by Michelle Ray
“Saturday,” I said, my stomach tightening. How had he gotten to this point? “Hamlet, what are you on?”
“Me? Nothing. I’ve just been… I haven’t wanted to go out.… I kind of lost track of time, so…” His eyes scanned his room and he suddenly looked embarrassed.
“Listen,” I began, setting my bag against the wal and closing the door, “why don’t you shower? I’l open the windows, and we’l do some laundry. Then you can tel me what’s going on and… yeah, we’l start with that, okay?”
He nodded, looking relieved that someone was taking charge of his wel -being. He grabbed his towel and started for the door. I brought him the basket that contained his shampoo and razor, then watched him make his way up the stairs to bathe. I thought of the afternoon the past summer when we walked through the Museo Firenze for the private viewing he’d arranged. Could that solemn, dazed person walking up the stairs be the same Hamlet I had hung out with months earlier?
I picked up my cel and texted Horatio.
wtf?
Hamlet returned after I had already gathered the dirty clothes strewn around the room and changed the sheets. I didn’t even change my own sheets, so this was quite a feat. He looked much more mental y present as he entered, and he crossed the room immediately to kiss me. “Hey, baby.”
“Hey, yourself. You better?” I asked, touching his wet hair.
“Yeah.” He breathed deeply and looked at the fluttering papers on his desk. “That breeze feels good.”
“We should go out. Get some air and something to eat. I’m starved, and you look like you haven’t eaten in a while.” I was trying not to sound like a mother hen, but I was failing miserably.
He shrugged. “I ate… yesterday, I think.”
“Think? Come on, sweet prince,” I said, taking his hand in mine. “Let’s dump the laundry somewhere in town and get—”
“Coffee.”
“And food. Man cannot live on coffee alone.”
He threw the laundry bag over his shoulder and led me down the stairs. “I could just trash al this and buy new stuff,” he joked.
“Where would you get the money?” I teased.
Hamlet’s phone bing ed. “Horatio,” he said to me. “Where should he meet us?”
“Wel , how about my favorite place, I Don’t Go to School Around Here.”
He hip-checked me, typed, “Dol y’s,” and snapped his phone shut. “I’m surprised your dad let you come.”
“I didn’t exactly ask,” I said.
He looked impressed but added, “Did he have you fol owed?”
I smiled. “Probably.” I put my arm around his waist and soon we found a pay-by-the-pound laundry service. Hamlet usual y did his own, but that would have meant staying in the stinky house, and that was something I just didn’t want to do.
While Hamlet ordered at the counter, Horatio had a few minutes to fil me in. “I’ve been basical y living at Kim’s, so I didn’t notice at first that Hamlet was MIA. I mean, his door was closed, so I thought he was out. Actual y, he never used to close his door half the time when he did go out, so I should have known.…”
“Don’t blame yourself. Look, I’m here for the weekend and you know to keep an eye on him from now on—”
“He’s messed up.”
“He’l be al right,” I reassured him. “You worry too much.”
“And you have too much faith,” he said gravely.
As if on cue, Hamlet returned, fol owed closely by a slim brunette who seemed rather proud of her very tight shirt. “Hey, Hamlet. Been missing you in class. You going to the party at G’s tonight?”
He looked at me and answered, “Uh, maybe. We’l see. This is my, uh…”
“Girlfriend.” I glowered, pul ing back my arm, which had been around Hamlet’s chair.
“Ophelia. Of course. You can come, too,” she said in her very pert voice. “Later,” she said to him, then bounced back to her friends, who immediately giggled upon her return.
I tried not to look at Horatio, who was looking embarrassed for me. “A party sounds good,” I said, swal owing my pride.
“I’m not drinking—” Hamlet started.
I interrupted, “You don’t have to. Or you can. One night couldn’t hurt, right?”
He nodded. “I could use a drink… and some fun.”
“It’l be like before,” Horatio said, getting swept up in the plan.
