Falling for Hamlet

12



“You went to visit Hamlet a couple of weeks after he returned to Wittenberg.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you go?”

Ophelia pauses and looks at the audience. “He needed me.” Ophelia’s gaze turns anxiously to the screen behind her on which only Zara’s name is floating.

“I’m not going to show any pictures of what went on,” she says, “but what would you say to anyone wondering about that night?”

“Well…” Ophelia begins. “It was… a frat party… girls go wild.” Her half smile fades. “If I could do it all over again, though, I wouldn’t go.”

After Hamlet went back to school, I was kicked off the lacrosse team. As far as my coach was concerned (and she was concerned), I had already quit. She said if she’d known about my lack of commitment to the swim team earlier in the year, she wouldn’t have taken me on this team in the first place. Then she gave me quite a lecture about not changing my life for a boy, even if that boy was a prince. I liked the coach and I liked the game, but I’d only joined to keep myself busy after my mom died. Still, I felt awful knowing I’d let everyone down by skipping so many practices.

I left the field and headed for the art studio, hoping to focus on a drawing I owed. When I got there, the place was mercifully empty, so I grabbed a sheet of white paper and a box of charcoals and perched on my stool. The paper was blank—so full of possibility. And I had no idea what to put on it.

I startled at a noise behind me.

“Ophelia!” said Ms. Hill, who was coming out of the supply closet. “I haven’t seen you after school in ages.”

I bit my lip and nodded.

She pushed strands of her wild red hair off her forehead. “Are you finally finishing your pieces for the portfolio?”

“What portfolio?”

“For art school.”

I frowned, not sure if it was dogged determination or blindness that was preventing her from seeing that I had trashed all my plans and that there was no turning back. I rolled the charcoal in my palm and said, “You know I didn’t apply to art school.”

“Not this year,” she said, her voice breezy. Then she walked over and sat on the stool next to mine. “But I also know Denmark State isn’t where you want to be. Or where you’ll end up staying. So let’s put the portfolio together in case you change your mind.”

Not knowing what else to do, I nodded. My life had been looking like a windowless room, but here she was, offering a way out. Satisfied, she leaped up and went back to organizing paints.

The assignment had been to draw something important to us, and the first thing that came to mind was Hamlet. That just pissed me off. There was more to me than him. Wasn’t there? I closed my eyes and thought about what I loved. I considered drawing my art supplies, but I already had a still life, and the portfolio needed variety. A portrait was the way to go, so I considered who else I could do. My brother? My father? Hamlet’s father? And then it came to me. My mother.

I reached into my bag and unzipped a hidden compartment, pulling out a crinkled magazine article about her death. There was a picture of the bullet-riddled, crushed limo she’d been riding in when the assassin attacked. I had stared at the image so often that it no longer stung. It was more like the pressure of getting your teeth drilled after a shot of Novocain. Anyway, next to the car photo was a picture of her and my dad from before Laertes and I were born, which I’d always loved because they looked so young and hopeful.

I was sitting and considering whether to do just the portrait or to combine it with the accident—an idea that made my stomach hurt, but I knew would get a reaction from a viewer—when the studio door opened. I snatched the article off the worktable and held it in my lap.

Sebastian walked in and in the split second that I saw him before he saw me, I wished myself invisible.

Sebastian was one of the people I used to hang out with most, but our relationship had always been complicated. And I just didn’t want any more complications at that moment.

Sebastian’s feelings for me had been obvious for a long time. I would catch him staring at me at lunch or even watching me during study hall. I had deflected his attentions, but I admit I liked them. He was sexy and cute and totally different from Hamlet. He was taller and more solid, his black hair was cut very short, and his dark eyes smoldered—a fact I knew because on one drunken night I didn’t look away but let him stare at me and I stared back, locking him with my eyes, sharing in the mutual longing. But the next day, hungover and back to my senses, I remembered that I was taken and acted accordingly. He had continued to follow me around like a puppy, a damn attractive puppy, but to no avail. Until Hamlet and I broke up last spring.

