Claudius signaled, and the referee took his cue to place the ball. But before he could start the game, Hamlet took out his mouthpiece and pulled off his helmet. Laertes tightened his grip on his stick.
Hamlet began to speak to Laertes, and the ref’s microphone picked up what he said, broadcasting it to everyone on and off the field. “I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done to your family.” Laertes looked down, but Hamlet continued with urgency. “The past months have been insane. I’ve been… not myself.”
Laertes said nothing but turned the lacrosse stick over in his hands. I wondered if he was going to whack Hamlet with it.
I couldn’t believe Hamlet was saying all of this in public, and I wondered why he was doing it. It was possible that they hadn’t had a chance to talk, and that Hamlet really wanted to apologize to Laertes. Otherwise he was playing to the crowd. I chewed on my lip, suspicious.
Even though the ref asked if they were ready to play, Hamlet went on. “You have to know that I would never have done any of these things if I could have helped it. I never meant to hurt you. It’s… it’s like I shot over my house and accidentally hit my brother.”
“Shut up, Hamlet,” I heard Horatio whisper.
Laertes grumbled, “Yeah… okay.”
“How can you accept an apology?” I asked the screen, forgetting that Horatio could hear me.
“
Shh
,” warned Horatio.
“Then let’s go,” said Hamlet, his spirits buoyed as if he had not recognized the begrudging way Laertes had accepted the apology.
Hamlet put his mouth guard back in. The ref called, “Down.” Hamlet and Laertes crouched, their hands on the ground. The ref blew the whistle, and Laertes moved quickly, pinning Hamlet’s crosse to the grass, then pulled back and flicked the ball to the side. And with that they were off and running.
The ball was shot back and forth between the players. Hamlet, who was a midfielder, was free to run anywhere he wished on the field, while my brother, an attacker, was constrained to the offensive end. That said, every time Hamlet crossed to Laertes’s side, which was often, Laertes was right on top of him.
I saw Laertes pull back his stick and slash Hamlet, hitting him full-force across the stomach. The picture jiggled as Horatio reacted to the hit. It seemed everyone saw the foul except for the ref. Even as Hamlet doubled over, the game was allowed to continue. Hamlet’s team was calling “foul” when Sebastian successfully made a goal. The ref ignored protests that it shouldn’t count.
“Jesus,” Horatio mumbled, and turned, catching Gertrude and Claudius exchanging inscrutable glances.
Horatio panned back to the field. Hamlet and Sebastian were set for their face-off. As they crouched Hamlet looked at his opponent and must have realized who it was because he started to rise. At that moment, the whistle blew and Sebastian did a “laser,” quickly clamping and raking the ball to the side, which might have been too fast to block even if Hamlet hadn’t been too angry or shocked to try.
When Hamlet finally got moving again and was running toward the action, Laertes spread his hands wide on his stick and slammed Hamlet in the back. Hamlet whirled around and shoved Laertes, and the ref called a foul against Hamlet.
Hamlet shouted, “Are you blind? He cross-checked me. His hands were—”
“Illegal check!” another teammate called out. “The ball wasn’t anywhere near—”
“Off the field, Hamlet,” the ref insisted.
“What the hell?” Horatio and I said at the same time.
Hamlet’s teammates looked at one another with outraged confusion.
When Hamlet was behind the sideline, Claudius held up a plastic cup and said, “The king drinks to your success, Hamlet.”
“Here we go,” Horatio said quietly.
“Hamlet won’t—” But I stopped, afraid that someone might hear my voice on Horatio’s end.
Claudius rose grandly and announced to the crowd, though addressing Hamlet, “I offer up a pearl, a pearl more valuable than that which has rested in the crown of four kings. Should you get the next goal, it is yours.”
The crowd
ooh
ed at one another, and Claudius offered a smirk. When Hamlet didn’t respond or move, Claudius dropped the pearl in the cup with a flourish, put the cup back on the table, and appeared to take interest in the game once again.
