glared at me but said nothing. I took him by the hand and he pul ed me toward the cars. Gertrude did not shout after us, but I knew she must have been furious.
The crowd was pulsing around us, mil ing and sharing greetings, gloomy faces fixed in place. They looked properly attired for mourning, but I got the feeling that much of their grief was just for show. Hamlet did not acknowledge them, keeping his eyes down as he walked.
“Hamlet. Ophelia,” cal ed out a familiar voice. Horatio was chasing us. We stopped and waited for him to catch up. Soldiers were keeping the photographers out of the graveyard, but al around the perimeter their cameras poked through the gates. As we walked down the hil to the long line of black cars, the cameras turned to fol ow us. Hamlet put his head down as we approached, then got into the second car in line. I fol owed him in with Horatio right behind me.
As he closed the door, Horatio said, “I can’t stay long. My folks are waiting for me.” After a moment’s silence, he asked, “So, Hamlet, they figure out what happened to your father?”
Hamlet loosened his tie. “No. Doctors are thinking it was a heart attack, but he was healthy at last month’s exam, so it doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’m surprised they buried him without an answer,” Horatio said.
Hamlet rubbed his eyes. “My mom insisted. Said the nation needed closure.”
Horatio and I both looked at Hamlet, who had dropped his head into his hands. I ran my fingers through the back of his hair and kissed his shoulder.
Horatio looked at my face, then at Hamlet, then back to me.
We sat silently until Hamlet said, “I can feel you watching me. Just talk, you two. Please.”
“Uh… okay. Horatio, how long are you staying in town?” I asked, feeling a little stupid about engaging in smal talk.
“A couple days. Class has been suspended until Monday.”
“Hamlet, are you going back with him?” I asked.
He shrugged and reached for a crystal carafe of Scotch.
“Hamlet,” admonished Horatio.
“What? Of al days, this is a day for drinking.” He held up the bottle and both of us refused. Al I needed was for my father to smel alcohol on my breath.
Horatio grimaced. “Not too much, though, man. Okay? You have to stand and face people in a few.” Hamlet took one more swig, then put the stopper back in with a flourish.
The car door opened. My brother, seeing us al inside, stopped short. Hesitantly, he said, “Oh. Hey.”
“Hey, Laertes. I was just getting out,” Horatio answered, winking at me.
Laertes paused, expecting Hamlet to fol ow. When he didn’t, Laertes got in the seat across from me. “Dad’l be here in a minute,” he hinted.
“It’s just a car ride,” I said.
“You know it’s not,” he replied. I kicked off my heels and thought about how stupid it was that where Hamlet rode was such a big deal. Hamlet took my hand in his and squeezed. Laertes watched us level y and asked me, “So, did you see that bouquet of violets out there? Pretty delicate for this weather, don’t you think?”
I realized Laertes was referring to our last conversation before he had left for school. If my love for Hamlet was like a violet, then my father was likely to yank off its petals when we got home. I had broken from my scripted existence. It was one thing to do what Hamlet and I wanted within castle wal s, but another thing entirely to mess with orchestrated events. I rubbed my forehead and wished I were somewhere else. Or some one else.
The car ride was nothing if not uncomfortable. Once my father assessed the situation, he decided to stay silent and deal with me later. Just before we left, Gertrude’s driver knocked on our window, wanting to be sure Hamlet was, indeed, in our car. She didn’t try to get him to come out. The damage was done.
Anyone who wanted it had fodder for speculation in opinion columns, tabloids, and talk shows, but it would take a few days before they used it. Once the appropriate amount of grief had been displayed and seemingly enough restraint had been exercised, reporters would have photographic evidence of Hamlet choosing not to be with his mother. “What could it al mean?” they would ask.
When we arrived at the castle, my father made sure Hamlet exited first and was at his mother’s side before he would even consider letting me out.
“It wasn’t my idea,” I offered.
“Do not come to the reception,” he instructed, jabbing his finger at me before he hopped out of the car and raced inside.
Barnardo: This picture shows you looking at your mother’s grave.
Ophelia: Yeah. Very perceptive, Detective.
Barnardo: Don’t use that tone with me, little girl.
Francisco: Did you blame the
king for your mother’s death?
Ophelia: I didn’t blame—The assassin was trying to kill him, not my mother.
Barnardo: And that’s why you wanted the king dead.
