I put my hands on his shoulders and said, “I love you because you think of doing things like this and you try to make me happy.” I kissed him and continued, “Hey, you’re just some guy who happens to live in my building, right?”
He laughed appreciatively and added, “But having this all to ourselves is pretty nice.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding, “pretty nice.”
There was a sudden
click-clack
, and when I turned I saw Gertrude rushing toward us, silk scarf flapping, giant sunglasses perched on top of her head. “Darlings!” she shouted, opening her arms wide.
“Mother?” Hamlet asked, befuddled.
“You’re kidding,” I muttered.
“I knew it was your last day and I thought, ‘Well, it’s been ages since I’ve been to Florence,’ and I simply
had
to see what the fuss was all about with this gallery.” She turned around once and said in faux astonishment, “Fabulous.” Then she took Hamlet by one arm and me by the other and said, “I simply must take you both to lunch now. I heard about a divine little place for pasta.”
“Pasta? Imagine,” he said slowly. “That’s… um, it’s really late for lunch.”
“Dinner then. Shall we?” she asked, and drew us toward the entrance.
I stopped walking, and my pulling against her nearly made her trip. “Gertrude, we’re not ready to leave.”
She sniffed, her face impassive but for the fire in her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“What she’s saying is—” began Hamlet.
“I was pretty clear, Hamlet.” My head was light from defying her. It wasn’t my habit, but I was sick of her trying to come between me and Hamlet, which she had been doing since she realized we were back together. “We’re not ready to go.”
“
You
might not be, but what about my son? He hates art.” She turned to him and, in her sweetest voice, said, “Keep me company, Hamlet. You know I despise eating alone.”
He worked his arm out of her grip. “Ophelia wants to stay. We’ll catch you back home. Tomorrow.”
Her lips curled around her teeth as she said, “Fine,” and clacked out stiffly.
My hands were shaking from the confrontation, and Hamlet squeezed them. Kissing my cheek softly, he whispered, “She’ll get over it. Let’s go find a Donatella.”
“Donatell-
o
,” I corrected.
He winked at me, and I realized he was teasing. For a guy who professed to not care about art, he knew quite a lot about it.
Barnardo:
Gertrude showed up and ruined your little getaway.
Ophelia:
Yes, she did.
Barnardo:
Is that when you tried to come up with a way to get rid of her?
Ophelia:
I didn’t try to—She was intrusive my entire life.
Francisco:
So you must have hated her.
Ophelia:
No. It was just how it was. To be with Hamlet was to be with Gertrude.
Francisco:
How romantic.
Ophelia:
Not like that. Jesus.
“How did you feel being left behind when Hamlet went to college?”
“Honestly, I hated it.”
Zara laughs. “I can imagine the rumors of other girls didn’t make it any easier.”
“No, it certainly didn’t.” Ophelia’s eyes flick to the screen behind her, and she relaxes when no photo appears.
Zara asks, “You and Hamlet began dating when you were almost sixteen, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a long time.” Two young girls in the audience nod at each other, as does Ophelia. “What attracted you to him?”
“He was funny and fun and smart.”
“Sexy, too, our viewers would agree.”
Ophelia lowers her head but doesn’t say anything.
Zara adds, “As would the folks at
Courtier Magazine,
who named him Sexiest Bachelor of the Year.”
The audience sighs as Zara holds up the cover.
Zara crosses her legs and leans back. “You and Hamlet broke up a few times.”
Ophelia nods.
“Yet you kept getting back together. Why?”
“We made each other happy… most of the time.”
Zara raises her eyebrows and asks, “And the rest of the time?”
“It was complicated.” Ophelia turns quickly and looks over her shoulder. “You’re not going to get Dr. Dave out here to analyze the relationship, are you?”
Zara laughs. “No, but that’s a great idea. Would you come back?”
“Uh… we’ll see.”
