She was practically calling me a whore, and on some level it really hurt. On another, I was so angry I wanted to hit her. A few scenarios played out in my mind, the most satisfying of which was smacking the door of my locker into her pointy turned-up nose. But I couldn’t afford the repercussions, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone, not even her. All I could do was walk away.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling at my fantasy of her with a bloody nose. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You’ll never get him,” she called to me when my back was turned.

As I wandered to my last class, I wondered whom she meant: Damiel or Michael. Perhaps she meant both.

Chapter Eight

I awoke before my alarm Monday morning to the sound of dogs barking and got up to see what it was about. Drawing the curtains aside, I noticed a couple of terriers had chased the neighbor’s cat up a tree. They barked at each other and then ganged up on the cat. I rooted for the cat. On the horizon, the sun tried to pierce the dark clouds that loomed threateningly above, exposing a cold blue sky, so I dressed for more rain.

In English class, Mr. Bidwell had me read Ophelia to Michael’s Hamlet. We were reading Act III Scene I, and the class started with Hamlet’s famous “to be or not to be” speech which Michael read perfectly, his clear and exquisite voice mesmerizing the room. In the scene, Ophelia returns Hamlet’s tokens of love to him. It was the perfect scene to let out some of my frustration. I’d read the play enough times now that I was even getting comfortable with the wording.

Hamlet’s soliloquy ended with Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remember’d. When Michael said it, his eyes were hooded and soft. Even though I couldn’t understand exactly what Hamlet meant by that line, I knew it had something to do with regret. I found myself wondering what Michael could possibly regret. Or was he that good an actor?

In my mind’s eye, a scrambled image of blood and shadow flashed before me. Trying to focus on the image made me dizzy. It took a moment for the words on the page to stop moving so I could read my next line.

“My lord, I have remembrances of yours that I have longed long to re-deliver,” I read. “I pray you, now receive them.”

“No, not I!” Michael said, “I never gave you aught.” Again, such remorse emanated from him, as though what he was saying was in fact real and not a play.

My anger returned as I continued to read, losing myself in the script. Like Hamlet, he had been sweet to me and then turned into a jerk. But it was more than that, as though we had a connection that went really deep, and that’s what made it hurt. I used to think Ophelia was weak, but now I could relate to her. Her brother was away, her father was a total ass, and she was in love with a guy who was nice to her one minute, cold the next. Everyone had abandoned her.

We continued bantering as Hamlet and Ophelia. As we argued our lines about the role of beauty to deceive, Michael read pointedly and seemed to be enjoying himself. I don’t know what he thought was so funny about beauty being deceptive. He was the beautiful one.

“I did love you once,” he read. Hearing those words from him caught me off guard, most of all because they sounded so true. My mind blanked. He eyed me expectantly.

I flushed, suddenly remembering my line. “Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.” This isn’t real; it’s a play.

“You should not have believ’d me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not.” He read the words sharply, coldly.

Ophelia never had a chance! “I was the more deceived,” I read, more bitterly than Ophelia might have ever been.

Michael read Hamlet’s famous “get thee to a nunnery” speech angrily, as though he really meant it. And when he said the line “Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?” his voice did that strange thing I’d heard before, where it sounded like a chorus rather than a single voice. As he spoke, I saw a flash of two red lights amidst blackness. Eyes! I stopped breathing as I remembered that shadowy dog.

Completely assuming the role of Hamlet, he continued mercilessly through the speech, each word slicing into me. When he had finished, I had to bite my lip to keep it from quivering so I could continue with my lines. How could this play seem so real?

We ended the reading with Ophelia’s “O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!” speech, and I couldn’t stop my voice from trembling as I read. I wasn’t acting, but it seemed the class thought I was.

“Well done. Both of you.” Mr. Bidwell praised us when we were done, encouraging everyone to clap. He went on about our acting abilities and how much passion we brought to reading our parts. If he only knew.

The class discussed what had happened in the scene, but I barely listened. It was strangely personal, as though they were talking about my feelings and not Ophelia’s. While Michael focused on the discussion, seemingly unperturbed, I stared down at my open textbook, smoothing its worn edges with my fingertip. This used to be one of my favorite scenes in the play. Now Ophelia’s words taunted me from the page, “Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.”

Mr. Bidwell asked the class, “What does Hamlet mean when he says ‘for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is’?”

Everyone gave him blank looks. It was Michael who raised his hand.

“It means beauty makes men lie,” he said.

Readjusting his glasses, Mr. Bidwell repeated what Michael said thoughtfully.

“Isn’t that sort of misogynistic?” Elaine asked, leaning forward in her seat as though she were preparing for a debate. “Blaming the woman for being beautiful and using it as an excuse for men’s lies?” Mr. Bidwell smiled and leaned on his desk. “Good question, Elaine, but we have to take Shakespeare’s time into consideration, and the fact that Hamlet is angry and possibly playing crazy at this point. How about if we rephrase it to ‘men choose to lie when presented with beauty’? How’s that?”

“Better,” she said smugly.

“I don’t think we should whitewash it,” I interjected, refusing to let Elaine win. “Maybe Hamlet really thinks that way. Maybe he is a misogynist. I mean, look at the way he treats Ophelia, kind to her one minute, cold the next.” Michael shifted in his seat and glared at me, obviously catching my insinuation. “Then there’s the way he feels about his mother.”

Mr. Bidwell took the opportunity to guide us into a discussion about Hamlet’s alleged oedipal complex. I only half-listened and was glad when class was over. It wasn’t until then that I noticed Damiel hadn’t been there at all.

I didn’t see him until lunch, and even then it was only briefly. I was eating with Heather as usual, and Fiona, Dean, Jesse, and Farouk all joined us. We were a full table, and everyone was discussing a new action movie that was coming out on the weekend.

“The previews look amazing!” Fiona exclaimed. “Even the critics gave it four stars.”

“I think we should go this Friday,” Heather said, turning to Jesse. “You in?”

“All in,” he said, grinning at her.

None of us thought he meant for the movie. Heather blushed and leaned back in her chair so she could prod him under the table with her foot. Jesse made a face. They were being too cute. Seeing them that way made me wish I had someone to banter with, someone I could be close to. It made me feel even more alone.

“How about you, Mia?” Fiona asked, biting into a carrot stick.

“Sure,” I said, and turned to Dean and Farouk. “Are we all going?”

Outside, it started to rain, hard enough that I could hear the raindrops slapping the pavement. Damiel and Michael stood in the wet field, facing off. They exchanged loud words I couldn’t hear, clouds of breath escaping their mouths. Usually this kind of argument would draw a crowd, but around the cafeteria people were focused on their own conversations—some laughing, some playing. Nobody noticed the scene outside.