The lights were flashing red, blue, green, yel ow, red, blue, green, yel ow. The whole place smel ed of beer with a vague hint of socks. It smel ed like col ege heaven. “Woo!” I shouted, grabbing Hamlet with one arm and Horatio with the other. We pushed our way past a thick-necked guy who took our tickets toward the crowd on the other side of the entryway. The band was singing something about “being easier to play on than a pipe,” which might have been more suggestive if they weren’t screaming and pounding on their guitars and drums and one another. Horatio made a cup motion and ran off to the basement to get beer. Hamlet and I waded farther in.
Some girl, not the one from Dol y’s, recognized Hamlet and whispered in his ear. I couldn’t hear, but he looked at me sidelong, which was worse than her talking to him. I decided not to worry about it too much. Every girl wants to save the brooding guy, but he was mine to save, so I yanked him in the other direction. She screwed up her face and mouthed something at me that I pretended not to see.
We stood listening to the hideous music, if you could even cal it that, for another minute. He gestured like he was going to hang himself, which made us laugh, and he pointed toward the basement. I real y didn’t want to go down, but I fol owed him, anyway. In the half day I had been with him, he’d seemed to transform back to his old self, or at least to the one who had left Elsinore a couple of weeks prior. Even so, I thought I ought to stay close.
Horatio was in the middle of a very long line. When we reached him, Hamlet leaned in and yel ed, “Screw this. I brought my own.” He pul ed out a fifth of whiskey.
“What the hel did you let me wait al this time for?” Horatio laughed, grabbing the bottle and taking a swig. He passed it to me, and I wrinkled my nose.
“It’s this or crap beer.”
I grabbed it and did a dance of pain as it charred its way down to my stomach. “Christ, what is with you boys?” I gasped, fanning air into my mouth.
“That is quality stuff. Stolen right from Claudi-ass himself,” hissed Hamlet.
“No talking about him tonight. That was the deal,” Horatio said, playful y shaking Hamlet by the shoulder.
Hamlet grabbed the fifth and drank deeply, then handed the bottle to me again. I rol ed my eyes and held my breath. I hoped I wouldn’t need to drink much more before I was drunk. It had been a long time since I’d real y cut loose, and I wanted to take my mind off al the crazy stuff that had been happening. I figured if Horatio and Hamlet were going to drink themselves sil y, I might as wel , too. And it was a perfect time. No slinking into my happening. I figured if Horatio and Hamlet were going to drink themselves sil y, I might as wel , too. And it was a perfect time. No slinking into my apartment and avoiding my dad. No worrying about class the next day. Most important, I was with Hamlet, so no guy was gonna try anything if I got wasted. My face was stil burning as I passed the bottle to Horatio. The black lights made the iridescent wal paintings glow brightly, and the whiskey made them swirl. I stepped in a puddle of something as we headed back upstairs and was real y glad the weather hadn’t been warm enough for sandals.
A new band was setting up, so someone had put on a stereo. “How Like an Angel” was blasting, one of my favorite songs to dance to. I started leaping up and down and spotted an empty table pushed in the corner. I climbed up and, to my surprise, Hamlet and Horatio hopped up, too. The table was pretty smal , but we al managed to fit. The music was in me and al around, and the lights flashed faster. I did not think about the flashes of white coming from a few feet away.
The next band was either real y amazing or I was real y drunk.
Probably both. They played a long set. Everyone in the room seemed to know who they were because they screamed out the musicians’ names between songs and knew al their lyrics. I guess the band went to Wittenberg.
They played a few slow songs, which was a great chance to sit down and lean against the wal . I sat wedged between my two guys, happy that Kim didn’t want to come with Horatio, and closed my eyes for a while. Soon, Hamlet leaned close and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.” Keeping my eyes closed, I replied, “It’s stil early, Hamlet.”
I looked over at Horatio, who suddenly snored, which seemed outrageously funny. As our laughter died down, Hamlet pul ed out the whiskey again and offered it, but I waved it away. With Horatio asleep, I suddenly felt free to climb onto Hamlet’s lap. He pul ed me into a kiss, and there were more white flashes.
“Get out of here!” Hamlet yel ed, waving at someone in the dark. He tried to get up, nearly knocking me off the table. Whoever it was vanished into the crowd while we struggled to keep our balance.
