Falling for Hamlet

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, actually, 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 all 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 all. 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 really still and waited for him to tell 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 all 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 all 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 finally 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 tell 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 tell me to wait.

“Dad,” I panted, “something’s wrong with Hamlet. I mean, really wrong.”

“What’s happened?” he asked.

After I told him what I had seen in our apartment, carefully 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 tell my dad as much when I realized that if he thought this was about love, he might allow 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. All 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 will tell 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.”

“I doubt he made it up,” I said, pushing away the memory of how I had melted reading that same message a few weeks before. “God, how could you? That’s an old e-mail, and it’s private!”

“No such thing, my sweet. I am doing this to help you. As the Bible says, ‘A good name is more desirable than great riches, and loving favor is better than silver and gold.’ Claudius and Gertrude are eager to find out the reason for Hamlet’s strange behavior, and I am anxious for them to forgive you for the party. Perhaps if you provide the key to unlocking this mystery, they’ll come around. I’ll bring this e-mail, swear it is love that is the source of the problem, and I will promise they can take my job if I am wrong.”

“Dad, no! Don’t do that.”

He patted my arm. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Go back to the apartment and wait for me,” he declared, paper in hand.

Back home, I waited in misery. Only the irritating ticking of our one nondigital clock broke the silence. It wasn’t going to work, and my father would be fired because of me. I tried to remind myself that it had been his choice and to reassure myself that he could find other work. He was well liked and had had a long career as an adviser. He could parlay that into something. At the very least, he could hit the lecture circuit and let rich people pay for him to offer platitudes and anecdotes instead of making the rest of us suffer them for free. Or maybe it was time for him to retire. My stomach turned. Whether or not it was his decision to offer up his job, it would be a shame if his storied career ended because of a relationship he was against from the outset.

Leaning on the kitchen island, I tried to think back on when my father had begun to mistrust Hamlet so much. Hamlet’s parents were often traveling or at formal occasions, so rather than leaving him at the mercy of the court nannies, my parents invited him to spend evenings with us. They had treated him like a second son, especially my mother. Once we started dating, however, everything changed, especially for my father. They still invited him over, but less frequently, and they were more watchful of us. My door always had to be open, they always seemed to have questions to ask one of us, and they frequently had to get things that could, mysteriously, only be found in my room. It became laughable some nights by the third or fourth pop-in. Hamlet wanted to hang out elsewhere, but my parents wouldn’t allow it on weeknights. Weekends, we were on our own, and I knew they were anxious about what we were doing, though they never asked.

I slept with Hamlet for the first time the night of my mother’s funeral. The days between her death and the funeral were intense and showed me the best of what Hamlet was—giving, funny, and astute. Those days, he rarely left my apartment, insisting that he skip school to be with me, bringing me food, movies, listening to me cry, making me laugh. My father was a wreck but was busy with plans and trying to hide his grief from us. Laertes stayed in his room much of the time. Hamlet was what they couldn’t be. Our importance in each other’s lives solidified the day my mother was killed instead of his father.

As soon as my mother’s funeral was over, Laertes went back to school, and my father stayed with Hamlet’s parents, as well as with his colleagues, until late into the night. Hamlet and I slipped off to my apartment, and I remember the sinking feeling I had when I realized that, without my mom around, no one noticed I was even gone. And that feeling got mixed up with my nervousness at being alone with Hamlet, with suggesting what I was about to suggest. It was a confusing time—a time when my desire to push away my pain got mixed up with my desire to be with Hamlet, to replace pain with pain, or pain with love. I didn’t know which. But I knew I loved Hamlet and that he loved me. And so I let the warmth of his hand on mine quiet my fears.

All the lights had been off except the one in my parents’ bedroom. I stopped and listened for movement, but no one was there. My dad had just forgotten to turn the light off before heading to the funeral. It was the kind of thing my mother, used to my father’s distractibility, would have checked on before leaving.

Trying to hold it together, I walked quickly to my room, Hamlet in tow. I grabbed my pajamas and slipped into the bathroom to change without saying anything. When I came out, Hamlet had taken off his suit jacket and tie and was sitting on my bed, leaning against the wall. He smiled the smallest of smiles while reaching a hand out to me. As I approached, I noticed his eyes were filled with worry. Something in his expression worked its way into my emptiness. I walked over to him, rested one knee on the bed, and asked him to have sex with me.

