Falling for Hamlet

by Michelle Ray

  “Please come in,” I cal ed after him.

  He hesitated.

  “Just let me ride with you, okay?” I asked, trying to sound calm. “We need to talk.” His jaw was clenched and his face was flushed, but he got in anyway. Dark purple circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes, and his hair was completely askew. His clothes were even more wrinkled than the day we’d spoken outside the theater, and I had to wonder again where he was living. Somewhere in the castle, I assumed, but not, perhaps, in his room. But why had he stopped taking care of himself completely? Gone was the effortlessly hot guy I’d known forever, replaced by someone who seemed to find living itself a trial.

  My heart was pounding. I wanted to reach up and turn off the intercom, to grab Hamlet and kiss him despite al that had happened. But the thought of the video and of being kicked out of my home kept me in my place, literal y and figuratively. The limo began to move. I thought of the crowded seat up front and prayed it would be a short, painless, fruitless drive that would be enough to get those intrusive men off my back.

  “You getting any sleep?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

  He shrugged.

  “Are you eating?”

  “A little.”

  I bit my lip. “I’m worr—”

  “No you’re not. And if you wanted to check up on me, you could have just asked Marcel us,” he snapped. “What do you real y want, Ophelia?” I reached deep inside myself for the strength to tel a string of lies. “Hamlet, I wanted to give you back some of your things. Some of the gifts you…” I opened my backpack and pul ed out a T-shirt from a band we’d seen play and some CDs he’d burned for me, al of which I was finding especial y hard to offer over at that moment. Pretending to not want those treasures, knowing my father and Claudius were on the other side of the partition listening to my every word, my stomach ached.

  “I never gave you those,” he said, looking with irritation out the window.

  This surprised me more than anything else he could have said. Did he know someone was listening? Was he just being contrary? Was he accusing me of cheating? I tried not to show my shock, and replied, “You know you did. They were heartfelt and I loved them when you gave them to me.” I thought of his face as he had walked away from me outside the theater and tried to use that image to help me continue with what I was supposed to say. “But now…

  since we’re not together, I don’t want them. I can’t even look at them anymore.” He didn’t move to take them, so I tossed the pile onto the seat next to him.

  We sat in silence for a few moments. I was determined to say nothing more. I had done what I had promised to do.

  Suddenly he asked, “Are you honest?”

  I was confused. Was he asking about my reasons for returning the stuff? Was he asking about my faithfulness? Did he know our conversation was being overheard? After a pause that I felt sure would give away my guilt, I clasped my hands, wil ing them to stop shaking, and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever been honest with me?”

  “I’ve always been honest,” I answered, trying not to sound as guilty as I felt.

  He studied me for a moment, his face looking as if he were trying to puzzle out the meaning of one of the abstract paintings he found so laughable. “It’s a shame you’re so beautiful. It’s easy to hide one’s true self with beauty, don’t you think? No one ever looks past the outside to see the filth that truly lies inside.”

  I took a moment to compose myself before I spoke, letting his word filth hang in the air. He had to know someone was listening. Or if he did not, he truly hated me. Never, in al the times we had broken up, was he anything but jovial and reassuring. He had never insulted me. It was always an attempt “to be practical,” which was a thinly veiled excuse to play the field. But this… was new, and it hurt. “I don’t know why you’re saying this.”

  “You’re suggesting that I loved you once,” he said.

  I whispered, “You made me believe it.”

  “You shouldn’t have. I never loved you.”

  I looked for signs of a laugh that would fol ow this ridiculous statement, a laugh that would be used to placate me. But no laugh came. “Wow. Then I…

  am a fool,” I said.

  His face was blank. How could he make such a claim so calmly? He was the one who freaked out when I told him we shouldn’t talk for a while. He was the one who reached for me each time I came near. He was the one who whispered words of love and sent the kind of messages only someone with feelings, real feelings, for another person could write. Or was I wrong? Al the times I tried to protect myself. Al the times I tried to listen to Laertes (if not my father) and keep Hamlet at a distance… Each time Hamlet begged me to be his, to surrender to this love. I did. My brother asked it best: “R u stupid?” burned in my mind. Maybe I was.

