Hamlet came out of the grave shouting to Laertes that his love for Ophelia was greater than that of forty thousand brothers. “What will you do?” shouted the unhinged, yet still dashing, prince. “Will you weep? Fight? Fast? Hurt yourself? Eat a crocodile? I’ll do it! Did you come here to whine? To outdo me by leaping into her grave? Be buried with her coffin? So will I.”
At this, Queen Gertrude screamed, “This is madness!” and tried to go to her son. Her new husband held her arm and asked Horatio, Hamlet’s oldest and dearest friend, to take him away. Horatio did, and quiet, though not peace, reigned at last.
Laertes looked murderous and walked away from King Claudius (who pleaded mysteriously for his patience), leaving violets for the gravediggers to place atop the filled-in grave.
I wonder at the ability of the good people of this kingdom to continue bearing such displays. Our royals were once pinnacles of morality, set examples for their subjects to follow. During these past few months, it has been as if the lunatics were running the asylum.
I reread the article, for I could not believe my eyes. Then I crushed the magazine between my hands and tossed it across the room, as if the distance between me and the printed story might make it less horrible. But it didn’t. My mind reeled. What was happening at the castle at that very moment? Why had Hamlet been allowed at the funeral? Why hadn’t Horatio told my brother that I was alive? How could he let him suffer like that?
I broke the rules and called Horatio.
“Jesus, what if I wasn’t alone?” he asked.
I stared at the crumpled magazine on the floor. “But you are, so can you talk?”
He hesitated. “Yeah. Don’t do it again, though.”
I made no promises. “I read about my funeral. They both jumped into my grave? That’s insane.”
“Yeah,” Horatio said quietly. “Competitive grieving. Not pretty.”
Part of me wanted to laugh, but the larger part of me was completely mystified. And saddened by it.
I guess he felt the same because he added, “It was really hard to watch. They both still love you.”
I considered what he said for a moment. Did Hamlet’s still loving me make him not a murderer? No. Would it bring my dad back or make what he said in the limo less cruel? No. Hamlet thought I was dead, and that fact caused him pain. Good. He deserved it. But my brother didn’t.
“Can you get to my brother and tell him I’m alive?” I asked.
Horatio sighed. “No, Ophelia. We’ve talked about this. It’s not safe yet. And now that he’s back in town, it’s worse. Your brother’s been spending a lot of time with Gertrude and Claudius. If he knows you’re okay and starts acting calm or different, they might get suspicious and ask questions. He’s even at dinner with them right now. Let’s give it a few days and move you farther away from Elsinore first.”
I didn’t like the idea one bit, but I knew he was right. What was the point of all that Horatio and Marcellus had done for me if I got impatient and blew my cover?
Barnardo:
Hamlet and your brother made quite a scene.
Ophelia:
That’s an understatement.
Barnardo:
If you knew Hamlet was so upset about your supposed death, why didn’t you go rushing back to him? He didn’t seem mad about the whole betrayal thing anymore. You two had gotten past squabbles in the past.
Ophelia:
Killing my dad was more than a squabble.
Francisco:
Once you knew your brother was in town, why didn’t you contact him?
Ophelia:
It wasn’t safe.
Francisco:
You knew he was practically destroyed by the news, and yet you kept quiet. Is that love?
Ophelia:
You shut your mouth. You know nothing about—
Francisco:
What? Love? If I loved someone, I wouldn’t let him think I was dead. You could have called him at any point and stopped him. Stopped everything that came next. Or maybe you wanted it to happen.
Ophelia:
I hate you.
“Was it hard for you to lie about your whereabouts? To fool the public? To watch everyone mourn your death?”
Ophelia looks very serious and explains, “None of this was done to affect the average person. Things were deteriorating at the castle, and it seemed to be the only way out.… Yeah, it was hard to know so many people were being misled.”
Zara nods appreciatively. “I understand that not even your brother knew you were alive. When were you going to tell him?”
“I had hoped to send him a message—” Ophelia breaks off.