He was surprised, especially since I had been the one pushing away his advances all along. He sat up straighter. “Do you think today is—”

“Yes. Today. This is the perfect day,” I insisted, sitting down and facing him, my hands shaking. “I don’t want this day to be the day my mother was buried. I want to remember it as the day we first slept together, the day I lost my virginity.”

He frowned and took my hand. “Ophelia, I don’t know. I mean, take some time. You’re pretty emotional and—”

“I want to do it, and I want to do it with you. I want to know what all the fuss is about, and I want my first time to be with someone I trust.”

He hesitated and scooted a few inches away, dropping my hand. “You know I want to, but Phee, this has been a big day… and what you’re asking… it’s forever. You can’t undo it once it’s done.”

I was feeling a little frantic; I had to make him understand how important this was to me. I inched forward and clutched his leg. “I won’t want to undo anything. This is what I want.”

He was almost as nervous as I was, I think. He was shaking and stopped a few times to make sure I still wanted to go through with it. When he finally pushed himself inside me, I started to cry. I had to urge him to go on, and he looked so worried. It was overwhelming to be completely connected to someone and to have it come with such pain. All I could think about was my mother buried mere miles from where her baby was leaving behind the last of her childhood.

He kissed me as tears melted down my cheeks. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” I whispered back, both to him and to my mom, whom I wanted to know I had found love.

I’m not sure how much time passed between my father going to Gertrude and Claudius with my e-mail and the elevator doors opening. Long or short, it didn’t matter. The meeting had not gone well.

My father shouted from within, “Come with me now!”

I popped up, stunned by the change in his mood, and grabbed my shoes. I put them on inside as the doors were closing. When I stood back up, he wouldn’t look at me. His hands, which held what I can only assume was my e-mail, twisted and mangled the paper. His knuckles were white, and the rest of his hands were deep red. He muttered under his breath, but I couldn’t hear what he said. I noticed that the back of his neck, the part sticking above the collar of his white dress shirt, was the same color as his hands. I tapped my feet anxiously while I tried to figure out what had happened. If given a million guesses, I never would have guessed what was coming.

“I thought…” Gertrude began, once I was standing before her, “No, I was sure that those pictures of you at that party would have been the end of the humiliation you would bring upon my family, but it seems I was wrong.” She sniffed and crossed her arms, leaning daintily on the edge of her desk.

My mouth was dry and I wanted to sit down, too, but if she didn’t sit on a chair, I was expected to stand.

Claudius, who was standing next to Gertrude, his arms also crossed and his face set, continued. “Just this evening we received a disturbing message. A threat really. A video of you and Hamlet… how shall I say?… engaged in… indelicate acts… has been uncovered.”

I wrapped my arms around myself and squeezed hard, as if covering my suddenly naked body. I turned to look at my father, who had retreated to the wall and had loosened his tie. “How can that be?” I asked. “Hamlet and I never recorded…” I couldn’t continue. I shuddered and wound my arms tighter across my chest.

“Who’s to say how these things happen?” Gertrude said in a clipped voice. “The point is,” she continued, tapping her fingertips together quickly, “it is in the hands of someone who wants to hurt us, and that someone is demanding money. Now, we are willing to pay to keep you safe from public scorn, but in return, you must do something for us.”

“What?” I rasped.

Claudius leaned back on the dark wood desk next to his wife. Sinking down, a whisper of a smile on his face, he explained, “We need you to get information from Hamlet.”

“What kind of information?” I asked, swallowing hard.

Gertrude straightened up and touched her French knot. “Ask him why he’s been behaving so strangely. Find out his plans. He’s been so secretive lately. Your father says that love is the reason, but we’re not convinced.”

I put up my hands, gesturing for them to stop. None of it made sense. I wanted to ask where the video was taken. And how. Hamlet and I never had sex in a public place. Not once. I wondered momentarily if Hamlet had secretly taped us, but I dismissed the idea. He was a lot of things, but sleazy wasn’t one of them. It didn’t have to be Hamlet, I realized with dismay. All kinds of people had access to every room and crawl space in the castle. It could have been anyone. Hamlet had warned that someone would try to get to me. I should have believed him.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “It seems to me that paying would be in your best interest. I mean, Hamlet’s in the video, too.”