  I turned to the partition behind me, hoping someone would understand that this was enough. I had been humiliated and the game was over. But there was no movement, so I took a moment to wipe away my tears and see my own anguished expression in the smoky reflection.

  He got onto his knees, leaned close to my face, and whispered, “Men are pigs. Don’t believe any of us.” Then he kissed me. I was angry and confused, unsure of whether to give in or to push him away. Every moment since he’d opened the door had been so wrong, and kissing Hamlet always felt right. But this was different. If a kiss could be revenge, this was it. Its aggression deepened my fear.

  And yet, part of me thought that his final words might be the key. Maybe this was an act, and the kiss was to let me know he knew others were watching.

  I thought that maybe if I kissed him back, he might know I understood. Or if he was serious, my kiss might make him remember that we loved each other and remind him that I was not the enemy.

  Wanting to erase al of the trickery I had committed in luring him into the conversation in the first place, I kissed him back. I let him pul me down onto the seat. But then I remembered we weren’t alone, and I turned my head toward the partition. I tried to push away, panic-stricken by the thought of my father witnessing any of what we were doing.

  Hamlet pul ed back and asked, “Where’s your father?”

  Involuntarily, my gaze went to the control panel above our heads. He saw me look at it and, seeing the red Speak button lit, reached for the adjacent Open Partition button, but the window separating us from the front seat did not budge. He pushed the button harder, and when the window stil didn’t move, he stared at me.

  “Why is this locked?” He slapped at the thin plate of plastic with his palm, cal ing, “Lower this right now!” When nothing happened, he turned to me.

  “Who’s up there?”

  I opened my mouth but could not admit to my crime.

  He reached into his pocket and I thought he might be grabbing for his gun. My hands flew to cover my head, and a strangled cry escaped my throat. But if he was going to shoot, he changed his mind and instead began pounding the black partition wildly, his face reddening.

  “Enough!” I yel ed, both to Hamlet and to my father, who I hoped could stil hear.

  There was a click and a whir as the partition began to lower, revealing a ful front seat. Hamlet’s look wasn’t even angry at first, just blank. Then the scale of my betrayal sank in, and he reached for the door handle. He opened the door and looked as if he were going to jump out while the car was charging down the street. My father yel ed, and the driver slammed on the brakes, throwing us al forward. Hamlet fel against my seat. He scrambled up and grabbed at me. Holding me down, he snarled, “You two-faced bitch!” His weight pressed down, pushing the air out of my lungs. His face was twisted with fury, and in his eyes was more pain than I thought could be expressed in a look.

  My father, who had been in the middle seat, was trying to grab Hamlet through the now-open partition while Claudius jumped out of the car and opened the door. Hamlet got off me, pushed Claudius out of the way, and managed to close and lock the doors. Hamlet took my father by t
he shoulders and shoved him so hard that his back hit the dashboard. Then Hamlet raised and locked the partition.

  I could hear my father pounding as I whispered to Hamlet, “I’m sorry.” Guilt and terror were fighting equal y inside me.

  He grabbed my shirt col ar and pul ed himself close to my face again. “If you ever manage to find someone else to be with,” he began, spitting venom with every word, “no matter what you do, this wil fol ow you. You wil never be able to undo it.” His grip tightened, and my shirt cut into the back of my neck.

  He face was red, and veins were popping at the temples. “And if you ever find someone to marry, make sure he’s a fool, because anyone with half a brain knows that women screw up men’s lives.”

  He let go, and I scooted into the corner away from him, but he dove at me again. “Why don’t you become a nun? Or a whore? Seems sometimes you are both, no?” The first smile crept across his face, only it wasn’t the least bit joyful or kind. He mused on, “Better a nun. Why would you want to bring more sinners into the world?” He patted my stomach, then let his hand drift lower. I tried to push his hand away, but he gripped my jeans, his fingers digging into my flesh. Then he released me and reached for the button to open the sunroof.