Zara looks at the audience with tear-filled eyes.
Ophelia whispers, “But everything happened too fast.”
A few days after my funeral, I got a call from Horatio. “Ophelia,” he said, and his voice was so strained that I dropped the package of Pop-Tarts I had just grabbed off the convenience-store shelf.
“What’s wrong?”
“I… Hamlet is going to play in a lacrosse game.”
I had been expecting so much worse, but my adrenaline was pumping, so I asked, “A what?” too loudly. When other customers turned to look at me, I pulled my hat down and rushed out of the store.
As I made my way into the alley, Horatio said, “You know, the annual Elsinore Academy fund-raiser.”
I did know. Each year, for as long as I could remember, a group of lacrosse alumni and members of the current team played to raise scholarship money for the high school. It brought out huge crowds, huge names, and huge money.
“Yeah,” I said, “but I can’t believe they’re going through with it after all that—” My voice broke off as I pushed away the image of my father lying in a pool of blood.
Horatio said, “I know. I don’t think Hamlet should be anywhere near that game. I tried talking him out of it by telling him he’s too tired and that it’s a bad idea for him to be in the same place as Claudius. But he says he wants to play like he has every year for the past five years.”
“Hamlet can’t believe that, at this point, his inclusion is business as usual. With everything—You’d think Claudius and Gertrude would want him away from public scrutiny.”
“I know. Even Hamlet knows it’s weird. He admitted that he’s really uneasy about the whole thing. So I told him to trust his instincts and that I could tell them he’s not feeling up to it. But Hamlet looked at the e-mail invitation like he saw his destiny. It was eerie, Ophelia. He said to me, ‘No. I’m prepared for whatever.
Que será será
, you know?’ He sort of laughed, but I didn’t. And he looked at me all sad and said, ‘Let’s just do this thing.’ He just went to get dressed, and then we’re gonna go to the field.”
“So you think it’s a trap?” I asked.
“Yeah. Claudius had been trying everything to get rid of Hamlet. Hamlet has to know that Claudius might use this opportunity to make another move.”
“Don’t go,” I begged.
“Hamlet’s determined, and I’m not letting him go alone.”
I kicked at the cinder-block wall and worried more than I wanted to about Hamlet.
I heard a voice in the background, and Horatio whispered to me, “Gotta go. I’ll call later.”
I stood in the alley with the disconnected phone pressed against my ear. I was frustrated to be far away but relieved, too. And I felt so sorry that Horatio had to deal with everything alone. As long as Horatio came out unscathed, that was what mattered most. But what if something
did
happen to Hamlet? I wasn’t sure how I was going to react. But what could happen at a lacrosse game? A broken nose. A cracked rib. Nothing devastating. With Horatio and a crowd there, Claudius couldn’t have Hamlet kidnapped or shot or anything, so he had to be pretty safe. I hoped. And didn’t.
I went back into the convenience store and wandered the aisles in a daze. I was so preoccupied by thoughts of the game that when I reached the checkout, I realized that I’d grabbed spray cheese, a can of beets, and a pack of beef jerky. The mixture was so unappetizing that I left it all on the counter and walked out with a muttered, “Sorry.”
Back in my room, I checked my phone to see if Horatio had texted. Nothing. I paced the room a few times and checked my phone again. Nothing. I checked to be sure I hadn’t accidentally silenced the ringer. I hadn’t. I checked my phone again. And again nothing. An hour passed. Still nothing. And every time I felt a kick of worry in my stomach, I was completely disgusted with myself because I was supposed to hate Hamlet enough that I wanted Claudius to do something to him. But I didn’t, and that made me feel even worse. Because I was betraying my father by caring about his killer.
Just when I started to consider going back out again for food, the phone rang. “God, that took long enough!” I yelled.
Not even dealing with my rudeness, Horatio said, “Claudius is planning to poison Hamlet.”
I sat on the bed in shocked silence.
