Henry Hamlet's Heart

by Rhiannon Wilde

  ‘I can’t believe your gran’s getting married,’ he says finally, eye pressed to the viewfinder.

  I smile slightly. ‘I know, right? It’s mental.’

  ‘Don’t know if I’d bother a second time. Or a first, come to think of it.’

  I know what he means. ‘Yeah. I can’t imagine signing something that’d stick me with just one person forever.’

  Len clicks the shutter. ‘Mmm.’

  ‘But then,’ I say, wobbling a bit and narrowly avoiding falling into the spitting sea, ‘I’m not the one dating the most popular girl in our year.’

  ‘We aren’t dating.’

  Of course not; they never are. Len’s been with lots of people, but none of them last long.

  ‘Does she know that?’

  Click. Click. Click.

  ‘You’re terrible.’

  He lifts his head. ‘I feel like you’re in a bit of a poor position to be doling out relationship advice.’

  ‘True. It is increasingly looking as though my destiny is to become a lonely cat lady by twenty-one.’

  He doesn’t disagree.

  ‘You’ll get married, for sure,’ I continue, swinging my legs out over the water. ‘You’re all free spirit now, but then you’ll be thirty with six kids and a wife who looks like Keira Knightley. I’ll just be …’ I scrunch up my face. ‘I don’t know – breastfeeding cat number six, or something.’

  He looks down at his camera. ‘Let’s just get through the rest of this year first. That’s enough of a head fuck.’

  He’s not wrong. In year eleven I barely studied at all, and things just kind of sorted themselves out. Mostly. This year’s more like being on a hamster wheel, running towards a future I can’t see.

  I used to have this idea of us, a vague outline like when you’re dreaming about strangers and your brain can’t come up with the face. I even wrote it out – I’d be a journo and he’d be a current affairs photographer, and we’d be living in some amazing apartment we couldn’t really afford. Len’s got the opposite kind of pressure to mine, though; Dad and Gran want me to light the arts landscape on fire, but everyone reckons his cleverness should go to something sturdy, like medicine.

  I watch the water move for a bit. Then sunset finally comes, so quickly that we almost miss it.

  Len switches to film, adjusting the lens so that it picks up the pinks and burnt orange.

  ‘Hamlet,’ he calls. ‘Come stand here.’

  He gets bored with landscapes sometimes. He likes there to be a figure to break it up.

  ‘Seriously? I look like shit.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He’s got his concentration face on. ‘Hurry up.’

  I walk slowly into the frame, making sure I look harassed. I know from similar shots, though, that I’ll probably just be a silhouette.

  He snaps a few times, tilting and kneeling down, capturing every angle. The sun falls, beaming its last rays of the day straight into my eyes. I hold up a hand but Len makes a noise of protest, so I reluctantly lower it again, squinting into the light as it washes over my face.

  ‘Just because it’s in the name of art doesn’t make this any less abusive,’ I say, trying not to move my face.

  ‘Shut up. I’m almost done.’ He gets closer, and the lens adjusts again. He switches back to digital after a beat.

  ‘I take it back,’ I say. ‘You’ll definitely die alone.’

  Len’s lip quirks up. His mouth is wide and kind of uneven, so it’s always halfway balanced on a smile when he talks. ‘Noted.’

  ‘Are you done already? I’m hungry.’

  He checks the last frame in the display, cupping his hand around the screen. ‘Yes, you child. I’m done.’

  I relax my posture gratefully.

  ‘Pizza?’ he asks.

  ‘Obviously. Your shout, though.’

  We start walking back to the car.

  ‘How d’you figure that?’

  ‘For services rendered. Plus, you’re the one with a job, and I spent my last ten bucks on coffee today.’

  ‘Did you also drop it and then say “fuck” in front of a small child?’

  ‘Are you ever gonna stop bringing that up?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Prick.’

  ‘Dickhead.’

  ‘Knob.’

  ‘Drama queen.’

  ‘Man-whore.’

  ‘Spinster.’

  He unlocks the car.

  ‘Pepperoni, then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  6

  Over the next few weeks, time starts to feel like a downhill slope towards exams. Our teachers lecture us daily about how These Are The Important Days and we’re Deciding Our Lives Right Now.

  This is the thing I’ve thought about since the end of year ten. Getting out. Into the world. But it’s as though the closer I get to it – the getting out, life part – the less real it seems. I keep getting bursts of a sticky melancholy.

  ‘I hear you’ve got your period,’ Ged says in sixth period maths on Friday when we’re meant to be revising.

  I slide further down in my seat, glowering with a confusing fury I can’t unwrap. ‘That joke is so reductive towards the menstruation experience.’

  ‘Reductive,’ he sing-songs. ‘Big word. I bet you learnt it because that’s what happened to your dick.’

  ‘No, I learned it because that’s what I’m gonna do to yours.’

  ‘Ooh. I’m terrified.’

  ‘What’re we talking about?’ Harrison asks, leaning forward in his seat behind us.

  ‘Hamlet’s a Grumpelstiltskin,’ Ged explains.

  ‘Am not,’ I protest. ‘I’m having a moment of intense disillusionment. There’s a difference. Don’t you guys feel freaked out?’

  ‘I am having a fantastic term so far,’ Ged says.

