The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet (20 page)

“Saber Greene.”

Her face
was
green, so I felt better watching her drag her feet into the office.

“So?” I whispered to Dezzie, who was still standing in the middle of the room. “How’d it go?” She jumped like I’d yelled “Boo!”

“Fine.” She nodded. “I’m not supposed to say anything, though. Just go in there and answer him.” She shrugged, and before I could ask her another question, Mrs. Pearl motioned with her late pass and Dezzie left the office, on her way to choir.

My headache and upset stomach had only gotten worse with all the waiting. It seemed as though Saber was in the principal’s office four times as long as Dezzie or Mauri, although when I looked at the clock we’d only all been in there for fifteen minutes.

Finally, Saber came out. At that moment I realized the only thing worse than waiting was when the time was up and it was my turn. My stomach flipped like an acrobat and my throat tightened.

“Hamlet Kennedy.”

The only times I’d seen Principal Obin were during events like school assemblies or walking through the hall. I saw him angry when a bunch of boys had been “book bowling” in the hall while he walked by. Then he seemed as large as a bear when he roared at the kids to knock it off.

I tried to get off my chair, but it was like Velcro had been attached to my legs. I couldn’t move. I tried again, pushing off the sides, and popped up too fast, nearly falling. Sweating already. Eeek!

When I peeked into his office, Principal Obin was sitting behind his desk, hands steepled in front of his face, hiding his mouth. There was a rumor that went around when I was a sixth grader that he had been an assistant coach on an NFL football team, but no one could prove it. The man had no Google history. He looked like he could
play
professional football, though. At over six feet tall, his shadow stretched down the building’s hallways when he went by. He was bald too, which made him look more serious and a little mean. When I stepped into the room, he unfolded his hands and pointed at a chair across from the desk.

“Have a seat, Hamlet,” he said. His voice rumbled.

It was a good thing there was a chair there, because I was so nervous I was sure I would have collapsed where I stood. He leaned over his desk, which was large and covered by piles of paper.

“Your art teacher tells me that there was some inappropriate language used in her classroom earlier. And that you were a part of it.” He stopped. I nodded.

“As you know, we don’t tolerate that type of behavior here at Howard Hoffer Junior High. Now, I would like you to tell me what happened in your own words.”

I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a squeak. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“It was a misunderstanding, sir,” I explained. I’d never used the term “sir” before in my life, but Principal Obin was
definitely
a sir. I did my best to tell him what happened—it didn’t take very long—and he listened with a serious expression the whole time.

“And . . . that’s really it,” I finished. “Ms. Finch-Bean brought us here to see you.” I didn’t know what else to say.

He sat back in his chair and put his ankle on top of his other knee, like he was considering what I was saying.

“According to other accounts, you had greater involvement than what you described.”

His words filled me with cold liquid fear. They had conspired against me. I took a deep breath, trying to get control of myself.

“Those girls are trying to get me in trouble so they can be closer to my sister,” I explained, hoping he would see and understand the truth. “They treat her like she’s a doll.” I was pretty sure that I said if Saber and Mauri were cheating off Dezzie, we’d all be in a lot more trouble than we were right now.

He steepled his hands again. “I see,” he said.

“It’s true,” I said. “They don’t like me looking out for her so much.”

“Thank you, Ms. Kennedy,” he said. “I’ll take the matter up with Ms. Finch-Bean. However, in the future, may I suggest that when one of your peers makes such a flagrant violation of the rules, that you speak up. Silence equals complicity in the act.”

I nodded again, worrying all the while that he didn’t believe me.

“And, you may want to remember that even though your sister is . . .” He paused for a second. “Even though your sister is
unique
, she still needs to be surrounded by strong role models. Don’t let us, or her, down by reducing yourself to such behavior. Or by caving in to others.”

Shame, soaked in responsibility, covered me. How was this my fault? I forced a whispery “Yes, sir” from somewhere in my throat and nodded again.

“You’re already late for third period,” he said. “I suggest you get a late pass from Mrs. Pearl.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, and headed to the office. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen—I guessed that he could still get my parents involved or I would still be in trouble with Ms. Finch-Bean, but at that moment I didn’t care. I just wanted to get out of there.

Once in the hall, however, some kind of post-principal’s office meeting trauma set in. My hands started shaking and my face burned. I couldn’t believe that he suggested I wasn’t a good enough role model for Dezzie. Shouldn’t
she
, as the Genius Child, be a role model for
me
?

My eyes burned with angry tears and I let my feet carry me to the girls’ room a few halls away. As I made the last turn, around a bank of lockers, I crashed into someone coming the opposite way. My chin made contact with the person’s shoulder, and we both bounced backward.

“Sheesh, Hammie. Take it down a notch, okay?”

KC Rails. He seemed flustered.

Not who I wanted to see right then. I swiped at my eyes and cheeks, trying to remove any tear stains and get myself under control. KC, annoying as he is, is no dummy. “Are you okay? Do you want me to take you to the office?” he asked.

Not what I needed him—or anyone, but especially him—to say.

I didn’t have to respond. The spray of tears that exploded from my eyes told him everything I didn’t. He stepped out of the way, mouth open in shock, and I fled into the bathroom for the third time that year.