Claudius took a step forward and was suddenly too close. “Let us just say that there’s far more of you to be worried about.”

My arms, which had slipped down, popped back across my chest and I stepped away from Claudius. “I’m not doing this. You’ve been using everyone to get to Hamlet, and I’m not going to allow myself to be used by you.”

Gertrude sniffed and began walking to sit behind her desk. “Then the video will come out. And you will leave the castle. Indefinitely.”

I spun around to face my father. “Dad,” I begged.

“Do this, Ophelia. Or leave my home.”

I couldn’t believe he meant it. And yet, deep inside, I knew he and I had reached the breaking point. He no longer wanted to deal with my crap. He had warned me, as had my mother, that being with Hamlet would come at a price. What never occurred to me was that my family would end up paying, not just me. Protecting me blindly was no longer an option for him, and, even if it was, I couldn’t ask him to do it.

I shifted from foot to foot, looking at my three accusers. “I’ll make it easy for everyone. I’ll leave tomorrow for Paris and live with Laertes for a while.”

Claudius snarled, his gaze drifting the length of my body. “If those images come out, there won’t be a person in the Western world who won’t know your face… etcetera.” He squinted at me, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly again.

I took another step back. If I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, how would I feel about the rest of the world doing the same? It was humiliating enough when my clothes had been on and the pictures published just showed a kiss. But more? I shuddered and shut my eyes tight, trying not to imagine what might be on the video.

But then a thought occurred to me. “How do I know you’re not making this up? Dad, have you even seen the video?”

“I didn’t want to,” he said, pulling at his face.

“Well, I do,” I announced, not really sure that I did but certain that if I watched, I would make sure my dad was elsewhere.

Gertrude smoothed her skirt. “Security has it locked away. It’s for the best.”

I gritted my teeth. “Why should I believe you?”

“Do you have a birthmark on your left hip?” Claudius asked, his eyes twinkling.

I hesitated and said yes.

“And you like being kissed by Hamlet on the neck?” he pressed.

My father leaped out of his seat. “Enough!” He turned to me. “Ophelia, you will do this or, so help me, I will never speak to you again.”

I couldn’t lose my dad. Not over Hamlet. I would do what they wanted, even though I knew I would never forgive myself for it.

Quietly I said, “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“And one more thing,” Claudius said, his smirk clear to see if anyone else had been looking at him. “Hamlet is going to a charity function tomorrow morning, and you will ride with him. During that drive, you’d best get some information. And since we don’t trust that you will tell us the truth about what Hamlet might say, your father and I will be in the car with you. Hidden in front, of course.”

I sucked in my breath and looked over my shoulder. My dad was sitting with his back to me, his head in his hands. My own head dropped. “Fine,” I said, trying not to think of how I was joining the long line of deceivers waiting to bring Hamlet down. Hamlet knew me better than I knew myself, and he had been right not to trust in me. Once again, I regretted confiding in my father. And I regretted that I had ever been brought to live at the castle.

I had planned on going home but hit the button for the basement level instead. I walked out of the elevator following the trail of fluorescent lights to an anonymous, freshly painted white door and knocked. It swung open quickly, revealing three walls of small television screens all showing different parts of the castle. I gasped when I spotted a black-and-white image of my father sitting in his office.

“What the—Ophelia!” exclaimed the short blond security officer who had reached behind his swivel chair to open the door. He leaped up and moved to block my view of the TV screens in the room.

A guard with a dark beard and angry eyes rose from his chair and flicked a switch, turning all of the TVs off. “How did you find this room?”

“I’ve lived in the castle my whole life. Security has always been here.”

“What do you want?” growled the dark-haired one.

“I—”

“Get out,” he barked.

“When we were kids, the guards always let us—”

“Well, you’re not a child anymore.”

“No kidding,” said the blond guard, his blue eyes sparkling.

I wanted to twist the smirk off his face but was so shamed by the insinuation in his voice that all I could do was look at my feet. What had he seen? Where the hell were those cameras?

The dark-haired guy stepped closer. “The rules are different now. You are never to come here again.”

His tone was definite to the point of being a threat, so I backed away. He slammed the door, and I heard it lock.