Sebastian and I had gone to see the Poor Yoricks alone because none of our friends liked the band enough to pay scalpers’ prices to the sold-out show. Everything started out fine, but then when the equipment was being set up for the main act, the recorded music was really loud, so we had to lean in to hear each other. I was close enough to feel his heat and to smell the gel he used to make his hair perfectly messy. Something shifted, and I wanted so much to lean in and kiss him right behind the ear. Well, he must have felt the same, because at that moment, he inched forward and stroked my bare arm. A chill passed over me and I was about to touch my lips to his skin when over his shoulder, I caught a guy lifting his camera phone and pointing it at us.

I leaped back and ran, weaving through the crowd.

“I’m sorry, Ophelia,” I heard Sebastian calling after me.

I waited for him by the door. “It’s not you. But—I can’t have this in the papers.”

“You’re not with him anymore, so what do you care?”

Sebastian rarely called Hamlet by name, and at that moment, it upset me even more. “I love him, okay? We’re having problems right now, but we’ll get over them. We always do. And that’s not why I came out with you.” It kind of was, and we both knew it, but at least Sebastian didn’t argue the point. “I like you, and I can’t risk messing up our friendship. Or having my dad see what I do when he actually lets me go out.”

Sebastian rocked back on his heels, his face red. “So, you wanna leave?”

I looked at the stage, where the microphones were being set up. “No. But we can’t.… Just friends, okay?”

His shoulders had drooped, and he followed me back toward the stage.

In the art studio doorway, Sebastian stopped short when he saw me and asked, “Don’t you have practice?”

I shook my head. “Kicked off the team.” Saying it aloud, I was even more embarrassed than I had been before.

“You’re kidding,” he said, pulling his bag off his shoulder and setting it next to his easel. “That sucks.”

“Too much missed practice.”

He pursed his lips, holding back a comment about Hamlet, I’m sure, and said, “Well, it’s nice to have you back in here.”

I rubbed my forehead and said, “Thanks.”

“Keren and Justine are grabbing coffee. Wanna go after we work for a while?”

“Can’t.”

“Is he waiting for you?”

“He is back at school,” I snapped. “My dad told me to come straight home today.” Sebastian cocked his head, measuring his next move, I’m sure, but I added, “I’ll ask if we can all go out tomorrow.”

I know he caught the “all” I had carefully added to the phrase. He stooped to grab paint off a low shelf, and we both went back to work.

I spent the next while trying to catch up with my studies and my friends and trying not to worry about Hamlet. I figured if he was out of the castle, it was safer for everyone. I had finally begun to breathe, eat, and sleep normally when Horatio called.

Skipping all pleasantries, he opened with, “Hamlet’s bad.”

“What is it?”

“You have to visit. He’s dying here.”

“Well, it wasn’t so hot in Elsinore for him, so how much worse can it be?”

“He can’t sleep. He won’t go to class. He just sits around scribbling weird crap in journals and then burning the pages. He’s set off the fire alarm a few times, which is starting to piss off the other guys. He keeps saying he has to go back and finish business. I hope it doesn’t mean what I think it means. I keep reminding him how much he hated being around his mom and the Claw, but he won’t listen to reason.”

“The Claw?”

“It’s what we’ve taken to calling Claudius. It’s about the only thing that gets him to lighten up.”

I smiled. “I like that.”

“Can you come today?”

“Today? No. I have to—”

“He needs you.”

“Tomorrow. I think. I have to talk to my father.”

“Your father? Seriously, Ophelia, Hamlet’s right. You gotta get out from under his thumb.”

My cheeks burned. “Screw you, Horatio. I know you asked permission to go places right through the end of high school. I’ve already put so much on—” My phone clicked. Call-waiting. “I gotta go.”

“Ophelia—”

I hung up on him. Then I felt bad because he and I never ended arguments like that. I’d apologize when called him with my plans.

“Hey,” I said to Sebastian, who was on the other line.

“Hey. There’s a gallery opening tonight. Wanna go with me?”

I hesitated. It would be good to go out, to be with someone else, but I needed to talk to my dad about Wittenberg. And I didn’t think going out with just Sebastian was a good idea. “I, uh… I need to be with Hamlet right now,” I said.

“But he’s at school.”

“Yeaaah. I think I’m going there this weekend.”