Yeah, bad things come in threes.

x

That night, I barely slept. Mom and Dad were scheduled to come into my English class the next day. There was no way I could hide from them and the utter humiliation they’d bring. Besides, between my “talent” and the trip to the principal’s office, I had a lot to cover up. I twisted and turned in my sheets, trying to figure out how to get out of class, but it was no use. Horrific scenarios that would have given Shakespeare nightmares played on a constant loop in my head:

When my alarm finally went off, my sheets were as tangled as my brain. How could Mom and Dad do this to me, especially after everything else? Why couldn’t they see that they were so strange? Or that normal society had moved beyond 1650 and that Shakespeare wasn’t the most important thing on the planet?

Weeks of pressure, stress, and hiding had built up to this. Mom and Dad would process into school like Elizabethan royalty, hear me perform, discover that I’d been in the principal’s office, and learn all the Shakespeare secrets I’d been hiding from them. My stomach felt like the carnival balloon animal guy was at work in there.

I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, my body feeling like a bag of marbles. The hot, steamy water cleared my head a little, but once I finished I had to figure out what to wear.

I finally settled on an outfit and got dressed, and a tap came at my door.

“Come in,” I grumbled. I went to my desk and stuffed my books into my bag.

“Mom says we are going to be late,” Dezzie said. She stood just over the threshold, hands bunched at her waist. Her hair was down and she had on a green trapeze shirt and black leggings. “You didn’t have breakfast.”

Her mention of food made that carnival guy in my stomach create a balloon dog.

“Not hungry,” I said. I slung my bag over my shoulder.

“I wasn’t either. As a matter of fact, Hamlet, I am rather concerned.”

I let my bag slide to the floor. What did
she
have to be concerned about? She wasn’t hiding—and as it occurred to me, she said it.

“I don’t want them to find out about our visit to Principal Obin’s office, and I feel it is inevitable.” She rocked back and forth: heel, toe, heel, toe. I flashed back to that first day of school, in front of Mrs. Pearl’s desk.

“Me neither,” I said. “And I don’t know how to prevent that.”

Dezzie sighed. “And—Hamlet . . . what if . . .” she squeaked. “What if they discover my artistic failure? The Pollock paintings will be hung all over the school today.”

“I don’t think they’ll be up yet,” I answered, trying to soothe her with a lie. Ms. Finch-Bean was planning to hang some today, I was pretty sure. But, really, a bad painting? Even though Dezzie had always done everything perfectly, one poor art assignment didn’t compare at all to what I had to worry about. “Besides, once they find out that our Globe theaters are going to be judged by ‘outside experts’ I’m done for. Dad will be so upset that I didn’t tell him.” I picked my bag up again, then groaned. “And I don’t even
want
to know what they have planned for my English class.”

Dezzie seemed startled when I mentioned the theater project, probably surprised that I brushed off her issues. I gave her a sympathetic smile to make up for it. She twirled a piece of hair around one finger.

“This could be very bad,” she said.

 

All through Mr. Hoffstedder’s history class, I willed time to stop. Usually, his “discussions” were so boring that I’d glance at the clock and only three minutes would have gone by. That morning, it seemed when I blinked ten minutes had passed. Even the discovery of the eighth pig in my locker between classes didn’t serve as enough distraction. I simply put him with the others, feeling like we were all wallowing in the same muck.

Art was just as bad. I couldn’t focus on my dream journal, and Saber’s and Mauri’s giggles and chatter with Dezzie didn’t help. Time was distorted, like one of Salvador Dalí’s paintings.

What seemed like a second later, Dezzie was pushing me out of art and I was contemplating hiding in the girls’ bathroom for all of English. The visions of what could happen from the night before popped into my head, and I saw Mrs. Wimple telling everyone over and over again that they were my parents.

As I came down the hall, dragging my feet with each step, Mom’s voice cut through my nightmare and brought it to life. I wished I’d made it to the bathroom already.

“Some of them are quite good, but this is truly an example of poorly executed juvenile art if I have ever seen it.” I turned my head, and there they were—standing in front of the display of abstract expressionist-inspired pieces that Ms. Finch-Bean had hung outside the main office. And the “poorly executed” painting was Dezzie’s. For a second, I felt worse for her than me. At least she wasn’t around for the shock of having my parents criticize something she’d done. I coughed, and my mom turned around.

“Honey, there you are! How fortuitous, Roger!”

My dream swapped with reality:

Mom was dressed in her full Ren Faire attire—wine-colored velvet dress, cloak, and kerchief hat. Her hair was pulled into a bun, and she carried a drawstring satchel. I couldn’t see what she had on her feet—the skirt was too long—but I was guessing it was Birkenstocks.

Dad was decked out in his tights, with a ruffled shirt and short cloak. At least he wasn’t wearing one of the Shakespeare T-shirts.

Wait, that was a
good
thing?

I was so focused on their humiliating attire that for a second I didn’t see the other kids who were also frozen in place in the hall, staring. As if anyone in the school needed more proof that we were the freak family.

Plus, there was the stuff that other kids couldn’t see, like my imminent reading doom. Or the way Mom and Dad were so wrapped up in Dezzie, yet didn’t seem to care about me. Perhaps I could join another Ren-family somewhere.