by Michelle Ray
Guildenstern sneered. “I know. You were visiting. You were pretty drunk, so…”
Al of a sudden I remembered them. “I wasn’t that drunk,” I said. “I remember now. You had on beanies.”
“Yeah,” Rosencrantz said, frowning and pul ing at his basebal cap.
“So why are you here?” I asked.
“Oh, the queen invited us personal y,” Guildenstern said, exchanging a smile with Rosencrantz.
“Real y,” I said. I couldn’t think of one occasion when Gertrude had invited anyone to the castle on behalf of Hamlet. Even his birthday parties had been arranged by a social secretary.
Guildenstern said, “Wanted us to cheer him up. Hamlet, that is.”
“Hamlet?” I asked, trying not to lose it at the mention of his name. “Why you?”
Rosencrantz leaned casual y on the counter holding the sugar and cream canisters and explained, “We’re friends with him.”
“You are?”
“From school,” Guildenstern said slowly, as if I were a stupid child.
The coffee was burning my hands, and as much as I wanted to throw it at them or just get away, I wanted to know what was happening more. “I’ve never heard him talk about you.”
Rosencrantz answered, “Maybe he doesn’t tel you everything.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Guildenstern said, looking at Rosencrantz, and they snickered.
I felt real y peevish and exposed, and was tempted to ask what they meant, but then thought better of it. Did I even want to know? “How would the queen know to ask for you two?” I prodded, steering the conversation away from my possible humiliation and toward theirs, if I was lucky.
Guildenstern answered, “Our dads have been working for Claudius on a PR project. Claudius wants a profile done of himself. A soft news piece, you know. Make him look good as the new king. While they were meeting, my dad asked Claudius how Hamlet was doing, said that I hadn’t seen him in a while and was worried.” Guildenstern puffed himself up.
Rosencrantz smiled. “And when he and the queen learned that we had been friends at school, they asked us to come and try to cheer up Hamlet.”
“And did you?” I asked.
“Cheer him up? I think so,” he answered.
I thought of how angry Hamlet had been the day before and could not imagine what could have turned his mood around so quickly.
Rosencrantz went on to explain. “We had met up with Wittenberg’s improv comedy troupe at a rest stop off the highway. They were coming to Elsinore, too, which was total y random. When we got here, we told Hamlet about them, and he was real y excited and ran off to work with them on something or other.”
It struck me as weird, given how upset we’d both been the night before, that he was excited about anything, let alone a comedy troupe. But I needed to keep my focus on these guys and why they’d come to Elsinore. I asked, “So what’s in it for you… being here?”
“Seeing Hamlet,” replied Rosencrantz. He glanced at Guildenstern, who looked like he wanted to get away as soon as possible. Their little intrusion on my peace hadn’t quite turned out as they had hoped.
“And?”
“That’s not enough?” asked Rosencrantz.
I sighed, feigning boredom.
He looked at Guildenstern, who nodded some kind of permission, so he continued, “Claudius said if we could get Hamlet to forget his troubles a bit, we would get internships here next summer.”
“What kind of internship?”
Guildenstern shrugged. “Dunno. Politics. Or PR. Or communications. Whatever.”
“You’l be perfect at it,” I said, before walking with my cup of coffee out the door and back across the street.
The crowd of tourists that were huddled around the front entrance of the castle started pointing and pul ing out their cameras. Al I had wanted to do was find Hamlet before having to drag myself to school, but instead I was having an impromptu photo shoot. My hair was a rat’s nest and my uniform blouse wasn’t tucked in. I figured that when she saw the pictures posted on the Internet later that day, my headmistress would be pissed. She was a stickler about proper uniform etiquette and notorious for lecturing students on how we al represented Elsinore Academy both on campus and off. I knew my father wouldn’t be pleased either that I was dumb enough to get caught looking like a freak, which just made the morning that much more craptacular.
When I final y made it past the tourists and into the castle lobby, Marcel us was at the security desk chatting. When I approached, he gestured to the other guard to step aside so we could have some privacy.
