turned his attention from us, Steph leaned toward me. “I know why she’s being a bitch to me, but now I also know why she was a bitch to you, Comet. At the party I asked her friend Liza why Heather has such a problem with you.”
Not really sure I wanted to know why Heather had a problem with me, I stiffened.
Vicki, however, demanded, “Tell us, then.”
“Well...” Steph’s eyes lit with the power of knowing gossip we didn’t. “Apparently, Heather’s life isn’t as perfect as she wants people to think. Her parents are on her constantly to be the best. At everything. And she was. She was top of her class at her primary school. Then first year hits and you, Comet, scored top marks in our English and history projects in the first term. Liza said her parents gave her such a hard time about it, and that’s why she came after you. That’s why she can’t stand you. Because you showed her up to her parents.”
Despite Heather’s cruelty, I felt more than a flicker of compassion. While my parents didn’t show me enough attention, Heather’s sounded overbearing. It didn’t soothe the humiliation I’d felt when she was bullying me, but at least now I understood that her lashing out had nothing to do with me personally.
It would appear to be a pattern of Heather McAlister: taking her crap out on the wrong people.
After registration, we dispersed for our classes, Heather throwing Steph another sneering, challenging look before she left. I shook my head, patting my friend’s shoulder in comfort. “Ignore her. She can’t even play the part of the villain originally.”
“Eh?”
“Well...” I gestured to where Heather had disappeared down the corridor. “It’s like she’s watched every American mean-girl movie and combined and adopted the roles as her own.”
“It doesn’t matter. She’s still trying to mess with me.” Steph worried her lip.
Vicki threw an arm around Steph’s neck. “Like we’d ever let that happen.”
Our friend gave us a grateful but still tremulous smile, and we parted ways for our different classes.
* * *
Every day in English Mr. Stone told us he would assign a part from Hamlet to a student and we’d read through a scene. The thought made me nervous, because I was soft-spoken and hated having to try to project my voice to be heard in the room. As I waited for everyone to filter in to class at seventh period, the nervousness I felt dissipated as Tobias walked into the room with Andy. Andy murmured something to him, and they both looked at Heather. Andy punched Tobias playfully on the arm, almost in a good luck, man kind of way, and Tobias walked toward Heather wearing a blank expression on his face.
Mr. Stone had told us yesterday that the seats we had chosen were now our assigned seats for the rest of the year. Tobias was stuck.
I tried to appear inconspicuous as I followed his movement, peeking at him from behind strands of my hair. Heather glared at him as he approached, and then shifted her seat and her stuff away from him like he had a disease.
He didn’t acknowledge her, instead taking his seat and leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head like he hadn’t a care in the world.
Soon class was in full progress and I was happy to escape unscathed as Mr. Stone asked Steph to read the queen’s part.
There was a moment of awkwardness when he asked Tobias King to read for Hamlet.
“No thanks,” Tobias replied, creating a hush of shock in the room.
Mr. Stone crossed his arms and stared impassively at the newcomer. “No thanks?”
“Yeah.”
I looked over my shoulder, because everyone was looking at him and it was nice to be able to stare without anyone watching me. Tobias had his chair tipped on its hind legs with his arms over the back of it, all casual insolence.
“I wasn’t really giving you an option, Mr. King. Participation is a part of the grade in this class.”
Tobias shrugged, staring at my favorite teacher. “Then I guess you’ll need to mark me down because I’m not reading the part of some pansy-assed Danish dude that wants to screw his mom and can’t get over the fact dear old daddy is dead.”
There was sniggering around the room but not from me. I turned away from the boy I’d thought was beautiful when I’d first seen him. Funny how the more I heard from him, the less attractive he became to me.
Mr. Stone scowled at Tobias. “You don’t have to read, Tobias, but you do have to show me some respect. Watch your language and get your chair on the ground. Now.”
Mr. Stone’s authority rang around the room, and I peeked back over my shoulder to see Tobias do as he was bid. However, he didn’t wipe that annoyingly bored look off his face.
It was almost comical how quickly Michael Gates, a guy in the year above us, agreed to read the part of Hamlet after that.
Mr. Stone relaxed, clearly refusing to allow one kid to ruin the class, and we continued.
“‘Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, and let thine eye...’” I wanted to look over my shoulder and grin at Steph as she read, because she was reading the queen’s part in a fake English accent that was causing a buildup of giggles in the back of my throat.
Michael read as Hamlet with absolutely no inflection or enthusiasm. Poor William must have been rolling in his grave to hear it.
“Stop there, Michael, thank you,” Mr. Stone said. “What do you think is being said here between the queen and Hamlet? Comet?”
I raised my head from the words on the page, feeling everyone stare at me.
Mr. Stone gazed at me encouragingly. “What do you think, Comet?”
It wasn’t that I wasn’t used to answering questions in class. We’d had to do class talks, where we either did a presentation to a group of peers or to the entire class. I’d hated every minute of those, but I’d gotten through them. I guess I was nervous because there was a person in our class who had never heard me talk, and I was passionate about this stuff, while he seemed to think it was all a joke.
Come on, Comet. Like you should care what that Neanderthal thinks of you?
“I think,” I started, “the queen is questioning Hamlet’s continued grief over losing his father. When she says, ‘cast thy nighted color off’ she means his mourning clothes and his mood. And then she asks why, when everyone knows of the inevitability of death, should Hamlet’s father’s death be so unique. It’s almost like she’s questioning whether Hamlet’s grief is real or for show, and Hamlet replies that yes, from his outward behavior it might be easy to think he’s just acting a part, but he insists that his grief is deeper than mere appearance.”
Mr. Stone stared at me a moment and the class seemed to wait with bated breath along with me. A slow smile curled his mouth and he nodded. “Excellent, Comet.”
I flushed, relaxing in my chair, as he asked Michael, who was reading the king’s part, to continue.
Pleased with myself,