After Hamlet finished packing for his sophomore year at Wittenberg College, we sat in the conservatory looking at pictures from our vacation on his camera. I was just recalling my irritation at Gertrude’s intrusion when Hamlet made the mistake of trying to get me excited about my last year of high school.
“It’s gonna fly by. Senior year’s awesome.”
To me, senior year had become like a vacation you’re looking forward to, but when you finally get there, you find out the hotel’s pool is closed and the sights looked better in the brochures. The thing is, I had done most of the great stuff when Hamlet was graduating and, more than anything, I just felt ready to move on.
“Even if it’s fun and whatever, you know my dad says I can only go to Denmark State after I graduate.”
“So you’ll go there. They’ve got classes, books, parties.”
“It’s a commuter college. Nothing like Wittenberg. Your school is gorgeous. Everyone’s relaxed, hanging out on the quad. And you can practically smell the money.”
“And you can’t here?” he asked, his arm sweeping toward the elaborate fountain at the far end of the courtyard. He knew I loved it in that room. The exotic flowers’ perfume filled the air, and enormous leaves drooped low across the paths, making it one of the only private public spaces in the castle.
I shook my head, completely annoyed beyond what was called for. The thought of another year in the castle with Gertrude watching my every move, another year without Hamlet, another year of surveillance cameras and bodyguards, was getting under my skin. “This isn’t mine.”
“And Wittenberg’s not mine.”
“You know what I mean,” I said, getting up angrily to go. All I could think was that everything I could see was actually his mother’s. I imagined she would have been hovering at that moment if not for a ladies’ luncheon that she was obliged to attend.
“Phee, come on,” he called after me. I kept walking, so he gave chase. “I know it’s not the same. It’s a joke.”
I spun around, whacking at a large leaf that dared to hang near my head. “It’s not funny to me. Denmark State sucks.”
“So don’t go there.”
“The only place I want to go is Wittenberg, and my father won’t let me.”
“Wittenberg’s a great school. What’s Polonius’s problem?”
“Duh… you’re there, you idiot. My father wants to keep us apart. It’s what he’s always wanted.”
“And with good cause,” he said, stepping forward and slipping his hand under my shirt.
“Jesus, Hamlet,” I said, pushing it away. “Not here.” I looked at the glass conservatory door, hoping no security guard was passing by.
“You’re so paranoid,” he whispered in my ear.
A chill ran through my body as he kissed my neck. “Not without reason.” He smiled that deadly smile and I whispered, “Let’s at least go downstairs,” and grabbed him by his T-shirt.
As we walked out into the hallway, he asked, “Why do you listen to Polonius? If you want to come to Wittenberg, come to Wittenberg.”
“You know that’s impossible. My father would cut me off.”
“So what?”
“How would I pay for Wittenberg without money?” I asked, punching the elevator button so hard, I broke a nail.
“I’ll pay.”
I scoffed. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not?”
“Whose boyfriend pays for her to go to college?”
“Who else is dating a prince?” he asked.
My mouth twisted into a smile rather against my will. “Good point, but no. It’d be too weird.”
Hamlet shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
The elevator doors opened on Claudius and the king. Though they were silent when the doors opened, it was clear they had been arguing, as they were both slightly red-faced and the king’s hands were clenched awkwardly. “Father!” Hamlet exclaimed, taking his hand off my back.
“Are you two coming in?” Claudius asked.
“No, we’ll wait,” said Hamlet, looking from one man to the other.
“Don’t be absurd,” the king said, so we hastened in. “What floor?”
“Mine,” I said.
Looking over the top of his glasses, the king asked, “Hamlet, will you be up this evening? I want to spend some time with you before you go.” The doors opened, and he smiled warmly at Hamlet.
Hamlet smiled back. “Yeah, sure, Pop.”
We walked out together, and the door slipped shut behind us. “That was weird,” I said, heading to my room.
“What?”
“Your uncle and your dad.”
“They’ve been really uptight lately. I asked about it, but my mother just said ‘business.’ She’s been weird, too, but whatever. I’m gone tomorrow, so…” Hamlet flopped onto my bed. “Speaking of classes, what are you taking?”