Ophelia: I didn’t want him dead!
Barnardo: Payback. We get it. Get revenge on the king while at the same time you make Hamlet feel what you felt.
Ophelia: My mother’s death has nothing to do with this.
Francisco: But something does. What is it? It’s late. We all want to be done with this. Just tell us why you wanted to hurt the royal family.
Ophelia: So I could end up in here with the two of you. Oh good, my evil plan worked.
Francisco: We’re getting nowhere with her.
7
“So Hamlet rode back from the funeral with you rather than his mother. How did the queen feel about that?” asks Zara.
“Gertrude was fine with it. She always had Hamlet’s best interests at heart. I mean, she basically lived to make him happy.”
“He disappeared during the reception. Any idea where he went?”
“Nope.”
Zara squints at her and sniffs. “All right, then how did Prince Hamlet feel about being king?”
“He knew it would be a challenge, but it was a job he was born to do,” Ophelia tells the audience.
Later that night, Horatio and I snuck up to the rooftop garden with a bottle of wine and waited for Hamlet. We walked to the edge of the roof and looked down at the crowd below. Average citizens were stil dropping off flowers and lighting candles. Official cars were stil coming and going with dignitaries paying their respects. Horatio had had less than a minute to speak with Hamlet, but it was enough to tel him where to find us. The night was crisp, since the temperature had dropped significantly. I had brought a sweater, but I should have put on something warmer. I crossed my arms and tucked my hands in my armpits. Horatio offered his jacket, but I refused.
“Wonder what it would be like to just live a regular life like al of those people?” I pondered, watching the cars and pedestrians pass by.
“Our life’s pretty regular,” he mused. I gaped at him, so he added, “Okay, mine more than yours, maybe.”
“Mine should be normal. I mean, I just live here. I’m not one of them.”
“You had to fal for Hamlet. Your downfal , you might say.”
“Thanks,” I said. “How are your classes so far?”
“So far so good. You?”
“Fine. Whatever.” I sighed.
“You think your dad’s gonna let you go to Wittenberg?”
“No.”
Horatio put an arm around my shoulder. “Woulda been fun to hang out.”
I wanted to scream, but I just stood there, enduring having my life decided for me. “Yeah. Woulda been.” As we stood in silence, I recal ed how our trio had changed from three friends to a couple with a sidekick. It was the winter of my sophomore year, and our families had gone to the French Alps for a long weekend of meetings and skiing. Hamlet, after promising to hang out with us on the last night, instead hooked up with an ambassador’s daughter, leaving Horatio and me to our own devices. Sore from a day on the slopes and too tired to bother getting dressed up for a fancy dinner or a wild party, we decided to kick around at the lodge—a spectacular, two-centuries-old wooden structure with a great room ful of books and mounted animal heads.
Horatio and I sat in front of the roaring fire chatting about one of our favorite subjects: Hamlet’s playboy status. The conversation morphed into a half-kidding discussion of how much easier it would be if Horatio and I were a couple. We decided that we would have to kiss and see what we thought of it.
We both admitted to not having feelings for each other but thought the benefits of the experiment would be twofold: (1) we could each say we had kissed someone on vacation, and (2) once we were lip-locked, attraction might spring up—a convenient outcome, we agreed, given how often Hamlet left us alone together anyway.
And so we sat knee to knee on the burgundy velvet love seat, trying not to crack up. “You first,” I said, which was stupid because a kiss kinda takes two to accomplish. It made him laugh, so that when he leaned forward our teeth knocked, sending both of us backward in hysterics.
“Okay, okay, be serious,” he said after a minute, and took me by the shoulders. “We can do this.” He leaned in. I felt the warm dampness of his lips and then he pul ed away. We looked at each other and considered the kiss—a reaction that proved there wouldn’t be another. Al I could think was that it had been no more exciting than kissing my brother. Which, let me be clear, meant not at al .
“I, uh…” he began, and I could tel he was afraid to hurt my feelings. “I didn’t, um…”
“Me neither,” I interrupted, and the tension left his face. “You’re a good kisser, though, Horatio.” He settled sideways into the oversize sofa cushions. “Yeah?”
“Where do you learn moves like that?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Martha Kensington.”
The Elsinore Academy junior was the worst combination: ugly, bossy, and mean, but she was part of the popular crowd. “Gross,” I said. “Do not tel me my lips just touched lips that have touched Martha’s.”
