The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet (7 page)

“Too bad Shakespeare wasn’t around to see it,” she said. “I heard it was Bard-tastic.” The two of them giggled their way out of the lunchroom. I clenched my hands into tight fists and pushed my chair back.

“I should just . . .”

“Dude, not worth it,” Judith cautioned. She steered me in the opposite direction. We stopped at our lockers, side by side in the main hall. When I turned the combination, I felt that jolt of electricity before I even saw it: another origami pig, stuffed into the vent. This one was wearing a blue ink smiley face and made from plain white printer paper. Was someone doing it to be mean? If they were, why draw a smiley face on it?

“What’s that?” Judith leaned over my shoulder. I showed her the pig, and explained about its cousin and the homeroom note on our walk to science.

“You
so
have an admirer,” she squealed. “Who do you think it is?”

I still had no idea. And with the way this year had started off, I wasn’t too sure I wanted to find out.

 

After the English incident, I tried even harder to avoid drawing attention to myself. I wanted nothing more than to fade into the background and let everyone forget about my “performance.” But Saber and Mauri were determined to drag at least one Kennedy onto center stage.

Avoiding their questions only made them ask more. It was like a pastime for them; I had no idea why they cared so much. And since they couldn’t get any information out of Dezzie, they tried me. Whenever I passed them in the hall or walked by their table at lunch, I’d get a “Hiii Ham let,” in unison, and some question about where Dezzie was. Nothing was said in an outright mean way, but it was a little too friendly sounding, if you get me. I ignored them as best I could, adding them to my ever-growing list of things to avoid: making eye contact with Mrs. Wimple in English, thinking about what happened when I read Shakespeare out loud, and talking to my parents and teachers about their involvement in the Salute.

 

A day later, in history class Mr. Hoffstedder announced our theater assignment. Until now, we’d been learning the basics about Elizabethan England—class structure and nobility, the fact that people were dirty and smelly back then—stuff Mom and Dad talked about ever since I could remember. Only in a more positive, “I heart the 1600s” kind of way. Kind of like Dad’s new shirt, which featured “Shakespeare is my homeboy” spelled out in block letters under a picture of the Bard.

“Your co-assignment is to build an accurate replica of the Globe Theatre, where Shakespeare’s plays were performed, with a partner. Then each of you will write a short essay about why the theater was designed in such a specific way. This will be the history component of the assignment, and a way to illustrate your creativity.”

Ty kicked the leg of my desk with his foot.

“Partners?” he whispered.

I nodded. I knew what would come next.

“Do you have any extras?”

I rolled my eyes at him. Building Globes was one of my father’s hobbies. We had four in our basement already. This would be number five. So much for creativity—for us, this would be more like an exercise in repetition.

“We’re going to have special judges from outside the Howard Hoffer community evaluate your work,” Mr. Hoffstedder said. “They’ll award prizes in three categories: accuracy of design, uniqueness of materials, and creativity in scene-staging. So be sure to put forward your best effort.”

There was no way I’d tell my parents about the contest. Knowing that someone was going to come to school and judge my theater on its Globe-ness meant they’d focus with microscopic accuracy on every detail.

A seventeenth-century microscope, but still.

 

At the Chilly Spoon that day, Ty and I settled into our favorite table. Me with a peppermint stick sundae and Ty with two scoops of fudge mania in a cup, doused with chocolate sprinkles. I knew what was coming.

“So what really happened in English?” he asked. He stuffed a heaping spoonful into his mouth. I shrugged.

“I don’t know. Wimple made me read another passage for her after, and said I did the same thing—I
emoted
it, or something.” If I focused on eating around the whipped cream, I wouldn’t have to see Ty’s expression.

“What do you think you did?” I heard a few sprinkles rain from his cup and bounce on the Formica table.

“I thought I was reading,” I confessed. “I said the words I saw in front of me.”

“You weren’t reading,” he said. “At least, not like I’ve ever heard anyone read.”

