Gertrude smoothed her skirt. “Security has it locked away. It’s for the best.”
I gritted my teeth. “Why should I believe you?”
“Do you have a birthmark on your left hip?” Claudius asked, his eyes twinkling.
I hesitated and said yes.
“And you like being kissed by Hamlet on the neck?” he pressed.
My father leaped out of his seat. “Enough!” He turned to me. “Ophelia, you will do this or, so help me, I will never speak to you again.”
I couldn’t lose my dad. Not over Hamlet. I would do what they wanted, even though I knew I would never forgive myself for it.
Quietly I said, “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“And one more thing,” Claudius said, his smirk clear to see if anyone else had been looking at him. “Hamlet is going to a charity function tomorrow morning, and you will ride with him. During that drive, you’d best get some information. And since we don’t trust that you will tell us the truth about what Hamlet might say, your father and I will be in the car with you. Hidden in front, of course.”
I sucked in my breath and looked over my shoulder. My dad was sitting with his back to me, his head in his hands. My own head dropped. “Fine,” I said, trying not to think of how I was joining the long line of deceivers waiting to bring Hamlet down. Hamlet knew me better than I knew myself, and he had been right not to trust in me. Once again, I regretted confiding in my father. And I regretted that I had ever been brought to live at the castle.
I had planned on going home but hit the button for the basement level instead. I walked out of the elevator following the trail of fluorescent lights to an anonymous, freshly painted white door and knocked. It swung open quickly, revealing three walls of small television screens all showing different parts of the castle. I gasped when I spotted a black-and-white image of my father sitting in his office.
“What the—Ophelia!” exclaimed the short blond security officer who had reached behind his swivel chair to open the door. He leaped up and moved to block my view of the TV screens in the room.
A guard with a dark beard and angry eyes rose from his chair and flicked a switch, turning all of the TVs off. “How did you find this room?”
“I’ve lived in the castle my whole life. Security has always been here.”
“What do you want?” growled the dark-haired one.
“I—”
“Get out,” he barked.
“When we were kids, the guards always let us—”
“Well, you’re not a child anymore.”
“No kidding,” said the blond guard, his blue eyes sparkling.
I wanted to twist the smirk off his face but was so shamed by the insinuation in his voice that all I could do was look at my feet. What had he seen? Where the hell were those cameras?
The dark-haired guy stepped closer. “The rules are different now. You are never to come here again.”
His tone was definite to the point of being a threat, so I backed away. He slammed the door, and I heard it lock.
“Damn it,” I muttered as I headed back down the hall. A camera was pointed right at the elevator, so I turned and headed for the stairwell.
As I reached for the door, Marcellus opened it and we both jumped in surprise.
“Ophelia, what are you doing here?”
“Nothing. I’m leaving.” I squeezed past him and started up the stairs, unsure of what those men knew, but wanting to run away from their leers.
“Hey, are you all right?”
I hesitated. Marcellus was nice, but he wasn’t a friend. Until recently, we had never exchanged more than a few words. His job was to be invisible to us, a menace to others, and a pair of watchful eyes. I had only seen him laugh twice, both about some comment Hamlet made directly to him. At all other times, Marcellus was professional, impenetrable. He could be trusted with our lives, but I didn’t know if he could be trusted with my secrets.
When I offered no reply, he asked, “Can I help?”
I hesitated again. “I came… I wanted to know about the cameras.”
“What about them?”
“Where they are. What they see.”
This time, it was Marcellus who filled the stairwell with silence. His eyes glanced into the corner and I saw a little red light. Another camera. A small one. So small you wouldn’t have seen it if you weren’t looking for it. He turned his back to it and lowered his voice. “I can’t tell you that.” Then he added, even softer, “But I can tell you there are more than you think.”
My gaze met his. I chewed on my lips and absently twisted one leg around the other. Gripping the railing, I tried to remember what I had seen in that brief moment in the security room. Elevators, the rooftop, offices. What else? The lobby, the old castle’s staircase. It was too quick. Had I seen any of the residences? I couldn’t remember.