After a minute, Hamlet was released by the ref and ran back onto the field. He quickly cleared the ball, sending it to a teammate in the attack area. The player was stick-checked, and the ball rolled out of his pocket. Sebastian scooped it and fed it to another teammate, but as Sebastian ran, he crashed into Hamlet, and they both went flying, nearly knocking into people standing on the sidelines, including Horatio. The image shook as Horatio jumped back. Sebastian’s helmet popped off, and Hamlet pulled himself up to his knees. When Hamlet saw who was on the ground, he stopped and hovered a moment. Then he reached down and yanked Sebastian to his feet. Without his helmet on, Sebastian looked more vulnerable, but he was seething himself.
“How long were you waiting for your chance with her, huh?” Hamlet growled, his fingers curled around Sebastian’s jersey.
“How long did you treat her like crap?” Sebastian countered, knocking Hamlet’s hands away.
I covered my mouth with my free hand. Pinpricks of anxiety ran up the back of my neck.
“Are you kidding? I was good to Ophelia,” said Hamlet.
“You cheated on her.”
“That’s a lie.
I
never cheated. Not once,” Hamlet said, pushing Sebastian back with the tips of his heavily gloved fingers.
Sebastian jutted out his chin. “She would have been better off with me, and we both know it. At the very least, she’d still be alive.”
Hamlet jerked off his glove and punched Sebastian in the face.
“Christ,” said Horatio, “see what you’ve done?” Anyone around would think Horatio was talking to Hamlet, but I knew the comment was for me. I squeezed the pillow harder against my aching stomach.
Sebastian stumbled back just as Laertes tackled Hamlet, sending Hamlet rolling over and over on the grass.
The whistle blew. Hamlet was sent back off the field, to the great protests of his teammates. No call was made against Laertes.
What was going on? The ref had to be on Claudius’s side. I laughed at my own naïveté. Of course he was.
Horatio shoved the phone into his pocket but didn’t turn it off, so I could hear the crowd shouting and another, louder sound. A
thump-thump
ing. I guessed Horatio was running toward Hamlet.
“Let’s get out of here,” Horatio was whispering fiercely. No response. “What Marcellus said is true. Who knows what else—”
“Forget it,” Hamlet growled. “No way I’m quitting.”
“But they’re letting you get beaten up out there.”
“I can take it. I deserve—” Hamlet stopped and cleared his throat. “I’m seeing this through. Go back with everyone else.”
“Damn it,” Horatio said, and the thumping commenced as he moved away from Hamlet.
The picture came up again. Hamlet was released and cut toward the goal. His teammate cradled the ball, then passed back to Hamlet. Hamlet shot and scored.
Time was called, ending the quarter, and someone nearby pronounced it a thrilling game.
Claudius called out, “Hamlet, you’ve won this pearl. Come have a drink.”
Hamlet had walked to the sidelines next to Horatio. I couldn’t see him, since Horatio kept the camera pointed at the king, but I heard Hamlet say, “Maybe later.”
Claudius smiled at Gertrude and said to her loudly, “Our son will win.”
I winced involuntarily at the word
son
, and if Horatio had been filming Hamlet, I imagine it would have shown him cringing as well.
Gertrude blinked rapidly as she stared at her husband, then at Hamlet. She wrung her kerchief in her hands and called out to Hamlet, “Come, my dear, let me give you a kiss for good luck.” I heard Hamlet snap his tongue in response, and Gertrude winced. Then she took hold of the cup Claudius had been offering to Hamlet. “Sweetheart, I drink to your fortune.”
Claudius grabbed her arm and snapped, “Gertrude, don’t.” After a momentary pause, his eyes flicking to the crowd, he added, “You know how you get when you drink.”
Gertrude’s anger flared even as she took in the students and parents staring at her. “I will,” she said, straightening up, and pulled her arm back. “Pardon me.”
Claudius’s eyes widened and his mouth opened as if to speak. He said nothing, nor did Hamlet, but both kept their eyes fixed on her.
Gertrude drank deeply, put down the cup, and called out again, “Hamlet, let me wipe your face.”
“I’m fine,” he called out, and she turned, putting her hand to her stomach.
Why would she—
I thought as Horatio said quietly, “Oh no.”
Laertes walked up to Claudius and said, “My lord, I’ll hit him now.”
Was he asking permission to check or punch Hamlet? It looked to me like he was going after Hamlet as he pleased. I realized I was holding my breath.
