“You were great,” I assure her.
Michael goes next, showing no signs of ever having had a moment of panic in his life. He’s chosen Hamlet, of course, and cites all sorts of evidence from the play that Hamlet was a genius, a man of the people, an ethical person forced into a terrible position what with that whole having to kill his uncle thing, blah blah blah. It’s very smart and very impressive and based on Aristotle’s definition of the tragic hero and will no doubt earn our group an “A” again, but something about the way Michael makes his case bothers me. He’s not just self-possessed. He’s downright smug, and it makes me want to throw my copy of the book at him.
“Hamlet’s more complicated than the average tragic hero,” Michael explains, “because his undoing is not just because of some tragic flaw, his hubris or something. But like Oedipus or other classic tragic heroes, Hamlet’s essentially a noble figure.”
Unfortunately, the snort I make at this is audible to Ms. Ehrman. She twists on the edge of her desk toward me and says, “Georgiana, would you like to say something about that?”
“I don’t see what’s so noble about Hamlet,” I say, albeit reluctantly. “I mean, he kills-what? three? four?- people. What’s so noble about murder?”
“Those people were trying to kill him,” Michael points out.
“Not all of them! Not Polonius-Hamlet kills him just because he’s so creeped out by the idea of a guy in his mother’s bedroom.”
Some of the class snickers and I feel my face get a bit warmer. I can’t tell if they think I’ve made a funny point proving that Hamlet is a bit of a wacko, or at least a mama’s boy, or that I have revealed myself to have a mind prone to finding weird sexual situations where they do not exist.
I really need to stop getting myself into these situations. But I’m in one now and there’s no graceful way out. And no wrecking ball to come and knock me safely into the next classroom, so I continue, “He’s a guy out for revenge who destroys a lot of people-himself included. But that doesn’t make it ‘noble,’ just because he takes himself out, too. I know she’s not a hero, and not ‘tragic’ in Aristotle’s definition, but Ophelia is tragic in every other sense of the word.”
Now Michael snorts a bit and his smile twists at this absurdity. He says, “She’s confused, and goes off the deep end– no pun intended.” Some of the guys laugh. “I’ll give you that.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Ms. Ehrman rubs her glasses on her sweater for a moment before prompting, “Okay, Georgiana, what is tragic about Ophelia?”
I sigh but forge ahead.
“She’s used by all the men in the play. She’s just a tool to them. No matter how she feels about them, they just see her as an instrument.”
“True that,” Shondra agrees and there are a few other murmurs.
“Her dad does seem to want to use her for his own political advancement,” Michael admits.
“He practically throws her at Hamlet,” Shondra tells him and I smile at her, a big sappy grin of gratitude, before I continue, reinforced.
“And her brother uses her, too. Ophelia and Laertes are all jokey, typical brother and sister making-fun-of-dad in Act One,” I say, “and then, when she dies, Laertes might genuinely grieve for her, but he seems more bent on getting revenge to prove what a noble guy he is. Just like Hamlet.”
“Hamlet doesn’t ‘use’ her, exactly,” Michael argues calmly. “She’s more like … collateral damage.”
“She loves him,” I practically cry out, too caught up in my irritation now to police my own response to Michael’s confidence in his own brilliant analysis. “That’s evident from her speech in – what is it? Act One? She calls him ‘the very mold of form and glass of fashion’? She thinks he’s noble, that’s true. And then he uses her to make his own `I’m-no-threat-because-I-am-a-mad-dog’ scheme seem plausible. She’s been loyal to him, it seems, cared for him as a person, loved him for who he is-then she gets placed in his path by her dad to be used by him, so he can shock everyone by calling her a whore! She’s a tool for her dad, maybe for her brother, and for the guy she loves. Who wouldn’t go batty after that happened to them? What else can she do? She’s a girl in medieval –or whatever – Denmark. She’s property, a pawn.” I finish with a sort of sigh. “Maybe she’s not crazy. Maybe she’s just really pissed off, but she can’t do anything about it. She’s not the prince of Denmark. She’s not a man.”