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know. The university promised my father that I wouldn’t be hassled here. Promises,” he spat.
The band started playing a faster song. We looked at each other and knew we were too tired to keep dancing. We patted Horatio awake and steered him back out through the crowd. He stopped in the bushes to puke and then fel to his knees, luckily not landing in the former contents of his stomach.
“Why do I let you drag me into these things?” implored Horatio.
“You did this wil ingly, my friend,” replied Hamlet, hoisting Horatio back onto his feet.
As we rounded the corner, we nearly bumped into two guys, both of whom were wearing absurd beanies. “Rosencrantz! Guildenstern!” shouted Hamlet too loudly.
“Good party?” asked the tal one, eyeing Horatio.
“Decent music. Foul beer. What the hel are those?” Hamlet asked, gesturing sloppily to his own head.
“Pledge thing.”
Hamlet stumbled as he cackled, dragging us away. “Good luck with that,” he yel ed over his shoulder.
I woke up the next morning in agony. My head pulsated, and my mouth was furry. As I rol ed over to get out from under Hamlet, my stomach burned. I moaned and tried to shut out the day with my hands. Why Hamlet was unable to hang a simple curtain or shade was beyond me.
I dug into my overnight bag and grabbed a pair of jeans. That amount of movement was too much, so I put my head back on the pil ow. I wanted to shower and get al the grime off from the night before, but I dreaded the comments I knew I would hear if any of the frat brothers were in the hal . They always had off-color remarks for any girl who spent the night.
I stood up and shoved on the jeans, deciding to take my chance with the hal and the guys’ bathroom. I grabbed Hamlet’s towel, which we had neglected to get laundered, and smel ed it. A little mildew but clean enough. When I entered the harshly lit hal way, some guy was sitting on the stained carpet steps that led up to the showers. As he scooted aside to let me pass, he said, “Nice pictures,” not bothering to look up from his paper.
“Excuse me?” I scowled at him, wishing I’d brought some toothpaste with me, knowing there would be none I would want to touch upstairs.
“Nice pictures, I said. Front cover. Impressive.” He swiveled around and let me see the front page of the paper he was holding. His eyes danced with excitement. There above the fold were two startlingly clear pictures from the party the night before. One was of Hamlet, bottle in mouth, me dancing in a skirt I had not realized looked so indecently short, my hair flying every which way, and Horatio, arms in the air, head back, making him unidentifiable. The other picture was of me sitting astride Hamlet on the table in the corner, his tongue down my throat. The white flashes of light.
“Crap,” I whispered, my legs weak. I grabbed the sticky banister to steady myself.
“He’s the most famous guy around. Why are you doing anything you don’t want the whole world to see?” He smirked and handed the paper to me. I clutched it and sat. The guy bounded down the creaky steps and disappeared into the living room.
As he clicked on the TV, I heard a reporter, glee in his voice, saying, “That kind of picture makes me wish I were back in col ege.” A female reporter replied with mock concern, “That kind of picture makes me hope my daughters don’t want to go at al .” They chuckled, then her tone grew serious as she changed topics.
I stood on shaking legs and made my way back to Hamlet’s room. I put down the paper and the stinky towel and pul ed my hair into a ponytail, trying to catch my breath. I was jealous of Hamlet’s sleep and furious that he wasn’t awake to share in this horrible moment. I was about to wake him when a ruckus outside caught my attention. I walked to the window and saw a white news van pul ing up. Students passing by were stopping to watch, and one pointed to the window where I was standing. I was glad I had put on my pants. Another news van with an outsize satel ite dish on top slowed, its brakes squealing.
I scooted to the side of the window and slid down the wal . “Hamlet. We are so dead.” Three hours later, Elsinore’s skyline loomed overhead, making me feel as if I were at the bottom of a deep canyon. Horatio had an exam the next day, so he stayed. Hamlet, thinking himself gentlemanly, escorted me home in his limo.
“This was so stupid,” I muttered.