He smiled. “She critiqued me the whole time, but it did make me a better kisser.”
“Ew,” I said, and then pretended to be the hair-flipping, sour-faced Martha, tel ing him where to better place his hands, when to move his tongue, and how to tilt his head just so. This sent us into an uncontrol able fit of giggles that Hamlet walked in on.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, pul ing off his sweater before sitting in front of the fireplace.
Horatio opened his mouth to explain, and I shook my head.
“What?” Hamlet asked, getting a little offended.
I locked eyes with Horatio, then said, “Fine,” and turned to Hamlet. “We were doing an experiment.”
“What kind?” Hamlet asked.
I squinted at him. “We kissed,” I said lightly.
“Reeeal y.” He looked from one of us to the other. “And?”
“And,” Horatio jumped in, “turns out we’re both good kissers, but we have no future together.”
“I’m a good kisser?” I asked, and Horatio nodded.
“Cool,” said Hamlet, “my turn.” He got on his knees and leaned toward me.
I lifted my eyebrows and put up a hand. “You can experiment on Horatio but not me.”
“Why not?” he asked, puffing himself up.
I climbed over the side of the love seat and headed for the door. “Because it’s late and I don’t want to kiss you. Good night, boys.” Horatio cal ed out his good-bye, but Hamlet gave chase up the dimly lit, dark wood lodge steps. “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” he asked.
“It’d be weird,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time. The suite my parents and I were sharing was the first floor up from the great room, so I was on the landing quickly.
“And it wasn’t weird with Horatio?” he asked, stil fol owing me.
“It was,” I said, stopping at my room, nearly catching my long hair on the antlers hanging from the door.
“So?”
“So nothing. I don’t want to.” The truth was I did, and that was what had me worried. I’d always been more than a little curious, and every once in a while, when I thought of Hamlet, it wasn’t just as friends. I had pangs of jealousy when he skulked off with some girl, and occasional y I looked a little too long when he locked lips with one of them. But with him front and center, and the possibility of his kissing me being real, I knew I should decline.
“Horatio got to,” Hamlet argued. “That seems a bit unfair.” He was acting like a spoiled little boy, which made me want to kiss him far less. Which is why I did it.
“Okay?” I asked, flinging my arms wide after planting a fast, annoyed kiss on him.
He stood real y stil , and because the torch-shaped hal light was directly behind his head, it made it hard for me to see his express
ion. Then he inched forward and I could see there was no mirth on his face, only intense desire. His palms cupped my face and when his soft lips brushed against mine, I wanted to both run away and stay there forever. This was bad because it felt so good. Better than good. It felt right.
I yanked my head back and said nervously, “Okay, then, so we did it. Now… good night.” I fumbled with my key and then opened my door. When I stepped inside, he was stil standing in the same position. “Huh,” he said, bemused. “Good night.” He walked away, running his fingers through his hair as he pounded down the steps, presumably to rejoin Horatio.
That night I could hardly sleep. I spent the first half of the night thinking about how beautiful Hamlet looked as he had come closer, and how amazing he smel ed, and how confident yet gentle his touch was. I spent the second half of the night thinking about how stupid I’d been to al ow it.
The next morning, I didn’t talk much to my parents at breakfast. And when we al got on the royal jet, I put my backpack on the seat next to mine and pul ed out my homework. When Hamlet and Horatio tried to sit with me, I shook them off, claiming that I had tons to do, and tried to ignore the kick in my stomach when Hamlet leaned in to say they’d be mere feet away if I changed my mind.
When we were waiting for our bags to be unloaded, Hamlet sidled up next to me. “You’re acting weird,” he said. “We okay? I mean, last night—” I waved my book right in front of his face. “I’m fine. Mrs. Bernstein is tough, though, and there was a quiz while we were gone. I need to do wel on the makeup. That’s al that’s wrong.” In my attempt to sound normal, I knew my voice had gotten higher and less convincing.
He shrugged, fighting back a smile, or so I thought. “Movie tonight?”
I shook my head. “Studying,” I said, looking down at my book, hoping he couldn’t see the pages shake. How had I never noticed how darn good he smel ed? Seriously. Like pine trees and musk and rosemary. Had he changed deodorant? Was he suddenly wearing cologne? He was going to have to move away or I was going to fling my book aside and smooch him right there on the tarmac in front of al our parents.