There was a pause. “Oh. Got it.”

He hung up.

A few minutes later, my phone rang again. “What’d you do to Sebastian?” asked Lauren.

“Do? Nothing. I told him I’m going to Wittenberg.”

“Wittenberg? Ophelia, come on. You can go a weekend without him.”

“You and I went out last weekend. And the weekend before that.”

“Two in a row? Wow. You’re right. Time to disappear again.”

“You don’t understand. He’s really—I think he might—”

“What?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Lauren sighed. “Of course not. Fine, Ophelia. We’ll be here when you want us. God knows why, but we will.”

All I was doing was disappointing people. But I couldn’t fix the situation, since I didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t share my problems with anyone because, even if I did have any information, which I didn’t, I didn’t really trust anyone. The whole thing was turning me into a lunatic.

* * *



That night over stir-fry I told my dad I was going to Wittenberg. He put down his chopsticks and began, “There’s a Swahili saying: ‘When elephants fight, the grass gets hurt.’ You, my dear, are bound to be the grass in all this. Perhaps you ought to stay out of Hamlet’s fight. Perhaps you ought to stay away from Hamlet altogether. Let his return to school be an opportunity. They say, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ I say it’s worth giving absence a try.”

“If the object was to make him fonder, I might agree. But I can’t imagine that’s what you would want. An even fonder Hamlet?”

He smiled at my small verbal victory.

I sidled up to him and put my arm around his shoulder. “And as for my being grass among elephants, stop worrying. I’ll be fine. Hamlet isn’t fine and that’s what matters right now.”

My father tried to circle back to why my being with Hamlet was a mistake.

“Dad, I’m not asking, actually. I’m telling you. I’m going tomorrow and I’ll be back Sunday night. I’m taking the train because I can get some work done, but I am going.” I shakily lifted my chopsticks and concentrated very hard on picking up the food. The adrenaline rush created a momentary high as I congratulated myself on standing up for myself.

I heard my father say, “I love you, Ophelia. You’re my baby. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I love you, too. But Dad, you have to let me grow up.” I grabbed the bottle of wine and poured more into his glass. “Maybe you ought to try for a romance of your own.”

“My dear, ‘An old man in love is like a flower in winter,’ ” he said, raising his glass to his lips.

“Swahili?”

“Chinese. I’m done with romance. Your mom was my one and only.” He toasted the picture of her, which hung on our fridge, and put the glass down again.

“Dad, no one’s saying you have to get married. But a little fun never hurt anyone.”

“You’re not thinking this through, my dear. If I went out, how would I find the time to memorize quotes for our little talks?” He winked, and I kissed him on the cheek.

When I finally reached Hamlet’s frat house, I was amazed, as I had been the year before, at how run-down it was. The floors were warped; the carpet was threadbare and stained; the banisters shook if you grabbed them too hard. Food containers were left in all the common areas—and the smell seemed to indicate they’d been there for some time. Not exactly the place one expected to find a prince, but I suppose that had been the point when Hamlet chose it.

I knocked on Hamlet’s door and no one answered. I pushed it open and the stale smell sent me back a few steps. “Hamlet?” I called, but still no reply. I crept forward and saw him at his desk, hunched over and scribbling. “Hamlet!” I said loudly, and he swiveled in his seat.

He rubbed his eyes. “Ophelia? Is that you?”

I had a moment of utter confusion. “Yeah. Didn’t Horatio tell you I was coming?”

“Oh, was that today?” he asked. “I guess… I’m sure… How are you?” He took out his earbuds and came to hug me.

I hugged him back but asked, “Hamlet, when was the last time you went out… or showered?”

He ran his fingers through his greasy hair and looked like I was waking him up from a peculiar dream. “I don’t know. What day is it?”

“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 wall and closing the door, “why don’t you shower? I’ll open the windows, and we’ll do some laundry. Then you can tell me what’s going on and… yeah, we’ll start with that, okay?”

He nodded, looking relieved that someone was taking charge of his well-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 cell 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 mentally 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 all this and buy new stuff,” he joked.

“Where would you get the money?” I teased.

Hamlet’s phone binged. “Horatio,” he said to me. “Where should he meet us?”