“Then what was I doing? Why does everyone keep saying that?” I was getting frustrated. I folded the napkin to burn off some energy.

“Maybe you have a talent,” Ty offered. “You’re an actor.”

“But I’ve been in plays before,” I said. “And I wasn’t so special then.”

“Being a Native American in the fourth-grade Thanksgiving play doesn’t count,” Ty pointed out. “You had no lines. Maybe you’re a Shakespeare-acting genius.”

“I think that’s what Wimple was hinting at,” I admitted. “She wanted me to keep doing it to prove she was right.” What if I
was
some kind of acting genius, and just didn’t know it?

“The whole on-stage thing freaks me out. I’m going to beg Wimple to let me do lights or something for the performance,” Ty said. “But I think it’d be pretty cool to be an actor.”

“Not if it was Shakespeare you were good at acting out.” I sighed. “And don’t remind me about the performance part. It freaks me out too.” Would Mom and Dad stick me onstage at the Ren Faire? Make me take acting classes, like Dezzie takes special academics? Would I be forced to participate in some sort of family troupe?

Ty glanced at me out of the corner of one eye, his bangs hanging in front of his face. “You know, it’s not the worst thing in the world,” he said, and stuffed another giant spoonful into his mouth. A sprinkle dotted his chin. It sounded like each of his words were glass bubbles that he didn’t want to break.

“What’s not?” My voice was sharp and stony.

“Having something in common with your family.”

That sentence lingered in the air between us. A cold sensation, then a rush of heat, filled my body. If I had something in common with Dezzie and my parents, it meant I was like them—another freaky Kennedy. What if that was the case, and I was just better at hiding it?

That was the thought that scared me more than anything else.

x

That Saturday, Ty, Ely, and Judith came over to get started on our Globe project. Ty got there first, and Mom beat me to the door.

“Master Tyler! So nice to see you.” Ty’s shoulders pulled up toward his ears in an anticipatory cringe. When Mom knows people well, they don’t get a curtsy. She gave him a peck on each cheek and squeezed his shoulders in a quasi-hug.

Ty was one of the few people I felt comfortable having around my family. He’s known us since before Dezzie was born, when things were slightly more normal around here. I don’t think he’s ever gotten used to my mom’s ways of saying hi, though.

“Mom, don’t kiss Ty like that. He doesn’t like it,” I said for the zillionth time. And for the zillionth time, she looked surprised and stepped away. For a bunch of smart people, it took them a long time to learn basic stuff.

“What are you working on?” she asked.

He and I shot glances at each other.

“We’re building a replica of the Globe,” Ty admitted.

“How wonderful! I will notify Roger anon. You two may retreat to the basement.” She shooed us in that direction, white sleeves bellowing like sails attached to her arms.

The upstairs of our house looks pretty much like everyone else’s—family pictures on the walls (okay, some are in Elizabethan attire), comfy furniture to sit on—with the addition of lots of books and papers stacked on tables, chairs, and any other flat surface. The basement is another situation altogether.

We have two finished rooms downstairs, and they’re the only places where Iago isn’t allowed—much to his irritation. One is set up like a family room, with a big fire-place and cozy chairs. The other is my dad’s office. Both are filled with Shakespeare-related stuff.

Mom’s Shakespeare collection sits on two shelves in the family room. And I don’t mean the books. She actually collects Shakespeare himself—dolls, figurines, busts, plates, key chains—anything that looks like him. There are poseable action figures, mugs, and even a cow and a rubber duck both wearing Shakespeare outfits that some students gave her. There are framed pictures on the walls called “The Death of Ophelia” and “The Death of Romeo and Juliet”—you know, happy art like that—and there’s even a bunch of photos from Stratford-on-Avon and one of his plaques at Westminster Abbey that Mom shot on a research trip. On the couch are pillows with Shakespeare quotes embroidered on them (Gram, who tolerated Mom’s nuttiness but didn’t really get it, made them before she died), and in one corner we have a suit of armor.