  I was breathing hard, terrified. As he waited for it to open, I pleaded, “I’m sorry. They made me—”

  “I can’t take this anymore,” he muttered as he climbed onto the roof. “You’re making me crazy with these lies!” I scrambled to unlock the door and bolted out. Hamlet had climbed on the top of the car, attracting the attention of passersby who had not already stopped to watch when our car slammed to a halt and the king emerged unannounced onto the street. Hamlet had his arms up in the air and was addressing the crowd. “I say no one else should marry. Everyone who’s married already, except one,” he declared, pointing at Claudius, “should go on living as they are, but no one else can marry.” He jumped onto the hood of the limo and pointed at me. “Go become a nun, you whore!” he shouted, and ran down the street toward the subway.

  “Love?” Claudius yel ed at my father. “You stil think he’s insane with love?” His look was of pure disrespect and distaste for my father, and for me, too.

  “The kid’s just plain insane. And violent. You heard that threat. He means to do al of us harm. I’m sending Hamlet to England. He’l be on a plane by week’s end. Maybe that’l do him some good. And if not him, then us.” He signaled to the driver, who opened the door for him.

  My father came over and tried to put his arms around me. I yanked my body away from him and stumbled down the street.

  Ohgod ohgod ohgod, what had I done? How could I have been so stupid? How could I have hurt him like that? I hated myself more than I ever had, more than I ever would. I knew at that moment that I was no better than his mother or Claudius or Rosencrantz or Guildenstern. In fact, I was worse, because I stil loved him and, despite what he said, I knew he stil loved me, and I chose to hurt him anyway. And if there was a breaking point for him, I had to guess this was it. I wanted to scream or curse or weep or al of the above, but there were people watching, and I didn’t want my reaction to become news. As I ran away from my father, I wished I could erase every second of the last ten minutes. No, the last few months.

  “What’s wrong? Ophelia, why are you crying?” asked Laertes.

  I couldn’t stop myself long enough to tel him. I leaned against an office building’s cinder-block wal , looking through my tears at the end of the deserted al eyway. I hoped no one would come around the corner.

  “Is it Dad? Are you hurt? Ophelia, what is it?”

  “I… I…” I kept sobbing. I shouldn’t have dialed his number. I wanted to confide in him and had calmed down before I hit Send, but as soon as I heard his voice, I fel apart again. “It’s nothing,” I managed final y.

  “It doesn’t sound like nothing,” he replied, but it was enough of an answer for him to stop asking questions.

  “I did a real y bad thing to Hamlet.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Laertes replied. “He’s on TV. And so are you. And Dad. What’s going on? Why is Hamlet screaming? Has he completely lost his mind?”

  I couldn’t believe it was out there already. The speed with which life became news mystified me. It was so fast, I couldn’t even comprehend what had happened—and I was there. I didn’t know how to explain it to Laertes. It was too much, and I couldn’t admit what I did. I was embarrassed for myself. I was embarrassed for our father. I was embarrassed for Hamlet.

  But Hamlet’s words stuck in me like a needle. “You shouldn’t have believed it. I never loved you.… No matter what you do, this will follow you. You will never be able to undo it.”

  Aching al over, I moaned, “I hate Hamlet.” Yes, I hated him for how he acted. Even before he realized what was happening in the car, he had hurt me with his indifference and then his accusations. But, no matter what he had done and said, I hated myself more for my part in what had fol owed.

  Laertes paused. He had heard me say that I hated Hamlet so many times over the years. The first few times he had believed it and had become invested in my upset. Then he got used to the ups and downs and tried to stay relatively uninvolved.

  “Can you come back?” I asked. “Things are so… I need you.”

  “You never need me,” he answered. Probably realizing that since I never did need him, it must be bad, he added, “Listen, it’s a real y busy semester. I can’t just leave. But cal me anytime you need, okay? Anytime. Five times a day if you want.” I slumped against the wal , my stomach aching even more. “Okay.”

