The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet (17 page)

“I bet we’ll learn a lot about your parents when they come to class,” Mauri said. “I mean,
from
your parents.” Saber nudged her.

“Oh, that
is
you,” Saber said, picking up one of the frames. “You look so cute wearing that dress. What’s that your dad’s holding?”

“A mead flagon,” Dezzie replied, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Did Shakespeare use mead flagons?” Mauri must have seen my skeptical expression, because she followed up her question with a snide, “What? We’re doing research on his life for English class.” Um, yeah.

“Yes,” Dezzie answered, ignoring my scowl.

Their little “tour” was excruciating. It was like Saber and Mauri had radar for anything Shakespearean or strange, and that’s what they would ask questions about, all “for the sake of research.” And no matter how many times I tried to catch Dezzie’s eye for an “I told you so” glare, she just ignored me.

From the photos, to the heavy goblets Mom kept in the china cabinet, to the two antique candleholders on the mantel, they pointed all of them out. Even things that I’d never considered odd—like our boot scraper or the piles of books everywhere—they honed in on. More than anything, I wished for an average home with an average family—one where there was a microwave, or where the TV set wasn’t on wheels and turned to face the wall most of the time. One where the parents didn’t debate the origins of the word “wench” at the dinner table. One where you didn’t get covered in mac and cheese because your sister needed an escort home. One where someone like me could fit in and matter.

We’d traipsed upstairs.

“Do you want to see the replica Red Chinese Army costume I made last year?” Dezzie asked the girls. Saber and Mauri shot an amused look over Dezzie’s head. I’d had enough. I ducked into my own room without waiting for their response.

A short time later, I heard them clomp down to the basement. I imagined them gawking at Mom’s Shakespeare collection, or asking Dezzie what “Fair is foul, and foul is fair” and “There’s small choice in rotten apples” meant when they saw the quotes stitched on our throw pillows. I wanted to both hide under my bed and yell at them for coming here and making fun of my family. Instead, I spread my homework across my comforter and paged through the assignments I had to finish, hoping for distraction.

I had to write my essay—work on math, read for science, answer history questions on Elizabethan England, and finish making the players Ty and I would use to stage the scene in our Globe. But all that came to mind were the cheese in my hair and the look on Ty’s face when he split at lunch earlier. He hadn’t waited for me at the quad after school either. I’m sure he’d heard about what happened in the caf. Did he not care? Was he that mad about what KC had said?
Was
he my locker stalker? He could have learned origami through some online tutorial thing. Even though I didn’t want to believe it was him, it
was
possible. Obviously, this whole situation with his feelings—and my lack of feelings for him—was a bigger problem than I wanted to admit. I needed to talk to him, but the thought made me ill. He was like my brother, and with my sister hanging out with the Gruesome Twosome, there was no one left for me.

The house had grown quiet. Then the doorbell clanged. On autopilot, I left my bedroom and went downstairs.

Dezzie, Saber, and Mauri appeared in the front hall at the same time as me. The bell rang again. I stopped where I was, allowing Dezzie to answer, but didn’t leave.

“I’ve got it, Hamlet,” she said, glaring at me. The intensity of her stare made me step back. Saber and Mauri were huddled behind her, whispering.

“Fine,” I muttered, clearly seeing that I wasn’t wanted. I took my time making my way up the steps. Dezzie opened the door.

“Oh hello.” Mrs. Greene’s voice floated up to the second-floor landing, where I was listening. “Is Desdemona home? Or maybe your mom or dad?”

To stop myself from laughing out loud, I bit the heel of my left hand. I could only imagine how red Dezzie’s face was, standing in front of this grown-up she could think hexagons around.

Dezzie’s reply was too soft for me to hear everything, but I caught a few very firm words. Next, Mauri’s and Saber’s voices found their way to my perch. But again, I couldn’t tell what they were saying.

What I
did
hear, though, were feet pounding back down to the basement. Saber’s and Mauri’s feet, I realized—I could hear Dezzie chatting with Mrs. Greene. Maybe one of the girls had left her personality behind? The thought nearly started me laughing again, so I chomped on my hand for a second time.

