The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet (4 page)

When math was over, I met Dezzie at TLC and brought her to the front office so Mom could pick her up. She must have thought Dezzie wouldn’t come back in one piece, because the expression on her face when we came around the corner was one of pure relief.

“How were your classes?” Mom asked, swooping in like a vampire in a velvet cloak. The tassels fluttered at my sister’s nose. She grimaced. I rolled my eyes. “Did you like them? Were you challenged enough?” Mom wasn’t giving her time to breathe, let alone answer. None of the questions were aimed in my direction. Sometimes, being with my parents and Dezzie was like being the ground underneath a rainbow and a pot of gold: They went together perfectly, while I was just part of the scenery.

I coughed, attempting to get her attention. They both glanced my way, Mom’s bun coming loose and tendrils waving around her head, Medusa-like.

“I’m going to go to lunch now, okay?”

Mom scowled.

“I
am
going to go to lunch now. Is that all right?” I tried again.

This time, Mom nodded. “Thank you, Hamlet, for taking care of Desdemona this morning,” she said. “Your father and I greatly appreciate it.”

Dezzie gave me a big smile.

That
was a surprise. Usually, Dezzie duty was an obligation—something I had to do because she was my younger sister—so thanks were rare. Of course, Dezzie didn’t need much minding—just walking her to the library or staying home if Mom and Dad were out and she had to meet her tutors. She didn’t get into the same trouble as most seven-year-olds. Okay, she didn’t get into trouble. Period. Which made any little trouble I got into look really big by comparison.

“You are welcome,” I said, wearing the thanks like a too-small jacket. “See you this afternoon.” I turned and headed toward the caf. The buzz of Mom’s insistent questions trailed me down the hall.

For the first time, I had the chance to stop at my locker and stash my books. It felt like I was lugging rocks up and down the stairs all morning. When I put them in and grabbed my lunch, I was lighter. By about fifty short, smart, curly-haired pounds.

Just before I closed the door, however, I caught sight of something stuck in one of the vents. I tugged, and a folded piece of paper slid out and into my palm: an origami pig.

Was this from the note-writer? I turned it over, inspecting it for any marks. There was nothing on it—just plain notebook paper—but even holding it in my hand gave me a funny electric feeling. Was someone messing with me? Was this because of Dezzie? I had no idea.

I put Piglet back in my locker and closed the door, trying to close off the questions floating around my brain. There were too many other things to think about today; I’d get back to Piggy later.

Once inside the caf, I looked for Ty, Judith, and Ely at our usual table, but there were a bunch of seventh graders sitting there. The room was packed—was it more crowded than last year?—and everywhere I turned, it seemed, there were kids I didn’t recognize. Great.

Spotting sixth graders was easy: They clustered at their tables like they were afraid of attack, or wore identical expressions of joy at finally finding elementary school friends. I stood, marooned in the center of the caf, searching for a familiar face, almost wishing I were back in sixth grade—at least my feelings would match the situation.

“Hey, Ham!” I caught my name above the rumble of conversation and clatter of trays. Turning, I scanned the room for the yeller.

“Over here!” An arm waved from the eighth-grade table area. Of course! I’d been so busy worrying about Dezzie, I’d forgotten that my lunch table would have relocated. With a mixture of pride (at being able to sit in the best section of the caf) and embarrassment (that I hadn’t remembered earlier), I headed over to the waver.

Um, yeah.

I should have been paying better attention.

“I didn’t even see you guys,” I began, plopping my lunch bag onto the table and pulling out a chair. “I can’t believe I forgot that—” I froze. Instead of Ty, Ely, Judith, and the others in our lunch bunch, my brown bag was parked next to Saber Greene, Mauri Lee, Carter Teegan, and his buddies KC Rails and Mark Sloughman. “I forgot that . . . uhhh . . .” I was stuck half in and half out of my seat, unsure of where to go. At the sight of Carter, my heart pounded and cheeks flushed. So
not
the smooth reaction that I’d imagined when we finally had lunch together.

“Sorry,” I gulped, deciding to stand. “I thought I saw someone—”

“Waving?” Saber finished. I nodded, hoping my face didn’t show my internal misery. If I hadn’t had to drag Dezzie all over school, I’d be with my own friends, at our new table, not suffering my zillionth awkward situation of the day. Sneaking a glance at Carter, I saw that he was paying more attention to opening his bag of chips than me. KC, on the other hand, was staring straight at me. His reddish brown hair stood up like a spiky crown. He crossed his eyes. I’d seen him more so far today than I had in the previous two years combined, when he’d spent almost as much time in detention as in class.

“That was me,” said Mauri, redirecting my attention. She had a small tray of what looked like sushi spread in front of her. When we visited my aunt Hope in New York last year before the annual Shakespeare convention, she took me out to try it. Due to the seventeenth-century cookbook Mom’s been working on for the past year, I’m used to eating large chunks of beef and pork, so it was a good change. But, really, who brings sushi for lunch in junior high?

Then Mauri’s words sunk in.

“Mm-hmm,” she said. She plucked a seaweed-wrapped roll off her tray and popped it into her mouth. Pieces of rice got stuck under her purple-polished nails, so she sucked them out. Icky! So icky!

“Oh.”

“You can sit, you know,” Saber said, sounding like their pack leader.

“Hey, Spamlet,” KC said. I ignored him. KC was one of those guys who was always geeking out, doing something weird, something that made him the center of attention.

“So,” Saber continued, “tell us about your sister. She looks a little young to be a sixth grader, and she’s in our art and music classes. Where is she?” She twirled the end of her braid. A container of yogurt and an untouched peach sat in front of her.

Dezzie hadn’t done much explaining.

“She’s just here in the morning,” I said, stammering over my words. They came in clusters, like grapes. Immediately, I hated myself for sounding so lame. Then I hated their lame questions.