After a pause Ms. Ehrman says, “I think Georgiana makes a very compelling feminist argument.”
At the word “feminist” there are some hisses and hoots, as if I had announced my intention to castrate everyone in the room with a penis.
“Michael?” she asks.
He swallows and chooses his words carefully.
“I think what Georgia says makes a lot of sense, especially considering the time when Shakespeare was writing. But I also think that Hamlet is under some constraints himself because of where and how he grew up. He keeps debating whether to kill Claudius not because he’s a coward, but because he doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t want to kill anybody.” He looks at me with a faint smile. “The guy Ophelia loves and looks up to isn’t a killer. He’s a thinker. But he knows that as a young man and as a prince –as his dad keeps coming back from the dead to remind him –he has an obligation to avenge his father’s death. That’s what a guy is supposed to do.”
“Yeah, quit your male-bashing, Georgia,” Callam from the lacrosse team laughs, and Michael rolls his eyes and looks at me almost apologetically.
“Another fine point,” Ms. Ehrman tells Michael. “Your group is on fire today!”
Then Rod, who smokes a lot of pot in a van in the school parking lot, goes off on this idea that there is no ghost in the play, really, that it’s just a figment of Hamlet’s imagination and Hamlet is a schizo lunatic from the beginning. But I don’t really listen to him. My heart is pounding too hard, like it’s trying to break out of my ribcage. I feel excited and foolish and vulnerable and exhilarated all at once. Maybe all of my dad’s dinner table debates have paid off at last. I mean, I’m used to discussions of literary analysis-I’m just not used to anyone listening that carefully to what I have to say in these discussions.
When I glance at Michael, he just looks thoughtful.
As class ends, Shondra gives me a fist bump and Michael stops by my desk for a second on his way out, but he doesn’t say anything, so Shondra and I walk out together after handing in our papers. I wish he’d said something, though, anything, really, just one more thing … As embarrassing as our impromptu in-class debate had been, it had also been kind of exciting. Like a verbal version of fencing – and I had actually managed to knock the foil out of his hand there for a minute. I have to admit there was something sort of fun about that. And I had a feeling that he felt that way, too.
“I think we got our As,” she says. Before we split at the end of the hall for our separate classes, she says, “Hey, do you want to go an all-ages show for Gary and Dave’s band next Saturday? They said they’re playing somewhere in Netherfield?”
“Yes!” I cry, then feel the immediate letdown of realization. “Wait, I can’t. I have to do this thing with my family. At the country club.”
Her eyebrows climb up into her braids for a second but she just shrugs and says she’ll see me later at the Alt meeting.
Now I want to go to the Harvest Ball even less.
I didn’t think that was possible.
Belle of the Ball
Still, when the dreaded night of the Harvest Ball arrives, I have to admit it is sort of nice to dress up. Tori wriggles into this amazing sapphire velvet sheath, then she twists my hair into a loose bun at the nape of my neck and my mom lends me a string of pearls. I suppose I look acceptable, the black (haired) sheep among the Barrett blondes. At least, my dad looks kind of surprised when he sees me come down the stairs and then he smiles and sort of stammers out that I look “nice.”
The country club lives up to my moth
er’s expectations, looking beautiful in its faux colonial finery. The dark paneled dining room is filled with a series of large tables covered in white damask tablecloths and candles in hurricane holders with bright little fake leaves scattered about, and in that room and the ballroom there are fake candles glowing above in pewter chandeliers. As we sit with Trey’s mom and dad, I try not to feel completely out of place in a room populated by people with names like Bunny Billingsley. The grownups are busy talking with each other, and while Trey and Tori include me in their conversation about some school stuff, I still feel like the table’s appendix, an unnecessary appendage. When the waiters bring dinner, I get the same plate of midget chicken (squab) that everyone else does. It’s so sad looking, like a little sparrow fell out of a tree and into a broiler somehow, and now it’s just perched there on my plate with its little legs spread. I just eat the pureed squash and salad and the crusty roll, dry, and wish I were somewhere else.
