Falling for Hamlet (32 page)

He went into Laertes’s bathroom, and I went into mine. One look in the mirror almost sent me running. My face was streaked with mascara. I figured I had been crying, which saddened me. My hair was pointing in all kinds of wild directions, and my pajama pants and black, holey T-shirt were crumpled and hanging limply.

I felt filthy and in serious need of a shower, and once I got in, I was reluctant to come out. I leaned against the cool tiles, rubbing at the drawing on my arm, trying to let go of all thoughts, until Horatio knocked on the door to see if I was all right. I lied and said yes, and heard him pad down the hall. I wrapped myself in the same towel I had been using since my imprisonment had begun and noticed a distinct smell of mildew. At least doing laundry would give me purpose. Then I thought about that prospect, about how ridiculous it was that doing laundry promised to be the only excitement in my day. Pitiful. Infuriating.

My mother’s words from our final conversation popped into my head, words that I had thought of countless times since her death. “Let me assure you that you will sacrifice a lot to be with him. If it’s worth it, make the sacrifice. If it stops being worth it, let go.” Standing in the bathroom, achy and depressed, her words stung. She never could have known how much my being with Hamlet, or even her husband taking a job at the castle, would cost everyone. It had stopped being worth it some time ago; only I was trapped.

The unbearable nature of my unspecified imprisonment came rushing to the surface. I thought about all that had transpired in the past few weeks, about how my life, once full of fun and freedom, had been reduced to thankfulness at being allowed out for coffee. Bile rose into my throat. Gertrude and her deceit. Claudius and his plotting. Hamlet and his revenge. How did their madness become my nightmare? It couldn’t continue. One way or another, I would make a change. Somehow I had to get out.

I stewed about it as I dried off. What could I do? I could obediently stay in my apartment, waiting and hoping that Claudius would stay away and that Gertrude would have a change of heart. I could beg again to be released. I could find a way to contact Hamlet and see if he could convince his mother. I could run. But how? How? I felt dizzy, and my head pounded, so I leaned against the sink. I was in no condition to make a decision.

I put on a pink cheerful Mr. Bubble T-shirt, so different from how I was actually feeling; I thought a change on the outside might make me feel different on the inside. It wouldn’t take away my hangover, nor would it bring my father back to life, but it was the best I could do.

I walked down the hall and found Horatio in the sitting room. Since the guard was in his place by the elevator, I waved Horatio back to my room and closed the door behind us. I considered discussing an escape but changed my mind. Horatio looked tired, and I felt awful. I stuck with an easier topic.

“So what happened after I, you know, drew flowers?” I laughed at myself, only half-embarrassed because I didn’t remember it and, therefore, couldn’t own the humiliation completely.

“Your brother freaked out.”

“My brother?”

“They called him.”

“Does he know about my father?”

“That he’s dead, yes. Not the rest.” Horatio grimaced and my stomach turned at the thought of my father’s corpse hidden somewhere in the castle.

Horatio added, “And he saw you acting, you know… crazy.”

“What did he say?”

“He was horrified. Really worried about you.” He lowered his eyes. “Watching him watch you was the worst part of last night.”

I felt bad for what I’d put them both through and wished to God I could remember what I’d done.

“He wants to come back.”

“He’s coming home?” I asked, excitement rushing past my despair. “Then I can tell him what they’ve been doing to me.”

“They’re not letting him back yet.”

I froze. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” he said. “He begged them to let him return, but they’re trying to stall him.”

“Oh God. Can you send him a message?”

“And tell him what? They’ll be watching me. I can’t.”

We sat miserably for a moment, and I realized how frustrated Hamlet must have been every time I told him I couldn’t do something. When you’re not the one receiving the royal decrees and instructions to be secretive, it’s a lot easier to judge and feel like the other person has options he or she is too weak to take.

“Laertes wants to kill Hamlet,” he said.

“Join the club,” I mumbled.

“No, Ophelia, he looked like… like he might be serious.”

“My brother? Come on.” I shook my head.

“He’d better not find Hamlet. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Find him?”

“Hamlet texted me that he was back from London sooner than expected and that I had to meet him secretly.”

Horatio’s next statement only added to my panic. “And Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.”

I touched my fingers to my lips. “What happened to them?”

“Claudius sent Rosencrantz and Guildenstern with Hamlet, saying it was for his protection, but Hamlet knew it was a lie. He stole Rosencrantz’s phone and found a text Claudius sent describing a rendezvous with some paramilitary guys Claudius knows over there. The guys were to kill one kid in a Wittenberg College sweatshirt—no questions asked. Hamlet forwarded the text as if Claudius were making changes to the plan. It would be two kids—the ones
not
wearing the sweatshirt. When they all met up, the paramilitary guys shot Rosencrantz and Guildenstern on the spot.”

Two college guys were dead. My dad was dead. My mom was dead. Hamlet’s dad was dead. Claudius wanted Hamlet dead. Laertes wanted Hamlet dead.

Was I next?

I closed my eyes tightly, completely panicked. What I had believed were Hamlet’s crazy ramblings had actually come to pass. Claudius was even more dangerous than I had imagined.

Despite my mistrust and dislike for Claudius, I never thought he would do such a thing. And why? To maintain power? To hide his secrets? To keep from being murdered? That Claudius would try to kill his own nephew, his wife’s son, terrified me.

Did Gertrude know? To the public, she was the beautiful symbol of the nation. Cool. Cultured. Smiling. Fashionable. Maternal. What if they knew what she was willing to do to protect her son? To protect her husband? How far would she go? She seemed perfectly willing to hide me indefinitely, so would disposing of me prove just as simple? Christ, if Hamlet wasn’t safe, neither was I. My body went numb.