“What specifically are you asking about?” he asked.
My face flushed. “I was just wondering what they’ve seen… of me and, uh…” I wanted to fold into myself rather than finish the sentence. “Hamlet.”
Marcellus’s eyes widened in understanding, and he looked away. Did it mean he had seen it and was embarrassed to tell me? Or was he embarrassed by my asking? By the time he spoke, his face had settled into professional neutrality.
“I’m not aware of anything that would… cause you special concern. But since Hamlet is my charge, I can ask around.”
“They’ll know I’m the one who wants to know,” I answered.
“Let me handle the others. I’ve been here longer than most. Though you wouldn’t know it, since the king—” He stopped himself. “I’ll get back to you.”
I nodded and pinched my eyes shut again at the thought of my dad seeing anything that I did with Hamlet.
Marcellus leaned in close and whispered, “Meantime, Ophelia, watch your step ’round here. I can’t say I understand anyone’s motivations anymore.”
If he were a different man, he might have patted my shoulder or cheek. But he stood rod-straight and strode back into the hall toward the security room.
The next morning, when Hamlet saw me sitting in the limo, he started to walk away.
“Please come in,” I called after him.
He hesitated.
“Just let me ride with you, okay?” I asked, trying to sound calm. “We need to talk.”
His jaw was clenched and his face was flushed, but he got in anyway. Dark purple circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes, and his hair was completely askew. His clothes were even more wrinkled than the day we’d spoken outside the theater, and I had to wonder again where he was living. Somewhere in the castle, I assumed, but not, perhaps, in his room. But why had he stopped taking care of himself completely? Gone was the effortlessly hot guy I’d known forever, replaced by someone who seemed to find living itself a trial.
My heart was pounding. I wanted to reach up and turn off the intercom, to grab Hamlet and kiss him despite all that had happened. But the thought of the video and of being kicked out of my home kept me in my place, literally and figuratively. The limo began to move. I thought of the crowded seat up front and prayed it would be a short, painless, fruitless drive that would be enough to get those intrusive men off my back.
“You getting any sleep?” I asked, barely above a whisper.
He shrugged.
“Are you eating?”
“A little.”
I bit my lip. “I’m worr—”
“No you’re not. And if you wanted to check up on me, you could have just asked Marcellus,” he snapped. “What do you really want, Ophelia?”
I reached deep inside myself for the strength to tell a string of lies. “Hamlet, I wanted to give you back some of your things. Some of the gifts you…” I opened my backpack and pulled out a T-shirt from a band we’d seen play and some CDs he’d burned for me, all of which I was finding especially hard to offer over at that moment. Pretending to not want those treasures, knowing my father and Claudius were on the other side of the partition listening to my every word, my stomach ached.
“I never gave you those,” he said, looking with irritation out the window.
This surprised me more than anything else he could have said. Did he know someone was listening? Was he just being contrary? Was he accusing me of cheating? I tried not to show my shock, and replied, “You know you did. They were heartfelt and I loved them when you gave them to me.” I thought of his face as he had walked away from me outside the theater and tried to use that image to help me continue with what I was supposed to say. “But now… since we’re not together, I don’t want them. I can’t even look at them anymore.” He didn’t move to take them, so I tossed the pile onto the seat next to him.
We sat in silence for a few moments. I was determined to say nothing more. I had done what I had promised to do.
Suddenly he asked, “Are you honest?”
I was confused. Was he asking about my reasons for returning the stuff? Was he asking about my faithfulness? Did he know our conversation was being overheard? After a pause that I felt sure would give away my guilt, I clasped my hands, willing them to stop shaking, and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Have you ever been honest with me?”
“I’ve always been honest,” I answered, trying not to sound as guilty as I felt.
He studied me for a moment, his face looking as if he were trying to puzzle out the meaning of one of the abstract paintings he found so laughable. “It’s a shame you’re so beautiful. It’s easy to hide one’s true self with beauty, don’t you think? No one ever looks past the outside to see the filth that truly lies inside.”