When the uniformed and silent waiters start clearing the plates, I notice that Michael Endicott is sitting a few tables away with two people who must be his parents, a tall, good looking man with steel grey hair and a really beautiful woman who has Michael’s dark eyes and hair with these really dramatic wisps of pure white running through it. Michael sort of waves at me and I wave back. I don’t know why I am surprised to see him. Of course he is here. His great-great- grandparents were probably the first people to blackball potential members way back when. He is in his element here in a way that I will never be, no matter what I am wearing or whom I am sitting with.
After dinner, punch and cookies are served by buffet and dancing begins in the ballroom, where a string quintet plays waltzes and swing music and other dance standards and couples actually do something besides hold onto each others’ waists and shoulders and sway somewhat to the rhythm. They have actual dance moves, which is kind of impressive. Even my parents do; I had no idea. Mom beams as she and Dad twirl among the couples, and my dad is smiling, too. In fact, he seems to be a pretty good dancer. Trey asks me if I would mind if he took Tori out on the floor and I laugh. Even though the thought of being stuck at the table alone is almost as terrifying as waltzing, I say, “Of course! Show us how it’s done.” Tori and Trey look great even if they don’t know what they are doing exactly. They are laughing softly and reasonably rhythmical and they don’t crash into anybody.
“Do you want to give it a try?”
I look up to find Michael behind my chair. He’s wearing a dark jacket and a loose teal blue tie over a spotless white shirt, open at the neck, and I notice for the first time how long and languid his neck is. It may actually be the first time I have ever noticed anyone’s neck, really. And it is a fine neck, long and not too thick or too thin. It suddenly strikes me as an elegant and beautiful limb.
“Aren’t you afraid a rabid feminist like me will stab you with this butter knife?” I ask. “Or, worse, try to lead?”
He smirks and extends a hand.
“You may be rabid, but you’re not foaming at the mouth, at least,” he says, and I don’t know what else to do but take his hand, which feels warm and strong and not at all sweaty.
I say as he leads me onto the floor, “I doubt that they would allow mouth-foaming here at the Longbourne Country Club. What’s the motto? ‘Keeping out the undesirables since 1749’?”
He looks at me with the grim amusement of an older brother or uncle who suffers a girl’s sad excuse for humor because he has to. Then the music starts, and he hesitates for just a second before he takes one of my hands and puts it on his hip and the other he rests on his shoulder.
And we’re off.
I feel so awkward I can hardly breathe. But Michael seems as assured about this as he does about anything else and guides us across the floor without incident. My mom sees us and points us out to my dad. She looks like a five-year-old who has just come downstairs to see that Santa has indeed brought a bike, and not just any bike, but one with a bell and tassels and bright shiny pink paint.
After a few moments of silence that threaten to make me run screaming from the room, I say, “Isn’t this the part where we are supposed to make polite conversation? At least, that’s what dancers do in all those movie adaptations of Jane Austen novels. My mom has seen Pride and Prejudice, like, 5,000 times.”
“All right, then,” Michael says. “What’s my line?”
“Well, you comment on the warmth of the evening or the unusually fine weather we’re having, and I say something about how lovely everyone looks in their semi-holiday finery.”
Michael doesn’t say anything for a moment, probably because no one likes to be told what to say. I know how much I hate it when he tries to tell me what to do. I’m nervous, but that doesn’t mean I have to be mean, and I kind of was.
“We could talk about books, maybe?” I suggest. “Or music.” I brave a look at his face and his eyebrows have perked up in interest.
“Do you think we have similar tastes?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “I can’t figure you out.”
Michael laughs then and asks, “What’s to figure out?”
“Just … everything.”
“You’re not exactly an open book either, Georgia.”