Yes, a real one.

Dad bought it at an auction at a British castle and shipped it home in pieces. It weighs a ton, and they’ve never let me or Dezzie try it on, even though it’d be too small for anyone else to wear. Go figure—it’s the only cool thing we own. I think they’re afraid that we won’t be able to get out.

Dad’s office is a mess. There are books and papers everywhere, as well as fifteen years worth of lost lecture notes. The only thing that he keeps neat is his Globe Theatre collection. He started building them a couple of summers ago, and he makes them out of different materials. I asked him why he did it—they all look the same, after all—and he said it was because he enjoyed the feeling of re-creating something so special over and over again. Sometimes I wonder why not try designing something new that’s special, but he likes doing it, so it’s not really any of my business.

Ty and I cleared off space on the large coffee table. Before I was born, Dad built it as an anniversary gift for my mom. It’s made of really heavy wood, and he put copies of Elizabethan England-era maps all over the top of it, then covered them with about eight inches of varnish, so nothing can stain them and the table will never get wrecked. It looks kind of cool, actually.

Hoping to be spared several dinnertime lectures of information and “helpful hints,” I hadn’t told my dad about the Globe project in advance, so Ty had downloaded Build a Globe Theatre plans from the Internet. We spent the first few minutes trying to figure out how to follow the directions.

Ty laid a basic foundation, and then the basement door opened. Dad came downstairs, wearing the big goofy grin that he only gets when we pull into the Ren Faire parking lot. And his “Shakespeare hates your emo poems” T-shirt. It’s his favorite.

“I heard that someone down here is doing some pretty exciting work,” he said.

“Hi, Mr. Kennedy,” Ty said as Dad came around the corner into the room.

“Tyler,” my dad responded, nodding. His eyes were on the materials scattered across the coffee table and Ty’s crooked foundation. “I thought maybe I could give the two of you a hand.” He rubbed his hands together. By the look of him, we wouldn’t be doing any of our own work that afternoon—not that I was complaining.

The basement door opened again.

“Roger, may I speak with you for a moment?” Mom called.

Dad left and we heard him clomp up the stairs. The basement door closed.

“What are you going to do about it?” Ty said, picking up our conversation from the day before.

“About what?” Maybe if I pretended like I didn’t know what he meant, he’d stop talking about it.

Ty glared at me from under his bangs. “English. You can’t hide from it forever.”

“I’ll just read the part,” I said, irritated. “I’ll pretend—follow along in the book with my finger and talk slow if I have to. It’s no big deal.”

“If that’s what you need to think, that’s fine by me. But you could just read the way you did the other day and see what happens.”

Before I could ask him what he meant by
that
, the door opened for the third time. Dad came downstairs with the spark missing from his eye, less exuberant than before. Behind him were Ely and Judith, each carrying a shopping bag of what I guessed were more supplies.

“Hey,” I said. They sat down with Ty and me while my dad hovered around the coffee table, waiting for everyone to get comfortable.

“How about I show you four some other versions of the Globe?” he said.

Something was not right.

“Aren’t you going to help us with ours?” He was staring at the supplies with the same intensity that a starving person looks at Thanksgiving dinner.

“I think it’s best if you do this yourself,” he said, and sighed. Mom must have told him to back off, afraid that he’d take over our assignment. She was probably right, but still.

We cleared off the coffee table according to his directions, and he disappeared into his office. Shuffling, banging, and a muffled “raven’s feathers!” curse came through the wall. Judith giggled behind a cupped hand. Ty nudged her.

“Think that’s funny? You should hear what he says when he’s
really
mad,” he whispered. That sent Judith into more giggles. I stuck my tongue out at both of them.

“It is a little messy in here,” Dad called. “No need to be alarmed.”

He emerged carrying a Globe on a piece of heavy cardboard.