Horatio checked his phone. “I just… Ophelia, I don’t know how this is all going to play out.” He rubbed his eyes and checked his phone again.

I knew that what I was about to ask was one more burden for him, perhaps one burden too many, but I couldn’t let that stop me. This was it. I couldn’t bear to be in my glass prison for another moment. I couldn’t wait for Gertrude and Claudius to turn on me. The action had to be mine.

“Horatio, I have to disappear.”

“What are you talking about?” He looked like I had announced an alien abduction.

“Help me go into hiding.”

Horatio put up his hands to stop me, then went to the door to make sure no one was listening. Even though no one was there, he lowered his voice. “I don’t think we can do it.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll be watching you more carefully now. I would have to get you permission to leave the castle, which I can’t imagine they’d allow after yesterday’s display, and then I would have to get some guard who can keep a secret.”

“Marcellus!”

“I don’t know,” he replied, shaking his head. He paced the room as if chasing the answer. “You’d have to tell him why, and if he says no, we’re screwed.”

“I’m willing to try.” I was determined. If I had to do it without Horatio’s help, I would. If I had to hit that damned guard by the elevator with my brother’s chess-club trophy, I would. I didn’t care. I wasn’t staying.

Horatio and I talked it out all afternoon and finally came up with a plan we thought might work.

Horatio called for Marcellus. When he arrived, Horatio asked if the guard at the elevator could leave, which he did. Marcellus was studying me from the moment he walked in. “You’re looking pretty together there, Ophelia. What was that all about yesterday?” he asked, his head cocked.

“She wasn’t feeling well,” Horatio said.

Marcellus stared at Horatio, then at me. Folding his arms across his uniform, he asked, “What can I do for you two?”

I told him, and while I spoke he did not move except to breathe. His eye twitched involuntarily every so often, but he kept his breath regular. I was impressed by how unreadable he was, but I was simultaneously afraid that his next move would be to speak into the microphone perched on his shoulder and turn us in. He didn’t.

“Ophelia, I gotta tell you I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to ask for help.” He lowered himself slowly onto the overstuffed chair and said, “I’ve been watching how they’ve all been treating you, and it’s a damned disgrace.” He looked at Horatio, who nodded. “I’ve been starting to wonder how long you’ll be safe.”

“What does that mean?” Horatio asked, his voice rising.

“I get the feeling they’re making plans to get rid of Ophelia.”

Horatio grabbed my leg, and I sat frozen.

“That said,” Marcellus continued, jangling keys on his overcrowded ring, “I’m not sure we can get this job done.”

Tears sprang into my eyes, and I felt my face crinkling up, so much so that I could no longer see Marcellus or anything in the room.

He reached over and patted my leg. “I didn’t say we won’t try. I just don’t know if it’ll work.”

I clutched his arm and said, “I want to get out of here.”

Barnardo:
Marcellus and Horatio helped you disappear.

Ophelia:
Yes.

Barnardo:
Out of the goodness of their hearts, they put their futures and safety at risk?

Ophelia:
Yes.

Barnardo:
I don’t believe it.

Ophelia:
Fine. It won’t change what happened.

Francisco:
What did you offer Marcellus to help get you out?

Ophelia:
Nothing. I just asked.

Barnardo:
Oh, come on. You must have given him something.

Ophelia:
You’re disgusting.

Francisco:
Then why would he put himself in jeopardy to help you?

Ophelia:
Ask him yourself.

Barnardo:
We did.

Francisco:
He’s under arrest.

Ophelia:
What?

Francisco:
Aiding a fugitive.

Ophelia:
I wasn’t a fugitive.

Francisco:
Then for helping to create a situation that cost the kingdom an extraordinary amount of time and money. Do you have any idea how many officers were pressed into duty to look for you?

Ophelia:
Where was their help when I was locked up?

Barnardo:
That’s not the point.

Ophelia:
It is to me!

22

In her lowest, most commanding voice, Zara asks, “Why did Horatio help you escape?”

“He’s my friend.”

Zara leans in, her mouth slithering into a coy smile. “You had other friends, but you turned to Horatio. Is that all he is to you?”

Ophelia flushes. “Yes.”

Zara takes her time sipping her water. “Why is that? Why nothing more?”

Ophelia shrugs. “Just one of those things. We never felt that way about each other. And if we had, well, it sure would have complicated things.”

“Did your relationship with Hamlet ever complicate your friendship with Horatio?”

Ophelia puffs out a mouthful of air. “Well, it got real complicated for him in the end.”

The next day, our plan was rolling. Marcellus went to speak to Gertrude and Claudius, and they agreed to let me go out for a while. Gertrude asked if I was still distressed, and when Marcellus said I was, she told Claudius that it would be good for the public to see me that way, that it would help them “explain things when the time came.” I shuddered to think what story they were planning.

Before leaving to secure a car, Marcellus said to me, “Once we’re out, you should dye your hair.”

My hand jumped to my head. I knew he was right, but I loved my hair. I was never one of those girls who dyed their hair as the mood struck them.

“And you should cut it,” he added.

I entwined my fingers protectively around the long strands. I considered all I had given up and all that had been taken from me during the past weeks. The hair seemed like one sacrifice too many. And yet I knew it was the best option. I had seen Hamlet try to avoid notice, and a hat practically screamed “Look at me.”

“We’ll have to do it once we leave, though. They have to see you go.”

An hour later, Horatio and I stood marveling at my reflection in a gas station mirror. “Wow, that’s dark,” he said.

“And short.”

“Not that short,” he reassured me.

I pulled at the uneven hair I had begun to chop in the back. It was below my ears but still seemed odd.