I took a moment to compose myself before I spoke, letting his word
filth
hang in the air. He had to know someone was listening. Or if he did not, he truly hated me. Never, in all the times we had broken up, was he anything but jovial and reassuring. He had never insulted me. It was always an attempt “to be practical,” which was a thinly veiled excuse to play the field. But this… was new, and it hurt. “I don’t know why you’re saying this.”
“You’re suggesting that I loved you once,” he said.
I whispered, “You made me believe it.”
“You shouldn’t have. I never loved you.”
I looked for signs of a laugh that would follow this ridiculous statement, a laugh that would be used to placate me. But no laugh came. “Wow. Then I… am a fool,” I said.
His face was blank. How could he make such a claim so calmly? He was the one who freaked out when I told him we shouldn’t talk for a while. He was the one who reached for me each time I came near. He was the one who whispered words of love and sent the kind of messages only someone with feelings, real feelings, for another person could write. Or was I wrong? All the times I tried to protect myself. All the times I tried to listen to Laertes (if not my father) and keep Hamlet at a distance… Each time Hamlet begged me to be his, to surrender to this love. I did. My brother asked it best: “R u stupid?” burned in my mind. Maybe I was.
I turned to the partition behind me, hoping someone would understand that this was enough. I had been humiliated and the game was over. But there was no movement, so I took a moment to wipe away my tears and see my own anguished expression in the smoky reflection.
He got onto his knees, leaned close to my face, and whispered, “Men are pigs. Don’t believe any of us.”
Then he kissed me. I was angry and confused, unsure of whether to give in or to push him away. Every moment since he’d opened the door had been so wrong, and kissing Hamlet always felt right. But this was different. If a kiss could be revenge, this was it. Its aggression deepened my fear.
And yet, part of me thought that his final words might be the key. Maybe this was an act, and the kiss was to let me know he knew others were watching. I thought that maybe if I kissed him back, he might know I understood. Or if he was serious, my kiss might make him remember that we loved each other and remind him that I was not the enemy.
Wanting to erase all of the trickery I had committed in luring him into the conversation in the first place, I kissed him back. I let him pull me down onto the seat. But then I remembered we weren’t alone, and I turned my head toward the partition. I tried to push away, panic-stricken by the thought of my father witnessing any of what we were doing.
Hamlet pulled back and asked, “Where’s your father?”
Involuntarily, my gaze went to the control panel above our heads. He saw me look at it and, seeing the red Speak button lit, reached for the adjacent Open Partition button, but the window separating us from the front seat did not budge. He pushed the button harder, and when the window still didn’t move, he stared at me.
“Why is this locked?” He slapped at the thin plate of plastic with his palm, calling, “Lower this right now!” When nothing happened, he turned to me. “Who’s up there?”
I opened my mouth but could not admit to my crime.
He reached into his pocket and I thought he might be grabbing for his gun. My hands flew to cover my head, and a strangled cry escaped my throat. But if he was going to shoot, he changed his mind and instead began pounding the black partition wildly, his face reddening.
“Enough!” I yelled, both to Hamlet and to my father, who I hoped could still hear.
There was a
click
and a
whir
as the partition began to lower, revealing a full front seat. Hamlet’s look wasn’t even angry at first, just blank. Then the scale of my betrayal sank in, and he reached for the door handle. He opened the door and looked as if he were going to jump out while the car was charging down the street. My father yelled, and the driver slammed on the brakes, throwing us all forward. Hamlet fell against my seat. He scrambled up and grabbed at me. Holding me down, he snarled, “You two-faced bitch!” His weight pressed down, pushing the air out of my lungs. His face was twisted with fury, and in his eyes was more pain than I thought could be expressed in a look.
My father, who had been in the middle seat, was trying to grab Hamlet through the now-open partition while Claudius jumped out of the car and opened the door. Hamlet got off me, pushed Claudius out of the way, and managed to close and lock the doors. Hamlet took my father by the shoulders and shoved him so hard that his back hit the dashboard. Then Hamlet raised and locked the partition.