“Damn it,” I muttered as I headed back down the hall. A camera was pointed right at the elevator, so I turned and headed for the stairwell.

As I reached for the door, Marcellus opened it and we both jumped in surprise.

“Ophelia, what are you doing here?”

“Nothing. I’m leaving.” I squeezed past him and started up the stairs, unsure of what those men knew, but wanting to run away from their leers.

“Hey, are you all right?”

I hesitated. Marcellus was nice, but he wasn’t a friend. Until recently, we had never exchanged more than a few words. His job was to be invisible to us, a menace to others, and a pair of watchful eyes. I had only seen him laugh twice, both about some comment Hamlet made directly to him. At all other times, Marcellus was professional, impenetrable. He could be trusted with our lives, but I didn’t know if he could be trusted with my secrets.

When I offered no reply, he asked, “Can I help?”

I hesitated again. “I came… I wanted to know about the cameras.”

“What about them?”

“Where they are. What they see.”

This time, it was Marcellus who filled the stairwell with silence. His eyes glanced into the corner and I saw a little red light. Another camera. A small one. So small you wouldn’t have seen it if you weren’t looking for it. He turned his back to it and lowered his voice. “I can’t tell you that.” Then he added, even softer, “But I can tell you there are more than you think.”

My gaze met his. I chewed on my lips and absently twisted one leg around the other. Gripping the railing, I tried to remember what I had seen in that brief moment in the security room. Elevators, the rooftop, offices. What else? The lobby, the old castle’s staircase. It was too quick. Had I seen any of the residences? I couldn’t remember.

“What specifically are you asking about?” he asked.

My face flushed. “I was just wondering what they’ve seen… of me and, uh…” I wanted to fold into myself rather than finish the sentence. “Hamlet.”

Marcellus’s eyes widened in understanding, and he looked away. Did it mean he had seen it and was embarrassed to tell me? Or was he embarrassed by my asking? By the time he spoke, his face had settled into professional neutrality.

“I’m not aware of anything that would… cause you special concern. But since Hamlet is my charge, I can ask around.”

“They’ll know I’m the one who wants to know,” I answered.

“Let me handle the others. I’ve been here longer than most. Though you wouldn’t know it, since the king—” He stopped himself. “I’ll get back to you.”

I nodded and pinched my eyes shut again at the thought of my dad seeing anything that I did with Hamlet.

Marcellus leaned in close and whispered, “Meantime, Ophelia, watch your step ’round here. I can’t say I understand anyone’s motivations anymore.”

If he were a different man, he might have patted my shoulder or cheek. But he stood rod-straight and strode back into the hall toward the security room.

The next morning, when Hamlet saw me sitting in the limo, he started to walk away.

“Please come in,” I called 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 all that had happened. But the thought of the video and of being kicked out of my home kept me in my place, literally 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 Marcellus,” he snapped. “What do you really want, Ophelia?”

I reached deep inside myself for the strength to tell 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 pulled out a T-shirt from a band we’d seen play and some CDs he’d burned for me, all of which I was finding especially 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, willing 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 all 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 follow 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? All the times I tried to protect myself. All 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 all of the trickery I had committed in luring him into the conversation in the first place, I kissed him back. I let him pull 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 pulled 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 still didn’t move, he stared at me.

“Why is this locked?” He slapped at the thin plate of plastic with his palm, calling, “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 yelled, both to Hamlet and to my father, who I hoped could still hear.

There was a click and a whir as the partition began to lower, revealing a full 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 yelled, and the driver slammed on the brakes, throwing us all forward. Hamlet fell 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 the 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 equally inside me.

He grabbed my shirt collar and pulled 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 will follow you. You will 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 yelled at my father. “You still 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 all of us harm. I’m sending Hamlet to England. He’ll be on a plane by week’s end. Maybe that’ll 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 still loved him and, despite what he said, I knew he still 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 all 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 tell him. I leaned against an office building’s cinder-block wall, looking through my tears at the end of the deserted alleyway. 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 fell apart again. “It’s nothing,” I managed finally.

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

“I did a really 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 all 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 followed.

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 really busy semester. I can’t just leave. But call me anytime you need, okay? Anytime. Five times a day if you want.”

I slumped against the wall, my stomach aching even more. “Okay.”

I wouldn’t call 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.