Falling for Hamlet

7



“So Hamlet rode back from the funeral with you rather than his mother. How did the queen feel about that?” asks Zara.

“Gertrude was fine with it. She always had Hamlet’s best interests at heart. I mean, she basically lived to make him happy.”

“He disappeared during the reception. Any idea where he went?”

“Nope.”

Zara squints at her and sniffs. “All right, then how did Prince Hamlet feel about being king?”

“He knew it would be a challenge, but it was a job he was born to do,” Ophelia tells the audience.

Later that night, Horatio and I snuck up to the rooftop garden with a bottle of wine and waited for Hamlet. We walked to the edge of the roof and looked down at the crowd below. Average citizens were still dropping off flowers and lighting candles. Official cars were still coming and going with dignitaries paying their respects. Horatio had had less than a minute to speak with Hamlet, but it was enough to tell him where to find us. The night was crisp, since the temperature had dropped significantly. I had brought a sweater, but I should have put on something warmer. I crossed my arms and tucked my hands in my armpits. Horatio offered his jacket, but I refused.

“Wonder what it would be like to just live a regular life like all of those people?” I pondered, watching the cars and pedestrians pass by.

“Our life’s pretty regular,” he mused. I gaped at him, so he added, “Okay, mine more than yours, maybe.”

“Mine should be normal. I mean, I just live here. I’m not one of them.”

“You had to fall for Hamlet. Your downfall, you might say.”

“Thanks,” I said. “How are your classes so far?”

“So far so good. You?”

“Fine. Whatever.” I sighed.

“You think your dad’s gonna let you go to Wittenberg?”

“No.”

Horatio put an arm around my shoulder. “Woulda been fun to hang out.”

I wanted to scream, but I just stood there, enduring having my life decided for me. “Yeah. Woulda been.”

As we stood in silence, I recalled how our trio had changed from three friends to a couple with a sidekick. It was the winter of my sophomore year, and our families had gone to the French Alps for a long weekend of meetings and skiing. Hamlet, after promising to hang out with us on the last night, instead hooked up with an ambassador’s daughter, leaving Horatio and me to our own devices. Sore from a day on the slopes and too tired to bother getting dressed up for a fancy dinner or a wild party, we decided to kick around at the lodge—a spectacular, two-centuries-old wooden structure with a great room full of books and mounted animal heads.

Horatio and I sat in front of the roaring fire chatting about one of our favorite subjects: Hamlet’s playboy status. The conversation morphed into a half-kidding discussion of how much easier it would be if Horatio and I were a couple. We decided that we would have to kiss and see what we thought of it. We both admitted to not having feelings for each other but thought the benefits of the experiment would be twofold: (1) we could each say we had kissed someone on vacation, and (2) once we were lip-locked, attraction might spring up—a convenient outcome, we agreed, given how often Hamlet left us alone together anyway.

And so we sat knee to knee on the burgundy velvet love seat, trying not to crack up. “You first,” I said, which was stupid because a kiss kinda takes two to accomplish. It made him laugh, so that when he leaned forward our teeth knocked, sending both of us backward in hysterics.

“Okay, okay, be serious,” he said after a minute, and took me by the shoulders. “We can do this.” He leaned in. I felt the warm dampness of his lips and then he pulled away. We looked at each other and considered the kiss—a reaction that proved there wouldn’t be another. All I could think was that it had been no more exciting than kissing my brother. Which, let me be clear, meant not at all.

“I, uh…” he began, and I could tell he was afraid to hurt my feelings. “I didn’t, um…”

“Me neither,” I interrupted, and the tension left his face. “You’re a good kisser, though, Horatio.”

He settled sideways into the oversize sofa cushions. “Yeah?”

“Where do you learn moves like that?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Martha Kensington.”

The Elsinore Academy junior was the worst combination: ugly, bossy, and mean, but she was part of the popular crowd. “Gross,” I said. “Do not tell me my lips just touched lips that have touched Martha’s.”

He smiled. “She critiqued me the whole time, but it did make me a better kisser.”

“Ew,” I said, and then pretended to be the hair-flipping, sour-faced Martha, telling him where to better place his hands, when to move his tongue, and how to tilt his head just so. This sent us into an uncontrollable fit of giggles that Hamlet walked in on.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, pulling off his sweater before sitting in front of the fireplace.

Horatio opened his mouth to explain, and I shook my head.

“What?” Hamlet asked, getting a little offended.

I locked eyes with Horatio, then said, “Fine,” and turned to Hamlet. “We were doing an experiment.”

“What kind?” Hamlet asked.