“Marcellus met us in the parking lot. Said that if Claudius offers him anything to drink, he has to refuse.”
My mouth worked over a million questions, and I settled on, “How does Marcellus know?”
“Some of the guys in security like Hamlet better than Claudius. Things are falling apart at all levels here.”
“Wait,” I said, “how would Claudius get away with doing it in public?”
Horatio lowered his voice and explained, “They were going to announce that it was a drug overdose, which would explain Hamlet’s weird behavior leading up to this game.”
“God, that’s smart,” I whispered, and hugged a pillow to my chest. “So is Gertrude in on it, too?”
“I don’t know.” He hesitated. “Uh, one more thing.”
My heart sank. I wasn’t sure I could take one more bit of news.
“Your brother’s playing in the game. He and Hamlet are going to be captains of the opposing teams.”
I couldn’t make words get past the tightness in my throat.
Horatio said, “They’re telling everyone that Laertes has been slotted to play for weeks.”
“That’s impossible,” I squeaked.
“Yeah, I know. But either way, he’ll be playing, and the press is making it out to be a big deal that he wanted to come back to help his alma mater, blah, blah. This is so messed up, but I can’t get Hamlet to back out. I tried to prey on Hamlet’s pride by saying that Laertes’s team would beat him. But Hamlet said, ‘I don’t think so. Since Laertes has been in France, my game has really improved.’ Ophelia, I’ve tried everything I can think of to—”
“You can’t keep Hamlet from doing something he wants to do,” I reassured him, wishing Horatio could be spared from being in the middle of this. “You know him better than that.”
“Game’s about to start,” Horatio said.
“I wish I could watch,” I said quietly, sadness washing over me. “I want to see my brother.”
Horatio paused. “I think you can. We’ve got the same model phone, so we should be able to do video chat. But don’t forget: We’ll see and hear each other, but so will anyone who looks my way. Be quiet and keep the lights off and your hat on.”
“Where will you be?” I asked.
“On the sidelines with the spectators.”
A few minutes later, I’d downloaded the right application and we were set up. When he called back, I could see that Horatio was standing dangerously close to the platform on which Gertrude sat. Claudius was at the podium addressing the audience, explaining that today’s match would greatly benefit students who wanted to attend the fine institution but lacked the funds to do so, and he thanked everyone present for their generosity. I wanted to punch him in his lying face. He had enough money to send every kid there to school for free but was going to use this as an opportunity to go after his brother’s son. He made me sick.
Speaking of sick, Gertrude sat next to him not seeming quite herself. Gertrude was looking elegant, though slightly dressed down, as she always did when attending one of Hamlet’s games, but she was noticeably weary and a little twitchy. The quality of the video on the camera phone was so incredible that it even picked up her eyes darting around the field and at the crowd, and how, when Claudius reached for her hand, she flinched.
Horatio panned, so I could see he was standing among parents and students. They were all oblivious to the fact that the event was being hosted by pure evil.
Horatio then turned the camera to the field. Hamlet was with the squad in white, who was warming up with some practice drills. On the other side of the field was a sea of burgundy and black—the other squad, of which my brother was captain. Laertes came into view, and I was so moved by the sight of him that, for a few seconds, tears filled my eyes and the screen blurred. My brother, my last living relative, the person I wanted to talk to more than anyone right then, was far away and had no idea that I was alive and that I could see him leading a bunch of my classmates in stretches.
It was then that I caught sight of Sebastian. I sucked in my breath. Had Hamlet seen him? Had he pieced together that Sebastian was the guy who’d been kissing my neck when he’d surprised me at school? I hoped not.
To great cheers, Hamlet and Laertes came into the center of the field for a face-off. One thing was suddenly clear to me: the game was about them.
With their helmets on, it was impossible to see Hamlet’s or Laertes’s expressions, but I noticed that as they walked they both held their bodies differently than they once had. Laertes’s arms and shoulders were tense, and Hamlet slouched and kept his head down, a posture of resignation that I hadn’t seen since his father’s funeral.