“Eat,” Mauri said, gesturing to my bag.

Obediently, I unpacked my lunch—an apple, a small package of cookies, turkey on wheat . . . and the Shakespeare Quote of the Day, firmly taped to my sandwich bag. I’d
told
my dad not to do that this year.

“To sleep, perchance to dream,” KC read it aloud before I could stuff it back into the bag. The Wolf Queens snickered.

“Wish I could dream instead of being here all day,” Carter muttered.

“I know
who
I’d dream about,” KC said, nudging him. Then he winked at me.

Ew! I wished this
were
a dream. Where was Ty? But I was afraid that if I took my eyes off the table to search for him, I’d end up as lunch for this group.

“So . . . your sister,” Saber continued. “Where is she? What’s up with her in the afternoons?”

Why was she so interested? My sandwich bread was dry in my throat. I swallowed hard before answering, taking time to choose my words. “She takes other classes in the afternoon.”

KC and Mark were staring straight at me. Carter was working his way through the bag of chips, munching loudly.

“Where does she go?” Saber prodded.

The warning bell buzzed, signaling five minutes to the end of the period. I balled up my bag, sandwich barely touched, apple heavy at the bottom, probably smashing my cookies.

“Gotta go,” I said, springing from the chair like a jack-in-the-box. From the corner of my eye, I’d spotted a hurt-looking Ty slinking toward the door. I bolted from the table to catch up, but lost him in the crush of kids.

The good thing: In the afternoon I didn’t have to run all over the building, so that sizzly fried-egg feeling started to go away.

Ty and I had agreed to meet at the flagpole and go home together, and part of me was afraid he wouldn’t be there when I showed up. The quad was nearly empty by the time I arrived, and I spotted him right away: baggy jeans, green T-shirt, sitting on a wall fiddling with a wheel on his skateboard. He hated leaving it locked in the front office all day. It was his love.

“Hey,” I said, wanting to sound normal.

“Hey.” He didn’t look up.

My stomach dipped.

“I wanted to find you at lunch today,” I tried.

He spun a wheel.

I waited.

The wheel buzzed its circle. He finally peeked up at me from under his bangs.

“You found people to sit with pretty quick,” he said. I cringed. His Saber issue had started in the fourth grade, when she’d showed a note he wrote to her asking if she knew if Mauri liked him to all the girls in our class.

“It’s not like that,” I said. I explained what had happened in art, and how they quizzed me about Dezzie. As I spoke, Ty nodded and watched me, laying his skateboard to one side. My stomach evened out. We were okay.

“So,” I finished, “I think that’s why they waved me over at lunch. I just assumed it was you.” We were walking now, passing out of the school gates and heading home. Finally.

Ty was quiet. His thinking face was on—mouth turned down at the corners, eyes squinty. “Why do you think they’re so interested in your sister?” he asked after a minute or so.

“I have no idea. Because she’s new? And little?”

“Maybe,” Ty agreed. “But there’s gotta be more reasons why. Saber and Mauri aren’t just nice to people because they’re new. And you’re not new.”

I didn’t know how to answer Ty’s question. There was no reason for Saber and Mauri to be interested in me
or
Dezzie. They were a pair—a snarky, sparkly matched set. And they had no use for average people who’d dull their shine.

I was about to mention that to Ty, but then it hit me: Dezzie, of course, was anything
but
average.

Yikes.

vi

That night after dinner, as I crossed the kitchen on my way upstairs to finish some annoying first-day homework, I heard, “Now, Desdemona, let’s try it again,” from the den. I crept closer to the door, wanting to keep out of sight. Something in my dad’s tone was different from the usual “lecture voice” that he used when working with my sister.

“Hi, new student. That’s a nice book bag you have there.”

Dezzie’s tiny voice responded, “Thank you.”

“Would you like to buy some drugs? They will make you smarter.”

WHAT?! I crammed both hands over my mouth and doubled over, trapping the giggles that wanted to escape. Dad must have
really
felt that the kids at HoHo were out to get Dezzie.

“No, thank you. Drugs are bad.” Dezzie’s voice sounded like it was coming from a doll—dry, flat, and emotionless. “Do we have to continue with this, Father?” she asked. “It is utterly ridiculous. I highly doubt that anyone at Howard Hoffer Junior High School will offer me illicit substances or, if they do, that it will be done in such a straightforward, unambiguous way. Did you do this with Hamlet when she matriculated there?”

Nope, they hadn’t. They’d given me a short lecture as a sixth grader about “being my own self ” and watching the crowd I associated with, and that was it. I wasn’t laughing anymore. What would Dad say?

“Your sister was substantially older than you when she entered junior high school. You are vulnerable in a different way than she.” So I hadn’t gotten the drugs talk because I was older and less vulnerable? That’s it?

A little annoyed with that answer—how about, “We trust her and she didn’t need a lecture,” instead?—I decided that Dezzie needed rescuing. I went back into the kitchen and rummaged around loudly for a glass of water. Dad and Dezzie emerged from the den, followed by Iago, our white puffball of a dog. A colleague of my parents’ who took a new job in Norway gave him to us. Dad was wearing his bee T-shirt: There were two bees on the back, the word “or,” and, below that, two bees with that red circle with the slash through it over them. Get it?

Yeah.

He thinks it’s hysterical.

“I need to find my lecture notes for Birth of the Sonnet. Desdemona and I were discussing the skills she will need to navigate the junior high school.”

“Oh,” I said. What other “skills” did he think Dezzie might need? Archery? Because that would be as useful at HoHo as his other pointers. My parents spent too much time in their school offices. They needed to get out more. Lots more.

“Hamlet said she’d help me earlier today,” Dezzie said.

Had I? Then I remembered our conversation in the stairwell.