I squinted at him. “We kissed,” I said lightly.

“Reeeally.” He looked from one of us to the other. “And?”

“And,” Horatio jumped in, “turns out we’re both good kissers, but we have no future together.”

“I’m a good kisser?” I asked, and Horatio nodded.

“Cool,” said Hamlet, “my turn.” He got on his knees and leaned toward me.

I lifted my eyebrows and put up a hand. “You can experiment on Horatio but not me.”

“Why not?” he asked, puffing himself up.

I climbed over the side of the love seat and headed for the door. “Because it’s late and I don’t want to kiss you. Good night, boys.”

Horatio called out his good-bye, but Hamlet gave chase up the dimly lit, dark wood lodge steps. “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” he asked.

“It’d be weird,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time. The suite my parents and I were sharing was the first floor up from the great room, so I was on the landing quickly.

“And it wasn’t weird with Horatio?” he asked, still following me.

“It was,” I said, stopping at my room, nearly catching my long hair on the antlers hanging from the door.

“So?”

“So nothing. I don’t want to.” The truth was I did, and that was what had me worried. I’d always been more than a little curious, and every once in a while, when I thought of Hamlet, it wasn’t just as friends. I had pangs of jealousy when he skulked off with some girl, and occasionally I looked a little too long when he locked lips with one of them. But with him front and center, and the possibility of his kissing me being real, I knew I should decline.

“Horatio got to,” Hamlet argued. “That seems a bit unfair.” He was acting like a spoiled little boy, which made me want to kiss him far less. Which is why I did it.

“Okay?” I asked, flinging my arms wide after planting a fast, annoyed kiss on him.

He stood really still, and because the torch-shaped hall light was directly behind his head, it made it hard for me to see his expression. Then he inched forward and I could see there was no mirth on his face, only intense desire. His palms cupped my face and when his soft lips brushed against mine, I wanted to both run away and stay there forever. This was bad because it felt so good. Better than good. It felt right.

I yanked my head back and said nervously, “Okay, then, so we did it. Now… good night.”

I fumbled with my key and then opened my door. When I stepped inside, he was still standing in the same position. “Huh,” he said, bemused. “Good night.” He walked away, running his fingers through his hair as he pounded down the steps, presumably to rejoin Horatio.

That night I could hardly sleep. I spent the first half of the night thinking about how beautiful Hamlet looked as he had come closer, and how amazing he smelled, and how confident yet gentle his touch was. I spent the second half of the night thinking about how stupid I’d been to allow it.

The next morning, I didn’t talk much to my parents at breakfast. And when we all got on the royal jet, I put my backpack on the seat next to mine and pulled out my homework. When Hamlet and Horatio tried to sit with me, I shook them off, claiming that I had tons to do, and tried to ignore the kick in my stomach when Hamlet leaned in to say they’d be mere feet away if I changed my mind.

When we were waiting for our bags to be unloaded, Hamlet sidled up next to me. “You’re acting weird,” he said. “We okay? I mean, last night—”

I waved my book right in front of his face. “I’m fine. Mrs. Bernstein is tough, though, and there was a quiz while we were gone. I need to do well on the makeup. That’s all that’s wrong.” In my attempt to sound normal, I knew my voice had gotten higher and less convincing.

He shrugged, fighting back a smile, or so I thought. “Movie tonight?”

I shook my head. “Studying,” I said, looking down at my book, hoping he couldn’t see the pages shake. How had I never noticed how darn good he smelled? Seriously. Like pine trees and musk and rosemary. Had he changed deodorant? Was he suddenly wearing cologne? He was going to have to move away or I was going to fling my book aside and smooch him right there on the tarmac in front of all our parents.

He left, and I was quite relieved to have escaped such embarrassment.

The next day, Horatio drove Hamlet and me to school, much to my concern. We rode together every day, and saying no would have been an even bigger clue that I’d totally lost it. But in the car, I couldn’t talk or join in the conversation. I sat in the back telling myself to stop thinking of Hamlet. Obviously, it didn’t work.

Wordlessly, I got out and waved over my shoulder to them, slipping into a circle of my friends, resisting the urge to watch him walk to his locker. Lauren asked how France was, and I answered in as few words as I could, and then Sebastian brought up a party they’d all attended in my absence. I breathed for the first time in over twenty-four hours.

First period was history, and Ms. Stone was delivering a heartfelt lecture on the importance of due process when Hamlet opened the classroom door and said I was needed in the office. As often happened when Hamlet spoke to the female teachers, her eyes glazed over in acquiescence. I never knew if it was his good looks or his celebrity that got them, or a combination of both. Leaving my stuff behind and wondering why I could be needed, I hurried out of the room and into the hall. Hamlet closed the door for me and followed.

