The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet (22 page)

I wasn’t sure if I was ready to feel good about anything that came out of English class yet, so I kind of grunted and changed the subject.

“What about the kids in class?” I asked. “They’ll never let me live this down.”

He smiled. “It wasn’t you up there with the tambourine. And something else will happen that will make them forget. Junior high just works that way.”

I wish I could say that made me feel better, but it didn’t.

 

The one thing that James hadn’t counted on? It seemed that the kids in my class were just as embarrassed by the whole pentameter parade as I was. No one wanted to bring it up, because we were all held prisoner by the echoes of that clanging tambourine. It was like we, as a group, decided never to speak of it again.

My parents, though, had lots of things to say about my role as Puck and my reading talent—mostly along the lines of “we are so surprised,” and “why did you not tell us?” They said they were proud of me too—a lot of blah blah blah praise that they usually gave to Dezzie. For my part, I wasn’t ready to confront them about how embarrassing the whole scene had been. Not when they’d finally said something nice about me. And not when I was still just MAD at everyone. So I just did what I always do: pretended that nothing had happened and tried to forget the whole thing.

My relief only went so far, though, because the other thing I couldn’t forget was being called into the principal’s office.

Not exactly the conversation I was hoping for.

For days, I’d been worrying nonstop that Mr. Obin would call our parents or call us in to his office again. But except for Ms. Finch-Bean splitting us up for two periods in art, it seemed that there weren’t any consequences to Mauri’s outburst. That in itself was frustrating, because I felt like we’d all gotten in trouble for no reason, and the one person who started the whole thing got off easy.

 

The following week, my nerves had somewhat settled and pig number nine had appeared in my locker: blue with white stripes. I no longer thought Ms. Finch-Bean was going to punish me, and I stopped feeling as though Principal Obin was lurking around corners, waiting to drag me into his office. What didn’t go away was the annoyance at being told I wasn’t a good enough role model for my sister. It made me short and irritable with her . . . or when anyone else talked about how wonderful she was.

Like Carter Teegan, for example.

“She’s so great,” he said one day, leaning against his locker talking to Mark. Not that I was eavesdropping or walking by particularly slowly; I just happened to catch his words. Now each time I saw him, all I could think of was “meringue,” thanks to Judith. Even though I no longer went weak in the knees when he came by, he
was
still nice to look at.

“It’s
math
, dude,” Mark responded. “And it’s all you ever talk about lately.” He twirled his locker combination and stuffed a handful of papers onto an already overflowing shelf. Now I knew where his perpetually missing homework went. “Cool that you understand it, but whatever. You’re starting to sound like you like it. Or her—the baby tutor!” He made a face.

“You’re the baby,” Carter replied. “Look, it’s not just me she’s helping out. Seriously. Mauri and Saber were sure they’d bomb English until they started hanging with her. And if they got less than a B this term, Mauri’s dad wouldn’t take them skiing over break. Now they just write down everything she says and ace their work.”

So
that’s
why Saber and Mauri were interested in Dezzie’s brain—a family ski trip?! It was like a magician whipping a sheet off a table and making a rabbit appear. A ridiculous, shallow rabbit. I’d been right about them all along.

Unfortunately, my discovery took place in the middle of a corridor, with people changing classes on all sides. Someone pushed past me, catching me off guard and knocking me into the side of the lockers with a bang. Carter and Mark turned in my direction as I was straightening up and rubbing the spot on my ribs where a bruise was sure to appear later on.

“Hey,” said Mark. Carter didn’t say anything, just looked through me like I was a window. I was surprised to find that I truly didn’t care.

“Should we start calling you Crash instead of Ham?” KC’s voice was at my side. A sizzle raced across the back of my neck.

“Hey,” I squeaked to Mark, ignoring KC, who’d probably come by to analyze my less-than-graceful moves or poke fun at my locker shelf pig collection. I didn’t care what he said or did, though—discovering why Dezzie was being used changed embarrassment to anger.

“Blow-Out Bacon?” KC wasn’t going to let this go. I glared at him.

“How about we start calling you ‘KC the toad-spotted nut hook’ instead,” I snapped, resorting to the first insult that came to mind. Unfortunately, it was one that my father used a lot.

The guys stared at me like Shakespeare himself had sprouted from my forehead.

“Maaannn,” said Mark with a low whistle. “That’s low.”

“Toad-spotted nut hook,” Carter mumbled, eyes on KC. “I like that.”

KC’s freckled face broke into a wide smile.

“Nice one,” he said, and laughed. “Shakespeare, right?”

How did he know? I smiled too.

“Wicked Willie,” offered Mark.

The warning bell buzzed.

I gathered my stuff together and limped back into the flow of crowd traffic, pleased that I’d held my own with the boys and had finally been able give KC the zinger he deserved.

This school year felt as foreign and strange as one of Dalí’s landscapes, and my thoughts and emotions were awkward and hard to handle. Part of me felt bad for Dezzie—she thought Saber and Mauri were “real” friends, and when she finally accepted the truth, she’d be so upset. Another part was angry with her—why hadn’t she listened to me in the first place? People were going to take advantage of her because of her brains. She needed to protect herself. But then again, Dezzie—or anyone else in my family, for that matter—had no idea how to fit in or what to expect from the real world. And, really, I hadn’t realized how bad it could get either. And I
thought
I fit in.

 

I spent the rest of the morning trying to figure out how to approach Dezzie about it, and glaring at Saber and Mauri whenever I saw them. I picked at my lunch. Ty, ever-observant and always hungry, eyed my PB&J sandwich.