Claudius was cagey, his gaze fixed on Hamlet. “I don’t think so.” Laertes looked at him and at Hamlet again, his eyes narrowing with fury.
The whistle blew to start the second quarter, and the teams took the field, though neither Hamlet nor Laertes moved.
Hamlet glared at Claudius and then Laertes. He urged, “Come on. Let’s finish this.”
Laertes tapped his own shoulder with the crosse a few times and nodded. Hamlet looked at his mother, shrugged weakly at Horatio, and said, “I guess… It’ll be fine,” before running onto the field.
The game began again, and I marveled, as I often did, at its speed. Their footwork was incredibly quick. Players pivoted around one another, their sticks moving as fast as swords, sometimes overhead, sometimes to the side, always amazing. The ball whipped from one pocket to the other so quickly that sometimes I couldn’t even follow who had the ball. Nor could Horatio.
A guy I recognized from my math class was scooping up the ball when off to the side of the screen I saw Hamlet crumple to the ground. I heard Horatio gasp. Laertes was sprinting away. Hamlet did not get up but held his side, knees to his chest. From the sound of it, the game was continuing on the other side of the field, but the teammates and opponents closest to Hamlet crept closer. Horatio ran onto the field, and the picture went nuts. Grass. Sky. Grass. Sky. Grass. Sky. As Horatio knelt beside Hamlet, he must have shoved the phone into his pocket, and everything went black.
The sound was really muffled, so I plugged my free ear and was able to make out Horatio asking, “Hamlet, is that blood?” Hamlet groaned, and Horatio added, “It’s not that deep. No, don’t look at—It’ll be all right.”
What had happened? How did Hamlet get cut?
“Laertes!” Hamlet yelled. “You coward. Don’t you slice me open and then run!”
My brother did it? How?
Horatio said to Hamlet, “There’s a blade attached to the end of his stick. We need to get out of here. Now.”
My first thought was that my brother was going to end up in jail. His life would be ruined, and all because of that horrible family. Then I realized I didn’t hear guards grabbing him. I was relieved, but it made no sense.
The crowd had grown silent.
“You don’t ruin my family and get away with it, Hamlet,” Laertes snarled from somewhere nearby.
“Don’t do it, Laertes,” Horatio called out, and I heard screaming and jostling. “Hamlet, stop. Stop!”
The phone went dead.
I screamed, “No!” and hit the phone against my knee. I pushed some buttons, and a video game popped up. “No, no, no,” I said again as I hit the video-chat icon, but the screen was still blank.
I paced the room, staring at the still-black screen. Horatio had said Laertes wanted revenge, but I didn’t think he’d actually do anything. Why had he asked Claudius a question before stabbing Hamlet? Why had he agreed to play the game? Why wasn’t Horatio calling back? I hit the phone again in frustration.
It
bing
ed and I leaped, startled and out of breath. I could hardly open it, I was shaking so badly.
Horatio: o gd. all r dead
Francisco:
This text message reads, “Good. All are dead.”
Ophelia:
That’s not what it said.
Francisco:
Look, I have it right here. “o gd. all r dead.”
Ophelia:
No. Not “good.” He meant “God” or “Goddamn it.”
Barnardo:
Sure.
Ophelia:
It’s what he meant! Ask him.
(pause)
Why would he want Hamlet dead?
Barnardo:
Maybe he wanted you for himself.
Ophelia:
That’s ridiculous. Hamlet was his best friend.
Barnardo:
I don’t know. Horatio sounds relieved that the plan worked.
Ophelia:
There was no plan! Honestly, how do you propose that I made all of those people do those things from over a hundred miles away?
Barnardo:
You tell us.
Photos flash of the aftermath. Ophelia buries her face in her hands. Zara pats Ophelia’s back and looks at the audience with grave concern. Ophelia stands and walks off the stage.
I turned on the TV at some point in the evening, though how much later I could not say. I lay curled on the bed, hoping the ceiling would just fall on me and put me out of my misery already. I heard the worried voices of newscasters but could not will myself to look up. They said words like
tragedy
and
revenge
,
catastrophic
and
panic
. Hollow truth.