When we were on the stairs, I stopped. “I know where the office is, Hamlet.”

“They didn’t actually call for you.”

I hesitated and started to get mad. “I have to go back to class,” I said. I had never gotten in trouble and didn’t want to start.

He caught me by the arm and said, “Ophelia, we should talk.”

I didn’t walk away, but I didn’t speak.

“I…” he began. “I never thought much about you in that way. You’re adorable and have a great body and—” He stopped when I crossed my arms around my middle. “This is coming out wrong. You’re younger and we’ve always just been friends, you know?”

I did. And though I knew he would be right to say things shouldn’t change, I braced myself because it was gonna suck having him tell me anyway.

“But,” he said. A magical word. “I… Oh, hell.” He stepped forward and pulled me close. My legs went weak as his tongue slipped into my mouth and he wove his fingers into my hair.

I stepped back. “This is such a bad idea,” I said, barely able to stand. “We are friends, and this could be a disaster.” He seemed as dazed as I felt, so I had the chance to continue. “When was the last time you dated someone for more than a month?”

The question snapped him to alertness. “Well—” he began, looking like he had evidence to the contrary, and then started to laugh when he realized he didn’t. “Ophelia, most girls are interested in dating a ‘prince’ and are not especially interested in me, which gets old fast, or they’re classmates who might see the difference, but once I spend more than a few minutes alone with them, I realize they’re really dull.”

I smiled. He had complained about this problem before.

“But you…” he said. “I know you don’t want me because of what I am—”

“I don’t?” I asked, batting my eyelashes.

His smile matched mine. “And I know you’re not dull.” We stood in silence. “I’m going away in less than a year, and who knows what will happen then? But after I kissed you the other night, it was weird because, well, I suddenly couldn’t think of spending the rest of my time home without you. And not the way things were before, but like this.” He stepped close again and planted a kiss on me that was so intense that neither of us noticed Mr. Johnson, the assistant principal, walk up behind us.

He cleared his throat. “Hamlet, this is not—” I leaped back in shock, and he said, “Oh. Ophelia. I didn’t realize—” Unexpectedly, he looked embarrassed. Then he went back to stern professionalism. “Why are you both not in class?”

Red-faced, I looked down and mumbled that I was just going. Hamlet ambled a few paces behind me and when I reached for the door to Ms. Stone’s room, he said quietly, “We’re not making a mistake. Don’t you see we were meant for each other? How can this bring us anything but happiness?”

I knew it was naive. I just didn’t realize how complicated it would become.

Almost two years later, when I was waiting for Hamlet to leave the reception of his father’s funeral, the memory was oddly comforting and sweetly distracting. I shivered, and Horatio threw an arm around me, making me glad that kiss between us had been so mutually unappealing, because Horatio was the best friend I ever had.

Hamlet came banging through the stairwell door, ripping at his tie. “Get this thing off of me,” he called out, then ran toward us and threw the tie over the edge.

“Hamlet!” I cried out.

“Someone can sell it on eBay.” He shook hands with Horatio, and we all moved to the patio furniture by the roses.

“How bad was it?” I asked as we settled on a pair of lounge chairs. Lying next to him, I felt warmer already.

“Hell. All those people talking to me like I could help their futures. And most of them didn’t know my father at all. Just met him during handshaking photo ops.” Horatio and I nodded. I shivered, and Hamlet put his arms tighter around me. “Actually,” he said to me, “your dad was the coolest.” “Coolest” and my dad were never before and never since mentioned in the same sentence, as much as I loved him, so this took me by surprise.

“He told me things about my dad I didn’t even know and gave me a letter my father wrote to me when I was first born.” Hamlet touched his suit pocket reverently, and I heard the paper crinkle. “It’s about my father’s hopes and dreams for me. About how he never expected to l—” His voice broke and he breathed deeply. “Never expected to love anyone as much as he loved me, and h… how it had only been a few days since I’d been born, and how he couldn’t im… imagine how he could grow to love me more as I got older, but that he knew he would. Pretty amazing stuff.” He looked away, and I held his hand tighter, willing myself not to think about the box of my mother’s journals that I had hidden under my bed, journals that said the same kinds of things about me.

Horatio got a text and, after he shoved his phone back into his pocket, Hamlet asked, “Kim?”

Horatio nodded and told me she was a girl he met at school. Hamlet said he liked her but didn’t sound too enthusiastic.