“Well, how about my favorite place, I Don’t Go to School Around Here.”

He hip-checked me, typed, “Dolly’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 followed?”

I smiled. “Probably.” I put my arm around his waist and soon we found a pay-by-the-pound laundry service. Hamlet usually 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 fill me in. “I’ve been basically 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. Actually, 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’ll be all right,” I reassured him. “You worry too much.”

“And you have too much faith,” he said gravely.

As if on cue, Hamlet returned, followed 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’ll see. This is my, uh…”

“Girlfriend.” I glowered, pulling 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, swallowing 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’ll be like before,” Horatio said, getting swept up in the plan.

The lights were flashing red, blue, green, yellow, red, blue, green, yellow. The whole place smelled of beer with a vague hint of socks. It smelled like college 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 Dolly’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 call 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 really didn’t want to go down, but I followed 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 yelled, “Screw this. I brought my own.” He pulled out a fifth of whiskey.

“What the hell did you let me wait all 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, playfully shaking Hamlet by the shoulder.

Hamlet grabbed the fifth and drank deeply, then handed the bottle to me again. I rolled 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 really cut loose, and I wanted to take my mind off all the crazy stuff that had been happening. I figured if Horatio and Hamlet were going to drink themselves silly, I might as well, 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 still burning as I passed the bottle to Horatio. The black lights made the iridescent wall paintings glow brightly, and the whiskey made them swirl. I stepped in a puddle of something as we headed back upstairs and was really 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 small, but we all managed to fit. The music was in me and all 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 really amazing or I was really 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 all 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 wall. 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 still early, Hamlet.”

I looked over at Horatio, who suddenly snored, which seemed outrageously funny. As our laughter died down, Hamlet pulled 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 pulled me into a kiss, and there were more white flashes.

“Get out of here!” Hamlet yelled, 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 fell 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 willingly, 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 tall one, eyeing Horatio.

“Decent music. Foul beer. What the hell 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 yelled over his shoulder.

I woke up the next morning in agony. My head pulsated, and my mouth was furry. As I rolled 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 pillow. I wanted to shower and get all 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 hall. 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 hall and the guys’ bathroom. I grabbed Hamlet’s towel, which we had neglected to get laundered, and smelled it. A little mildew but clean enough. When I entered the harshly lit hallway, 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 college.”

A female reporter replied with mock concern, “That kind of picture makes me hope my daughters don’t want to go at all.” 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 pulled 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 pulling 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 satellite dish on top slowed, its brakes squealing.

I scooted to the side of the window and slid down the wall. “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 pull 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 all had a night that wasn’t about our parents.

A text message binged at me. I pulled 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 pulled into the underground garage, which was wise. Not exactly to our surprise, Gertrude, Claudius, and my father were all waiting by the elevator bank. The fluorescent lights made them look sallow and exaggerated their expressions, which ranged from irritation to dismay. I sank deeper in my seat, and Hamlet followed 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’ll forget all 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 followed 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 sell 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 will be lucky if I maintain my post or am allowed to keep you in the castle at this point. If I were the king and queen, I wouldn’t allow 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 still 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 really 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.

Barnardo: You dragged him to that party knowing that bad publicity would come out of it.



Ophelia: No, I didn’t.



Francisco: Admit it. You and Horatio arranged the whole episode knowing it would further undermine his credibility and unravel their family stability.



Ophelia: That is not why. We wanted Hamlet to have fun—



Barnardo: Bull. You knew photographers would be there.



Ophelia: In four years, no one had ever taken a picture of him at school unless it was official and prearranged.



Francisco: How convenient. So you knew you could catch him by surprise. Who did you pay to take those pictures?



Ophelia: Why would I do that? I’m the one who got the most grief for that. A guy can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants. But a girl? Forget it. Everyone had something to say about my skirt, how drunk I was, Christ, even how I kiss!



Barnardo: Small price to pay. A little humiliation for—



Ophelia: For what? What do you think I gained from those pictures?



Francisco: Sympathy from Hamlet.



Barnardo: A great cover. It got him back to the castle.



Ophelia: Yeah, that worked out for everyone so well.



Barnardo: My point exactly.