“Have you seen Hamlet?” I asked.
“He was in the theater last time I checked.”
I looked in the direction of the old castle as if I would miraculously sprout X-ray vision and detect him on its upper floors.
He looped his thumbs through his gun belt. “Aren’t you late for class?”
I looked at my watch. “Damn,” I mumbled. Mr. Norquest, my first-period teacher, was gonna freak out. Again.
“Been happening a lot lately.”
I squinted at Marcel us. “You keeping tabs on me?”
“Someone should. Your dad know what’s going on with you at school?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, forcing my face into a mask of innocence.
He leaned back against the security desk and crossed his arms extra slowly. “Wel , you don’t stay for practice anymore, you’re late al the time, and I know you’ve skipped school completely at least three times a month in as many months.” He widened his dark eyes, as if daring me to pretend that he was mistaken.
I tapped my fingers on the polished black counter, unable to dispute it but total y stunned that he’d noticed. “I thought you were in charge of Hamlet.” He cocked his head. “You’re important to him, so you’re important to me.”
“Wel then, I guess your job with me is done.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Trouble in hel .” I felt a pressure in my eyes and took a sip of coffee to swal ow the lump in my throat. “I actual y need to talk to him, though. There were these guys at the coffee shop—forget it. I’m just gonna run up to the theater and—”
Marcel us shook his head. “Go to school, Ophelia. He’l stil be here when you come back.” I started to argue but changed my mind. Every second that passed would make the reprimands I got from the school secretary and Mr. Norquest last that much longer.
That afternoon, I ran from the parking garage directly to the theater, climbing three flights of stairs while trying not to spil the cappuccino I’d picked up on the way home. When I reached the landing, I saw that Hamlet was standing alone by the large windows in the theater’s lobby. His clothes—the same ones he had been wearing the day before—were wrinkled, and I wondered where he had slept after I told him to leave my place. My heart hammered, and I wanted nothing more than to run to him and take back what I had said about breaking up. But then I reminded myself that this was what needed to be.
“Hamlet?”
He spun around to face me. His face was so weary, so pained.
“You okay?” I asked, more sure that my next words should be an apology.
He shook his head but didn’t say anything.
I opened my mouth to speak but hesitated. I wanted to put my arms around him, to ease his pain, but if we were going to be apart, I had to train myself to keep my distance. I’d also have to stop seeking him out. But I was already there, so I kept my voice clipped and my sympathy in check. “I heard you were up here with a group of improv guys.”
“Yeah, the Wit Burgers. They’re working on an idea I had for a show.”
“A show? When have you ever cared about theater, Hamlet?”
Ignoring my question, he said, “It’l be next week.” His eyes brightened for a moment, but then a veil of anger dropped over them. “I thought we weren’t talking.”
“I’m not sure what we’re doing. I said we shouldn’t hang out until—”
/>
He slammed his palm on the window and growled, “I swear to God, Ophelia, if you say anything about your father I’l flippin’ lose it.” My fury flashed, and I considered walking away. But I wanted to discuss those col ege guys more than I wanted to make him stop being a jerk about my father.
My eyes were mere slits as I returned his glare, and I said slowly, “I came to ask about your friends from school.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Two guys. Long last names.”
He hit the window again, this time with two hands. “Those bastards were wearing wires.”
“Wires?”
He put his forehead on the glass and closed his eyes. “To record our conversations. To get information from me.” I stepped closer and asked, “Get information for who?”
“Claudius and my mother.”
“Why would they—”
He turned to look me straight in the eyes. “They want to find out why I’m running around the castle at crazy hours and why I’m angry al the time. As if my mother doesn’t know. I’m starting to wonder if she was in on kil ing my… No, I can’t even think of that. Claudius must have acted alone. He must have.
Uch, I don’t know!”
“Hamlet, do you real y think that—”
He banged the side of his head on the window a couple of times and looked up at the ornately carved ceiling. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I got rid of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern for now, but I’l deal with them when I go back to school. They won’t get away with this. No one’s getting away with any of this.”
