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