I don’t know what to say to that so we just keep moving. That’s the nice thing about dancing, I guess. If you don’t know what to say, you can just keep dancing and stay together. And I am not hating being together, actually. For one thing, Michael smells really nice. It’s a mixture of some warm spice and a basic soap. Whatever it is, it’s a good smell to breathe in as he holds me. I wonder what he’s thinking and why he asked me to dance and if it was because he had found our in-class sparring as weirdly enjoyable as I did. And I actually do want to know, all of a sudden, what music he listens to and what books he reads.
Michael breaks the silence after a few moments, asking “Where are your other sisters tonight?”
I think, “This is what he was thinking? He’s wondering about my sisters?” but I say, “Cassie is out with the Brick,” Michael laughs at this, “and Leigh’s Christian folk group is playing tonight.”
“She’s serious about her faith, then?”
“Dead serious. Utterly without humor about it.”
I expect him to say something sarcastic about her, but he doesn’t. Instead, Michael nods as if this makes sense to him. No one else has ever reacted that way before.
“Leigh’s passionate about Jesus,” I go on. “But I cannot explain her twin’s passion for the Brick.”
He laughs a little at that. He has a nice laugh. It’s like water running over rocks somehow. Naturally melodic, I guess.
“Really? You can’t imagine it?” he asks. “Isn’t the cheerleader dating the football star the oldest high school cliché in the world?”
And that brings me back to earth. This is the Michael Endicott I know, looking down his considerably long nose at everybody who doesn’t have a Mayflower pedigree.
“Well, that’s my family,” I snap back. “The Clichéd Barretts of Longbourne. The religious zealot and her evil twin, the ditzy slutty cheerleader; the absent-minded professor and his would-be-preppy wife”
“And where do you fit in?” he asks me sharply.
I know that I was pretty harsh with him and I can only imagine how much he regrets having gotten himself stuck on the dance floor with me in all my shrewish glory. But I can’t think of the right thing to say now. So I just shake my head and grit my teeth and we dance in silence again for awhile, a heavy, thoughtful silence, and when I’m finally about to say something, anything, a voice behind me says, “May I cut in?”
I turn to see Jeremy Wrentham tapping Michael on the shoulder and my face gets really warm all of a sudden, as if my brain had turned up the thermostat from the neck up.
Michael steps back. He doesn’t say anything, but looks at me questioningly for a few seconds, then indicates with the gracious sweep of his hand that he is relinquishing me -and probably witho
ut any regret. He walks away before I can say anything and Jeremy laughs and catches both of my hands in his. He swoops me off with a lurch, saying “I have always wanted to do that. Cut in on somebody. It’s so suave.”
“It’s like something out of an old movie,” I agree. “Very Cary Grant.” I look up at Jeremy’s face and he gives me that smile; I laugh and feel how warm and solid his back was. In his moss green crewneck sweater and faded jeans, he looks a little more disheveled than usual and hopelessly underdressed for this event, but he’s still easily the most beautiful thing in the room. I sigh.
“So Michael got the stick out of his ass long enough to dance, huh?” he cracks.
“That is not polite waltzing conversation, Mr. Wrentham,” I chide, and he responds by dipping me recklessly. He looks at me, waggling his eyebrows under his gold blonde hair and I look up at his eyes and feel all the breath go out of my body. Dancing with Jeremy is easy. It’s fun. I’m not wondering what he’s thinking or how he feels about my family. I’m just moving with him to the music, and I don’t even care that I probably suck at it. It just feels good.
“I’ve always wanted to do that, too,” he laughs.
People are noticing this disruption of dance floor decorum, so I straighten up immediately and smooth out my skirt.
“So,” Jeremy says as we resume more staid dancing, “how did you get a name like Georgiana anyway?”
“My dad is a British Lit professor at Meryton College, so my parents named me and my sisters for famous 19th century women. I was named for the Duchess of Devonshire.”
Charm and Consequence Page 3