“It may have been stupid, but it sure was fun. I haven’t felt that happy and free in a while,” Hamlet said. He took my hand and I fought the urge to pul it back. Then I squeezed his fingers and tried to relax. What he said was cold comfort, but in a way, I guess I was glad. Despite the consequences, which I knew would be severe, we had accomplished what we had set out to do. We got Hamlet out of his head and we al had a night that wasn’t about our parents.
A text message bing ed at me. I pul ed out my phone.
Laertes: R u stupid? what did I say?
I couldn’t face Laertes in any form just then, so I turned off the phone and shoved it back in my bag. I stared out the window at the shops I loved to go to.
It occurred to me it might be a while before I was comfortable enough to show my face in public again.
The driver pul ed into the underground garage, which was wise. Not exactly to our surprise, Gertrude, Claudius, and my father were al waiting by the elevator bank. The fluorescent lights made them look sal ow and exaggerated their expressions, which ranged from irritation to dismay. I sank deeper in my seat, and Hamlet fol owed me down. He turned to me and stroked my cheek gently. “Hey,” he said, “no regrets, okay? I loved what you two did for me, making me go have fun. They’l forget al about this, but I won’t.”
I knew he was wrong about anyone forgetting.
The car stopped, and my father didn’t even wait for the driver to open the door. He yanked it wide, and I knew I had to go first. I looked back at Hamlet, who winked. Claudius didn’t look at me, but Gertrude studied me as if to figure out what kind of fool had been in her presence for the past however many years. I looked away and fol owed my father.
No sooner had the elevator doors closed than he began shouting. “What kind of lunatic goes out in public dressed like that with the future king? What kind of person puts herself in a position to be so exposed?” We arrived in our apartment and he marched me into his study, where he continued. “You sel yourself short by becoming his plaything, and you made a fool out of me for trusting you!” My body felt weak and I tingled from head to foot with nerves. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? You can never be sorry enough. I wil be lucky if I maintain my post or am al owed to keep you in the castle at this point. If I were the king and queen, I wouldn’t al ow it. If I were advising them on anyone but you, your removal is precisely what I would suggest.” I opened my mouth to speak, but he would not let me.
“Do you not understand, Ophelia, that Hamlet, as a young man, and a prince at that, walks with a longer leash than may be given to you? I forbid you to talk to Hamlet until further notice. Are we clear?
”
I nodded and kept my tears back until I had turned away and walked out of his office.
When I got to my room, tons of e-mails were waiting for me. Most were from friends, but from the subject lines I knew I couldn’t face what they had to say, even the friends who found the whole thing very funny. I spotted one from Hamlet with the subject line: “Never Surrender.” I wondered if our parents could read our messages if they so desired. There seemed to be precious little privacy in the castle in general. I wanted to open it but was afraid of where it might lead. Then again, my father had said not to “talk” to Hamlet, which didn’t necessarily cover electronic messages, if one were inclined to argue the point. I wasn’t sure just then if I was so inclined. I walked away from my computer.
Later that morning, as expected, I was summoned by Gertrude. She was sitting very stil at her tea table, delicately painted cups and saucers laid out perfectly. She did not stand in welcome. After some perfunctory utterances of shock, she took a moment to create a meaningful silence between us. She sipped and held the cup to her lips longer than she needed to. “Given my son’s inexplicable attachment to you, I had begun to think that you and Hamlet might get married someday.” Her lips curled in disgust, and she lowered the cup slowly. “But after this? How could the people honestly accept you as their queen after seeing you like… that?”
“Gertrude, I—”
“There is nothing you can say.”
My anger flared. “The people were shocked by you and Claudius, yet you go on being queen!” I shouted.
Gertrude pursed her lips and crossed her arms, daring me to say another word.
I softened my voice. “The pictures make it look much worse than it real y was.”
Gertrude looked at the ceiling. “Hamlet tried to say the same thing. I say it does not matter what the reality was. You look like a whore. I’ve sent him back to school. You are not to go there again. Stay away from my son.” She stood abruptly and clacked away, leaving me in her empty salon feeling like she had kicked me in the chest.