After a minute or two, they came back to the first floor, slower than when they’d went down. Murmured good-byes, then the front door clicked closed. As quietly as I could, I scooted back to my bedroom. I heard Dezzie go back into the basement.

 

“How’d it go?” I asked a little while later, on my way to the kitchen for a drink. Iago was stretched out on the rug, snoozing. I stepped over him. Dezzie sat in the den, the History Channel on, a book open in her lap and two more on the coffee table. Staring off into space, she wasn’t paying attention to any of it. She shrugged.

“Satisfactorily, I suppose. They had much interest in the Shakespeare collection,” she said quickly. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the coffee table.

“Of course,” I muttered, disgusted. I wanted to grab her and yell,
They’re stealing off you so they don’t have to do the work on their own!

Dezzie picked at a dark smudge on one of her usually spotless hands and tucked both hands underneath her when she noticed me watching.

“What?” she snapped. “They are enjoying the play very much.”

Oh, yeah. Hanging out with Dezzie was making Saber and Mauri more into school than clothes. Doubtful. Very doubtful. I got my drink and went upstairs.

During dinner, Mom thanked me for walking Dezzie home.

“It was a department meeting; neither of us could get away,” she explained. I nodded and said nothing, even though my anger still burned. I was sick of being pushed to the side—like my work was less important than Dezzie’s, my life was less important than Dezzie’s . . . my
everything
was less important than Dezzie’s. As though reading my mind, Dad put down the papers he was grading and spoke up.

“This will not be a regular occurrence, Hamlet. You need to be present for your own classes, just as your sister needs to be present for her tutors. In the future, your mother and I will be more responsible about scheduling these meetings.”

Although his words were what I thought I wanted to hear, they didn’t help much. Usually my parents were good about keeping their promises, but when it came to Dezzie the bets were off and the macaroni flew.

“Not like it matters,” I muttered under my breath.

“What was that?” my father said. I rarely sassed my parents, and surprised myself with the comment.

“Nothing,” I said.

“I believe Hamlet has something to say,” my mother remarked in her annoying professor tone. She put her fork down. “Speak now, as you have our full attention.”

Across from me, Dezzie’s eyes bounced back and forth between my parents like someone playing a video game. Not that she’d ever
seen
one, let alone played one.

“Dezzie’s being used!” I blurted, the sentence releasing pressure that I’d been carrying around for weeks. Where had
that
come from? Instead of shouting about the unfairness of my life, I was trying to protect my sister.

Mom frowned at my use of Dezzie’s nickname.

“By whom?” Dad asked. He ate another forkful of pickled-whatever-Mom-made.

“These two girls at school,” I said, relief sweeping through me.

“Is this true, Desdemona?” Mom’s asked, face poised in concern.

Dezzie shook her head. “Two of my peers are very invested in their education,” she said. “I believe that their questions show a marked interest in the Bard and they are not acting in a superficial manner due to my intellect.”

Mom and Dad nodded, taking Dezzie’s word over mine.

“Well, be sure that you encourage them to do their own work and synthesize their own ideas of the text,” Dad responded. Dezzie gave them a wide grin.

“And
you
”—my mother turned to me—“be sure of what you speak.”

How was this happening? I figured they’d go through the roof when they heard what was happening to their genius-baby, but it was like I was the one who was doing something wrong. They hadn’t heard me at all.

“And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed,” I said, using one of Dad’s favorite Shakespeare quotes.

“And doing all of the dishes this evening,” my mother retorted. “That is enough impudence from you, young lady.”

With a scowl, I pushed back from the table and went into the kitchen. But I kept my mouth firmly closed. Talking to them would
never
do any good. They’d forever keep Dezzie front and center, while I was relegated to the wings. Or, I thought, with a twinge of irony, to stagehand.

viii

A few days later, it was time for me to read again in English. I intended to do the same halting, word-by-word rendition I’d done the last time, hoping against all hope that Mrs. Wimple would change her mind and force Puck on some other unfortunate soul.