The night before, my father’s happiness had seemed more important than anything. But standing there with Hamlet, watching him deal with being betrayed by his friends and family, the thought of appeasing my dad suddenly didn’t matter. So even though there was a voice in my head warning me that this was al too serious and I should stop trying to heroical y save Hamlet by myself, I couldn’t help it. You can’t just turn off loving someone, and he was my best friend, not just some boyfriend. What other choice did I real y have?
I walked closer and put my hand on Hamlet’s arm. My touch seemed to quiet him. I said, “I can help you through this.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “No, you can’t.”
“Let me try.”
Gently placing his hand on mine, he said, “I think you were right last night. I think you should listen to your father. It’s not safe for you to be with me right now. Everyone has a price, and who knows what’s coming next?”
“I can take care of myself. You need someone, Hamlet. Put your trust in me.”
Then, stroking my face, he added, his voice urgent, “They’l get to you. It’s only a matter of time before my mother and Claudius find a way to get to you, I’m sure of it. I don’t want you any more wrapped up in my family’s mess than you have to be. Walk away, Ophelia. Get out while you can.” I took a step back, and his hand dropped. I’m not gonna lie: Wondering what his mother and uncle would do next scared me, but the thought of facing the danger without Hamlet was even scarier. I said quietly, “I don’t want to walk away. I’m here for you. I love you.” Suddenly he was angry again. “Don’t. Don’t love me.” When I didn’t move, his voice got loud enough that it echoed off the lobby wal s. “And I can’t rely on you. You’ve already proven that. One embarrassing photo spread and you were wil ing to throw what we have away.”
“That is not fair,” I protested, my chin trembling.
“Maybe not. But it’s true. Walk away, Ophelia.”
I couldn’t. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t even manage that. He shook his head, turned his back to me, and disappeared into the theater. After the door whispered shut, I stood waiting for him to come out again. Minutes passed, but the only thing that came out of the theater door was the sound of laughter. Eventual y, I threw my coffee in the trash and went home to watercolor my worries away.
Francisco: How well did you know Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?
Ophelia: I didn’t.
Francisco: Liar.
Ophelia: I met them a couple of times, but we weren’t friends.
Barnardo: Here’s a photo of you three together just before things got really crazy. Seems like this meeting was a catalyst.
Ophelia: Big word. I’m impressed.
Barnardo: Tell us what you talked about.
Ophelia: The show Hamlet was planning.
Barnardo: And.
Ophelia: And nothing. (pause) Fine. They were brought to Elsinore to spy on Hamlet.
Barnardo: For you?
Ophelia: No. For Claudius.
Francisco: Interesting. We found a document in Claudius’s files that says you asked the boys to come.
Ophelia: It’s not true.
Barnardo: Your word against theirs. Which one of them should we ask?
15
Zara asks sympathetically, “After your visit to Wittenberg, we understand you and Hamlet broke things off.”
“For a while.”
“What was that like?”
Ophelia breathes out slowly. “Hard.”
“So you missed him?” Zara asks as if she has already answered her own question.
“Sure. But my father asked me not to be with him.”
“Did you always listen to your father’s requests?” Zara probes.
“More than Hamlet wanted, less than my father would have liked.” Ophelia smiles sadly.
Zara nods. “Hard to balance the wishes of two such important men.”
Ophelia nods and bites her bottom lip.