“Oh, um, swimming, art history, English with Ms. Wallace—”
“She’s a nut.”
“Yeah, but she loves poetry, so that’ll be cool. Uh, still-life painting, and Math for Poets.”
“Math for Poets?”
“Code for idiots. Or an easy A.” I sat on my floor, grabbed a squishy pillow, and started mushing it around.
“No science?”
“You know it’s not required for seniors.”
“Sounds challenging.”
“Screw it. I figure going to that lame college means I’m not meant to do much with my life, so I won’t bother trying.”
“Taking those classes, you won’t need to.”
I’m going to interrupt and be honest here: The thing with Denmark State was my fault. I remember the fateful day early in the summer when my father had stood waiting for me with a large envelope in his hands.
“This arrived today,” he had said. “It’s a letter of invitation to start Wittenberg a year from now.”
“Oh my God!” I had shrieked, grabbing the letter—handwritten by the dean and signed by the provost—and reading the delicious words about how thrilled they were to offer me a place in their future freshman class.
My father had pulled the papers down, so I could see his angry eyes. “You aren’t applying there. Why are you getting letters from them?”
“Actually, I did. Talk to them, I mean. I’ve been recruited.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. I guess they know I’m a straight-A student in all advanced courses.”
“And Hamlet’s girlfriend. It’ll look good for them in the papers.”
“That’s not the only reason, Dad.”
He had grabbed the letter and envelope out of my hands and thrown them on the counter. “Well, you’re not going.”
I had crossed the room and started drying the spilled orange juice that was seeping into the middle of the page. “I have to, Dad,” I said, preparing myself to unleash the secret I’d kept for months. “I don’t plan on applying anywhere else.”
“Why would you do such a foolish thing?”
“It’s not foolish. It’s an incredible—”
“You can go anywhere but Wittenberg.”
I stood for a second, trying to process what he was saying, and then my anger began to pop. “You never care about what I want.”
“Not when what you want is shortsighted and irresponsible. I’m not letting you go to school with him.”
“This isn’t about Hamlet.”
My father had scowled at the half truth. “Then you’ll go to State,” he had said, before tucking his reading glasses in his pocket and disappearing into his study.
I felt like I had no choice. Part of me knew I could apply to other schools, but I hadn’t researched any others and was so pissed about the whole thing that I didn’t plan to. And, more important, I figured if I stayed in Elsinore, I could at least see Hamlet whenever he came home.
But now, ready to begin my senior year with a loser schedule that my father didn’t even know about—one that would take me out of the running for any competitive colleges if I changed my mind about going—I was freaked out but too stubborn to do anything about it. And having Hamlet disapprove didn’t make it easier.
I punched the mushy pillow hard. “I don’t see the point of even going to college. I don’t know what I want to major in or what I want to be someday.”
“What do you think you
might
want to be?”
“I don’t know.” I rolled up a magazine and started tapping at my head with it. He took the magazine away and rubbed my shoulders. I relaxed under his touch. Quietly, I admitted, “I just want to be with you.”
“You must want more than that. That’s pathetic.”
I pulled away. “Thanks. I thought you’d think it was a compliment.”
“It kind of is but, Jesus, I’m not that great. Why not pursue art or—”
“Whatever.” I grabbed back the magazine and started flipping through it.
“Phee,” he said. “Ophelia, come on.”
I didn’t look up but offered, “Why don’t you go hang out with your mommy? Or maybe both of us are simply too pathetic to be graced with your presence these days.”
“I can’t believe this is how you want to spend your last day with me.”
He grabbed his camera and walked down my hall to the elevator. I took a deep breath and chased after him. He didn’t turn around even when I was right behind him.
In my most conciliatory tone, I asked, “Hey, let’s just go out, okay? Get you back in time to hang with your dad?”
He paused a moment, then stretched his hand out behind him. I took it and he pulled me around in front of him.