This period, I was reading the part of Titania, queen of the fairies. Puck had given her a love potion and she’d fallen for Bottom, whose head had been turned into a donkey’s. Even though he looked—and acted—completely ridiculous, Titania didn’t see it. She couldn’t.

If only real life were as simple as Shakespeare life: potions and fairies instead of messy feelings and friendships. But it was a cool plot line, and I kind of got caught up in the story. So caught up, I forgot to stumble through my part.

“Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;/Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes;/Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,/With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; /The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees,/ And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs . . .” The words rolled off my tongue so easily, I was barely aware that I was reading them. I kind of saw the story playing out in my head, absorbing the meaning of the words as I went along. Titania wanted the fairies to take perfect care of Bottom, treating him like a king. I finished the line and waited for Julie Kennelly, playing Peaseblossom, to come in. She didn’t.

I glanced up. The whole class was staring at me.

“Ms. Kennedy,” Mrs. Wimple said, her words as crisp as burnt toast, “I applaud your mature decision to embrace your talent.”

I opened my mouth to tell her that I hadn’t decided on any part of this, but realized I’d be better off not saying anything. I closed it again. Mrs. Wimple glanced at the clock.

“A word before you leave,” she said. “Next week, we have some special guests coming in to help us develop a better understanding of Shakespeare’s language. The doctors Kennedy—Hamlet’s parents—will be paying us a visit. I expect you’ll all be on your best behavior.”

My body instantly flashed hot, then icy cold. I broke out in a sweat. My parents. Were. Coming. To. School. It was bound to happen eventually, but I hoped that it wouldn’t. Or that a volcano would erupt in Boston, smothering school, Shakespeare, and everything that went with them in black ash.

It was real. Ty raised an eyebrow at me. My belly cork-screwed like the binding of a spiral notebook.

The bell rang, and everyone scooped up their books.

“Ms. Kennedy,” Mrs. Wimple said. Her after-class sum monses were getting old.

The classroom emptied, and I took my time gathering my things and crossing the space to her desk. I tried to act calm, but my thoughts jumped and danced faster than any Shakespeare fairy ever could. Why-why-
why
did they have to come in? Was there any way I could play sick?

I was so tied up in my own agony that I never considered Mrs. Wimple’s mood.

“
That
last stanza was quite different from how you read prior to today,” she said, staring straight at me. Future parental humiliation forgotten, I dropped my eyes to the floor.

“Uh,” I mumbled, hoping that she’d accept that the last bit had been an accident or something. She put on her patented brain X-ray stare.

“I kind of got into it, I guess,” I admitted, sick of lying and suddenly more worried about my parents than my reading.
And remember how it feels when you practice?
a little voice in my head chirped. I liked how easily the words came to me . . .

“It’s about time,” Mrs. Wimple said.

The late bell buzzed.

She scribbled a note on the pass and slid it across the top of her desk, then turned away from me as I picked it up and bolted.

By the time I made it to pre-al, I was ten minutes late. I crept into the class, hoping to slip into my seat, but the desks were in a circle and Mr. Symphony was bent over, talking quietly to someone on the far side. There was nowhere for me to go.

“Miss Kennedy,” he said, straightening, “shouldn’t you be somewhere else?”

For a second, I thought he was sending me to the principal’s office or back to James, the counselor. I couldn’t breathe and was frozen to the spot.

“TLC, Miss Kennedy?” he said, when I didn’t respond.

Relief swept through me.

“Sorry,” I muttered, and fled the room.

I didn’t have time to lean against any walls or hide out in the girls’ bathroom. By the time I reached TLC, I’d gotten myself together and my breathing was more regular. I pushed the door open and slipped in. My hand still clutched the late pass.

The three tutors were seated at different tables. Mrs. Arbuckle’s was closest to the door. She was pointing at something in the textbook. Her group was in the varying positions of bored—staring at the ceiling, tapping pencils, yawning.