“What’s your problem with her?” Horatio asked. “Kim’s pretty.”

“True,” Hamlet agreed.

“And she’s an amazing writer.”

“Also true.”

“She’s fun.”

Hamlet remained silent.

“Life isn’t always about acting like an idiot,” Horatio said, his voice rising.

“Maybe not, but I know fun, and fun she is not.”

“Screw you. I like her.” Horatio turned onto his back and looked at the starless sky.

“Cut it out, Hamlet,” I said. For a cute guy, Horatio had been alone for a long time, and I thought it was nice he had someone. “Tell me about her, Horatio.”

He told me how smart she was, that they spent their time together reading and studying. I hoped they did more than that, though I didn’t say so.

I said he should bring her to the castle, to which he replied, “She doesn’t know I live here.”

I was shocked.

“It’s easier. I want her to like me for me.”

“Yeah, but that’s a hell of a secret,” I said.

“I’m good with secrets. Who knows if she is?” He shrugged. “This is separate from school.”

“I wish it was for me,” Hamlet interjected.

We nodded sympathetically.

“Funny thing is, I don’t even want to be king.”

“You don’t?” asked Horatio, as if it were the first time Hamlet had mentioned it. Maybe it was. I couldn’t remember it ever coming up. We’d thought his father would live for a lot longer, and Hamlet was rarely serious enough to bother talking about something so important.

“So don’t,” I countered.

“Oh, that’s rich. Your father tells you not to call me, and you don’t. But you want me to stand up to everyone? Say no to this position?”

I stayed quiet, knowing he was right.

“Hamlet, you have to do it,” Horatio said. “It’s expected. Your family’s been in power for generations. You’re next in line.”

“I know, but there’s no way. I’m not ready to lead anyone.”

“That is true,” Horatio agreed with a smile.

“Shut up,” said Hamlet, starting to laugh.

Horatio continued, “You can’t even decide what dining hall you want to eat in each day. How are you going to decide on matters of state?” Hamlet took off his shoe and threw it at Horatio, who caught it and threw it back.

As Hamlet put his shoe back on, he said, “You know I’ll be a figurehead as much as anything. Parliament makes all the real decisions. Even so, I’m not sure I want to…”

I asked, “Without thinking, what would you do if you could do anything with your life?”

A satisfied smile crept onto his lips. “I’d play my guitar.”

We all laughed.

Horatio teased, “You’d starve. You really suck at it.”

“I do not. Ophelia?” he asked, trying to get me to agree with him.

“Well…” I hesitated, trying to imagine Hamlet on a street corner with an open guitar case at his feet, hoping for spare change.

“Okay, you two, enough kicking a guy while he’s down. Have a drink.” We passed the wine around.

“Hamlet, what about someone else doing the job until you’re older? At least until you finish college,” I suggested.

He shook his head. “I don’t know how that would work. Maybe.”

Horatio looked perplexed. “Didn’t anyone mention a plan to you? They must have rules or contingencies for these sorts of things.”

Hamlet turned to me and said, “Your father started talking about it yesterday, but my mother stopped him. Said it wasn’t necessary to bother me with it in my grief.”

Horatio pressed on. “But you have to deal with it soon, right? I mean, the public wants to know—”

“The public?” said Hamlet. “Whose side are you on?”

Horatio took his iPod out of his jacket and focused on untangling the wires, knowing better than to keep arguing.

“Talk to my dad tomorrow,” I suggested.

“Can’t wait.” Hamlet sulked and drank more wine.

The next morning we were all in Hamlet’s room. Horatio was texting Kim, Hamlet was strumming his guitar, and when I wasn’t sketching Hamlet, I was staring at him. I admit it was pathetic, but I fell to pieces watching him play the guitar, no matter how good or bad the sound. Classic girl crap, I know. The hair falling over the face, the furrowed brow as he tried to get the chord right, the guitar resting on his knee just so. Sigh and sigh. I dug it. What can I say?

Anyhow, we were all doing our thing when Gertrude stumbled in, and she did not look pleased to find Hamlet with company. She was still in her shiny sea-foam bathrobe; her hair was matted and she had not taken off her mascara from the night before. My guess is someone had given her something to help her sleep, because it was eleven, and by that point in the day she had usually done her Pilates, showered, dressed, and answered selected pieces of fan mail. She clutched her bathrobe around her and asked if Hamlet would follow her out. Horatio and I exchanged glances, and he went back to Kim.

I was cold, so I walked to Hamlet’s dresser and took out a long-sleeved shirt. Before I pulled it over my head, I stopped a second to smell the collar. I knew it was clean because, at the castle at least, his stuff was taken care of. But I loved the combination of his scent and the detergent the laundry staff used.