“You gonna to eat that?” he said.

“Go ahead.” I pushed the sandwich, still wrapped, across the table to him and pulled my hand back fast so there’d be no chance he could touch it or brush against it “accidentally.”

“What’s your story?” he asked, then took a huge bite. Crumbs sprinkled onto the tabletop. I fiddled with the straw in my milk carton. “You’ve been acting weird.”

I
felt
weird. I didn’t know how to talk to him anymore. I was afraid that anything that came out of my mouth he’d take to mean that I liked him too. But I missed him, and needed him now to help me figure out how to talk to Dezzie. I didn’t know where to begin.

“Where’re Ely and Judith?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

Ty polished off the other half of my sandwich before answering. “Ely’s meeting with James got moved to today, and Judith said she had a dentist appointment when I saw her this morning. So what’s the deal?”

There was no way to avoid it. I took a deep breath, and, keeping my eyes on the sticky plastic table, I explained what I’d heard Carter saying in the hall and what I’d figured out. It didn’t take long. While I was talking, Ty munched on the apple from my lunch. Things felt almost normal—like they always had—between us. No peacocking, no displays; just me and Ty.

“That’s bad news,” he said, swallowing a big mouthful. I relaxed. “It’s worse than we thought.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“What do your parents think about it?”

“They believe her, not me.”

Ty shook his head. “Hello, clueless. Were they mad that you didn’t tell them about Puck?”

I shook my head. “Not really. I haven’t talked to them much.”

“So what’s your next move?” I snatched the cookie that he was trying to steal from my lunch bag.

“I have no idea,” I answered, stashing the cookie in my backpack for safety. “Tell Dezzie again, I guess. She probably won’t believe me, though.”

“Bet you she’s going to be ticked when she finally does,” he said, stuffing his own cookie into his mouth. I was so upset about so many things, I couldn’t even worry if that was a display. The bell rang, signaling the end of the period.

“You have no idea.”

xii

On my walk home, I turned options for explaining things to Dezzie over and over in my mind. Saber and Mauri were using her, causing her to betray me, and I still had to babysit her feelings. Just like I’d never tell her what my parents said about her painting because she’d be too upset if she knew. With each step I took, I also became more and more annoyed at the situation.

Why was I the one who had to tell her? Did it really matter? It’s not like Saber and Mauri were selling their notes online or anything—they were just trying to pass so they could take a stupid family vacation. Couldn’t Dezzie just deal with it herself?

But what went on in art made this a whole different situation. They thought they could get me to take the blame for Mauri’s mouthiness. That was low. I needed Dezzie to hear me out this time—to be the “role model” that Principal Obin said I should be. Because of anyone in my house, I had the best chance of getting her to listen to me. Mom and Dad were a lost cause.

I came in through the kitchen door—the same way I always did. But things weren’t anything like they always were when I got home.

Both of my parents were sitting at the kitchen table. Usually, Mom was home first in the afternoon—Dad taught a later class and stayed to grade papers and sonnets. Usually, Mom was busy in her office when I came in. Instead, both were sitting in silence, staring at me as though they were waiting for the door to open. Iago was at my dad’s feet, also looking grumpy. I froze as I stepped inside.

“Close the door, Hamlet,” my mother growled. I reached behind me and did what she asked.

My parents shot looks at each other. Were they taking lessons from Saber and Mauri? My father lifted his round glasses and ran a hand over his face.

“Something is very wrong, Hamlet,” my mother clipped. “In fact, something is rotten in the state of Denmark, I would say.”

So they were angry. With me. That much was clear. But for what? Then it occurred to me: Principal Obin must have gotten around to calling them.

I took a deep breath. “I meant to tell you, but—”

“How could you?” Dad broke in, not even letting me finish. His eyebrows scrunched together behind his glasses.

“It wasn’t even
me
,” I said. “I was just there when it happened.”

“That is not an excuse,” Dad went on. “It was your responsibility.”

My emotions swirled. “
My
responsibility? I didn’t even
say
anything.”

Mom must have been really angry, because she didn’t even correct my contractions. Tendrils of hair escaped from her bun and floated around her head like man-eating vines.

“Exactly,” she said. Her words came out like small pecks. “You have been concealing a great deal from us lately. First Puck, and now this? We were right up here the whole time. You should have gotten one of us
immediately
.”

“But—” I nearly responded, but cut myself off. Something
was
rotten in Denmark. We weren’t talking about the same thing. And what did me not telling them about Puck have to do with anything? I thought we were over that. That it wasn’t even an issue!

“Wait,” I tried again, struggling to calm down. “What’s this about?”

“Do you mean, ‘What are we speaking of’?” my mother said. “You knew a moment ago!” Dad just shook his head.

“Honestly,” I snipped, struggling to stay calm and get to the root of this situation. I scooped Iago off the floor as protection and stroked his fluffy fur. “Listen to me: I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”

My mother let out an impatient sigh. My father put his hand over hers, took his glasses off and rubbed his face again. He has much more patience than she does.

“The Globe, Hamlet.
My
Globe.”

For a moment, I had no idea what he was talking about. What globe? I tried to figure it out. “Your theater?”

He nodded. Mom sighed again. “Explain to us what happened.”

“I don’t
know
what happened,” I said. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“Quite a bit,” my dad said. I could see that he was trying to keep his anger in control, clamping his mouth closed when he was done speaking. At least I had a little more of a clue. “Look.” He pointed to the dining room.