  I wouldn’t cal him. I reached out that once, but I would go back to dealing with things on my own. Straightening out and ignoring the pain, I checked to make sure my face was dry and set out to find a cup of coffee.

  As I walked, I texted Horatio:

  i thnk i jst put the finl nail n th coffin. find H.

  Barnardo: Glad you weren’t my girlfriend.

  Ophelia: Thanks.

  Barnardo: With friends like his…

  Francisco: I know, right?

  Barnardo: “I put the final nail in the coffin.” How can you explain that away?

  Ophelia: It’s an expression.

  Francisco: Or proof of conspiracy.

  Barnardo: We think you asked Claudius and your father to get into that limo with you.

  Ophelia: I asked? You don’t know anything about anything.

  16

  “People say Hamlet grew very paranoid. Was there any reason for it?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Everyone he thought he could trust betrayed him.”

  “Even you?” Zara asks with a twinkle in her eye.

  Ophelia sighs, then her chin begins to tremble. “Yeah.”

  Zara hands her a tissue. “In what way?”

  “I didn’t believe him when he told me there was gonna be trouble.”

  That night, against my better judgment, I cal ed Hamlet’s cel phone. Each mini-click after the ring sent my heart into my throat. By the time his voice-mail message came on, I was barely able to stand. “Okay. You’re not there. Or you can see it’s me and you’re not picking up. Probably that. I wouldn’t pick up if I were you. So, wel , here’s the thing. You were right. Your mother and Claudius blackmailed me. There’s this video. Of us. God, you knew I couldn’t deal with being embarrassed, and look what I did. I’m so sorry.”

  I was standing outside myself, distracted by my own lameness.

  “I’m not sure where you are, but when you get this, could you just cal ? You probably don’t want to. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to talk to me again, but… Listen, if I don’t hear from you in two days, I’l have my answer. Okay? If I don’t hear from you within two days, I’l know we’re real y through and… I’l leave you alone.”

  Three days later, I stil hadn’t heard from Hamlet or Horatio. I had kept to myself, staying out of my father’s sight, not talking to anyone at school, literal y hiding in stairwel s and bathroom
s until the bel rang. But on the third day, I picked myself up and tried to act normal again. If a walk of a thousand miles begins with just one step, I figured the road to recovering from Hamlet might begin by getting out of his world.

  I got to first-period art history early for the first time in a while, and though Mr. Norquest didn’t say anything, he did raise his eyebrows as I took my seat next to my friends Lauren and Sebastian.

  “Wanna ditch PE and grab coffee after class? You look terrible,” Sebastian whispered as the lights dimmed for a slide show.

  “Thanks,” I whispered back, elbowing his ribs. “Coffee sounds good.” The circles under my eyes had grown rather pronounced, and I rubbed my face, hoping to stay awake in the darkened classroom.

  Mr. Norquest intoned, “Note the difference between Ingres’s Grande Odalisque and Manet’s Le déjeuner sur l’herbe, or The Lunch on the Grass. This painting caused quite a stir when it was unveiled. Comments?”

  The class pontificated about the sexism in having the woman nude while the men were clothed, admired her direct gaze, and noted the fact that in Manet’s painting the woman seemed comfortable among the men. Additional y, students observed that she was clearly of their class, unlike the classic odalisques who were exotic slaves meant to be pitied while lusted after.

  When the teacher cal ed on me, I admitted in a rare moment of truth, “Sometimes I feel like her.”

  “Why is that?” he asked, pul ing his glasses off and tucking them into his pocket.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Regretting I had spoken up, I shrugged and slumped a little in my seat.

  Sebastian nudged me and whispered, “Go on.”

  I sat up slightly and fortified myself. “She’s so exposed, and everyone is completely casual about the fact.”

  “But is she bothered by it?” prodded Mr. Norquest, leaning against an empty chair in the first row.

  “Not always easy to tel just by an expression,” I mused. “Maybe she’s used to playing their game, hiding her true self.” Mr. Norquest nodded and looked back at the painting, wondering at this perspective.