Horatio caught me. “That’s just sad,” he said.

I covered my face. “I know. I don’t get to have these creepy moments when you guys are gone. Having you back is a bonus.”

He lifted his eyebrows in mock disapproval. “The king’s death is a bonus? Nice.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” I said, throwing the shirt at him.

Hamlet walked in to find us having fun, and his dark mood sobered us immediately. He looked like someone had touched his jutting cheekbones with pink finger paint. He crossed the room quickly and sat on the floor facing away from us.

“What’s wrong?” Horatio asked.

Hamlet wouldn’t answer but picked up his guitar and closed his eyes. I saw him wipe away a tear, so I sat on the bed behind him and kissed the top of his head. He strummed with his eyes closed and tried to calm himself.

“She wants me to go back to school tomorrow,” he said finally.

“You’re kidding,” I sputtered. “Tomorrow’s pretty fast.” I wasn’t sure if I was disagreeing with Gertrude because she was wrong to push him or if I just expected him around for a while more.

“Did she say why?” asked Horatio.

He stopped playing and said angrily, “She said that while she would prefer I stayed by her side, I should get on with my life. We would sort out all the being-king stuff later. God, it’s been one day since the funeral! Get on with my life?” He shook his head and banged on the strings, making a discordant howl, then sat quietly staring out the window.

Horatio tucked his phone into his back pocket and asked, “You think you’ll come back with me?”

Hamlet shrugged. “Maybe.”

“It might help you keep your mind off of things,” I suggested, not really wanting to encourage it but remembering how busy I kept myself after my mother’s death. Busy to distraction. Busy to exhaustion.

He went back to strumming, but mid-song he threw his guitar across the room, cracking the neck. “No. Forget it. I’m not going. I can’t be in class right now. Who cares about macroeconomics or protozoa? My dad is dead. What am I gonna do, party, for God’s sake?”

Horatio went to pick up the broken guitar and I slid off the bed to sit next to Hamlet. “She’ll understand,” I said.

“Who cares?” Hamlet grumbled.

I rushed home from school each day for the next week, declining invitations to hang out with my friends, skipping swim practice and time in the art studio to be with him. I tried to keep Hamlet from grieving. More than a minute or two of silence or stillness, and he would retreat into a depression, and it would take hours to pull him out of it.

My friends, my coach, and my art teacher were pissed, which seemed unfair because I’d lost someone, too (though not an actual parent, so I guess everyone else saw it differently), and if I’d been taking any tough classes, my grades would have slipped. It did occur to me that it was probably a good thing that I wouldn’t be going to Wittenberg with him. My father, I begrudgingly admitted, might have been right about that after all.

Given my efforts to help Hamlet, I was slightly disappointed when we were swinging on the hammock on my balcony and he announced, “Being around the castle is too depressing. I’ve decided to go back to school.”

“I thought…” I began. “I thought we were doing all right.”

He ran his fingers along my thigh. “It’s not you. It’s my mother and my uncle. One of them is always hassling me about going back to school or wanting to discuss my future. I’m sick of it. And when my mom isn’t crying, she shuts herself behind closed doors. Most of the time, she acts like she doesn’t want me around.”

Well, that’s a change, I thought. I couldn’t remember a single time when she hadn’t begged him to join her for a meal, tried to separate him from me, or otherwise sought him out. It didn’t make sense.

I asked, “Then who’s she turning to for comfort?”

“Claudius. She says he understands her… that he feels the same pain. But I don’t know what she’s talking about. His brother died, and I’ve never seen him cry or even look more than a little sad. And that’s only when someone else mentions what a loss it’s been. My uncle and I have never been close, but I’ve never wanted to be around anyone less.”

“Leaving’s probably best then,” I conceded, then snuggled tighter against his body, trying to soak in the last moments I thought we’d have together for a while.

Barnardo: Did you try to talk Hamlet out of being king?



Ophelia: Why would you even ask that?



Barnardo: Just wondering.



Francisco: You get into his head… make him doubt that it’s the right thing to do.



Barnardo: Hamlet hesitates, so Claudius takes over, driving Hamlet over the edge.



Ophelia: That’s not why Hamlet was pissed.



Francisco: Come on, all that power in the wrong hands.



Ophelia: Hamlet didn’t care about power.



Barnardo: What did he care about?



Ophelia: (pause) Me.



Barnardo: And look where that got him.



Ophelia: Does the DDI give lessons on cruelty or does it just come naturally to you?