Later that evening, I was sitting on the couch reading when Hamlet came out of the elevator. I was relieved to see him, actual y, and would have said as much if he hadn’t had such a wild look in his eyes. I stayed in my seat and braced myself. I thought for sure he was coming to hit me. He had never been violent toward me, so I don’t even know why I thought that was his plan. It’s just that no one ever races at you with such speed, with such terrifying anger, if they don’t plan on hitting you, I guess. He dashed right for me, and then, of al things, sat on the cushion where I was stretched out. He grabbed my hand, and his was absolutely freezing. He clearly had been outside—on the rooftop would be my guess—yet he had no coat, no gloves, no hat. There was snow on the ground outside, but he was wearing his flip-flops. It was then that I noticed his wet hair and that he wasn’t even wearing a shirt under his hoodie. No shirt at al . I couldn’t fathom why he was such a wreck. For a split second I thought he had just nailed some girl and that was why he was looking so guilty, but the wet hair, the cold hands… I knew that wasn’t it. If I had to pick a cliché, I’d say he looked like he’d seen a ghost. And then I realized that was precisely it. I sat real y stil and waited for him to tel me he’d seen his father again, hoping he wouldn’t because I knew he’d be pissed if I reminded him that I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Here’s the weirdest thing: He never even said a word. He never spoke; he just looked at me, studied me like he was memorizing my face, like he was going to draw it, or, worse, never see it again. The thought made me shiver. He looked choked, and al that escaped from his tightened throat was a pitiful sigh, not one of relief or fatigue but of strangling pain. Then he stood up and started walking away, only he didn’t look at the elevator, he looked at me as he walked. He made it al the way to the elevator, steps we had taken together in joy so many times, and pushed the button without watching what he was doing. The doors slipped shut and the last thing I saw was a sliver of his pained face.
I raced to push the button, but it was too late.
What had I expected if I did catch him? Was I planning on stopping him? I knew it wouldn’t work. Would I join him in ghost hunting? In people hunting?
Not a chance. But where did that leave me? I was being pushed more and more to the outside of Hamlet’s life—or had I moved myself there?—and I was both relieved by and hated that fact. Not getting involved with revenge and schemes seemed the safer, saner choice, but it meant that I had to wait
for the drama and the information to come to me, and I wasn’t one to wait around. And now that it had come—whatever it was that had just happened when Hamlet walked through my door—it was final y too scary for me to deal with alone.
By the time the elevator came, I was so undone, so perplexed, I knew the only choice I had was to tel my father what had happened. I hurried to his office, passing his secretary without stopping to answer her questions. My father was clearly in the middle of something, but I didn’t give him a chance to tel me to wait.
“Dad,” I panted, “something’s wrong with Hamlet. I mean, real y wrong.”
“What’s happened?” he asked.
After I told him what I had seen in our apartment, careful y not mentioning the gun or the talk of ghosts and death and revenge, he asked if I thought Hamlet was sick with love. I was shocked. Love? Who on Earth acts that insane over love? I couldn’t imagine it. He seemed more suicidal or homicidal than lovesick. I was about to tel my dad as much when I realized that if he thought this was about love, he might al ow me to be with Hamlet again, though just then, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be. I realized I was staring, and I had to say something. Al I could think to answer was, “I don’t know, Dad, but it scared me.”
“Have you spoken harshly to him lately?” he asked.
My father’s tone infuriated me. “You told me not to talk to him and not to see him! I sent him away. I refused to communicate with him and said nothing would change until you said otherwise.” I left out the part about our last two arguments.
My father nodded approvingly, then knitted his brow and said, “I was wrong when I said not to speak with him.” He put his arm around my shoulder as he escorted me out of his office. “I’m going to talk to Gertrude and Claudius about this.” I stopped walking. “No, Dad. Don’t do that. This is between me and Hamlet.”
He shook his head. “I think it is larger than the two of you. No man is an island.”
Realizing my error in going to my father, I begged, “Dad, please don’t.”
“Nonsense. I wil tel them about Hamlet’s visit to you and show them one of your e-mails—”
“How do you have—” I began, but realized I just didn’t want to know what kind of access he had to my computer and accounts. Things were getting too weird, and I couldn’t take another revelation. I decided on a different question and tried not to sound as horrified as I felt. “Which one?” He went to his computer and clicked a few times, and the printer whirred. He put on his glasses and read, “ ‘Doubt that the stars are fire / Doubt that the sun moves / Doubt truth to be a liar / But never doubt I love.’ ” He slid his reading glasses to the tip of his nose and, peering over the frame, added, “He’s quite a poet, that prince of yours.”