  ‘Why?’ Vince asks suspiciously.

  ‘A man never kisses and tells.’

  ‘Both Casey and I really wish that were true,’ Harrison puts in, and I laugh.

  ‘You bastards seriously need to let me live that down already,’ Ged scowls.

  ‘Unlikely,’ I say.

  ‘Give us the details, then,’ Vince says. ‘You’re bound to anyway.’

  Ged strokes the stubble on his chin. ‘I have a date.’

  ‘Right. With …?’

  ‘Jess, of course! Who else?’

  ‘Jess Fitzpatrick?’ Vince asks.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘The same Jess Fitzpatrick whose brother punched your lights out last year for ringing their home phone every day?’

  Ged shakes his head. ‘It’s all in the past. We’re good mates now.’

  ‘And her boyfriend,’ I remember suddenly. ‘Didn’t he punch you last year as well?’

  ‘Mates,’ Ged repeats tersely. ‘And anyway, they broke up, so …’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Vince says.

  ‘Why are you all looking at me like that?’ Ged asks. ‘She’s gonna like me! You’ll see. Everything’s coming up Gedster.’

  ‘Sure.’ Harrison tries to keep a straight face. ‘Of course she will.’

  ‘I mean it. Stop looking at me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ Harrison asks innocently.

  ‘Like I’m being sent off to bloody war! This is a date, with the hottest girl in our year.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Vince says. ‘It’s great. Really.’

  ‘You’ll see,’ Ged says with slight menace. ‘All of you. Life is good, my disbelieving friends. Life is g-o-d-e good.’

  The bell rings, which means it’s time for debating. This perks me up slightly, but it also means capping an already crap day off with Martin Finch.

  Len’s leaning against my locker when I get there, one spotted socked ankle crossed over the o
ther.

  We start walking across the sun-dipped quad.

  ‘Have you cracked it, then?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘The allegedly shit topic: spouses shouldn’t have to testify against each other.’

  Shit. I started workshopping our argument angle, but … it’s sitting half-cooked on my desk, at home.

  ‘Yep! Fully cracked.’

  ‘Sure it is.’

  We get to shit block two minutes late. It’s just the competing team today and once everyone’s sitting at the sticky desks, I cut right to the point (or at least attempt to).

  ‘All right, everyone—’

  ‘What’s everybody thinking?’ Martin butts in. ‘Because I have some ideas.’

  I breathe in deeply. ‘Thank you, Martin – but I have thought about this extensively.’ I throw a look at Len, who folds his arms, feigning rapt interest. ‘I think the only thing we can do is redefine the topic a little. Make it fit whatever argument we pick.’

  ‘How?’ Harrison asks. ‘It’s pretty self-explanatory: married couples should have to testify against each other, but we have to argue that they don’t.’

  I did at least get this far in my workshopping. ‘We probably need to try and prove that spouses don’t often commit crimes together. There’d be evidence for that. Some, at least. And it’s original.’

  ‘But then who does, Hamlet?’ Martin asks almost before I’m done talking. ‘You’d have to counter-argue.’

  This is exactly where I got stuck. I shuffle the papers in front of me (my maths notes), trying to look like the answer’s in there somewhere.

  ‘Friends do it.’ Len says after a beat.

  Martin snaps around to face him. We all do.

  He chews the inside of his cheek sheepishly. ‘Leopold and Loeb? The Manson family?’

  ‘True. Not married,’ Harrison agrees.

  ‘What,’ I say. ‘So we’d do BFF duos? Like Susan Sarandon in that movie where she goes off the cliff at the end?’

  Len gives me a levelling look. ‘Yes, Hamlet – like Susan Sarandon.’

  Martin clears his throat loudly. ‘I’m not sure that’s—’

  ‘You can use friend examples to argue it’s not just married couples who commit crimes together,’ Len says.

  ‘Hmm … Like “partners in crime aren’t romantic” or something,’ I say as I run it through my head. ‘So, there’s no point making spouses testify against each other.’

  ‘Yeah. Exactly.’

  Harrison looks impressed.

  ‘I …’ Martin sniffs unhappily a minute later. ‘I actually think that could work quite well.’

  ‘Wow, Finch.’ I say sarcastically. ‘Don’t get too excited. You’ll hurt yourself, and I’ll have to fill in an incident report.’

  ‘We’d have to do research, though,’ Harrison adds when Martin’s eyes flash.

  ‘Yes!’ I start moving towards the dusty blackboard. ‘We need case studies. Let’s brainstorm some criminal partnerships to start researching this week.’

  By the time we’ve exhausted all our existing knowledge of friend-crimes (since when did Bonnie and Clyde date?), and loosely decided on some possible argument points, a floaty fairy-floss dusk has settled outside.

  Len and I walk out still talking, until his phone lights up with a text mid-conversation. He flips it open and punches in a brief reply. I feel a flicker of my earlier irritation return – this slipping sense that I’m tugging him away from more exciting things.

  ‘Who was that?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Are you gonna take her to formal?’ I ask.

  Len snaps the phone shut. ‘Who?’

  ‘Willa. That’s her, right?’

  ‘Maybe. Haven’t really thought about it.’

  ‘Seriously? It’s all I’ve been thinking about. Martin told me last term a captain hasn’t gone stag since the fifties.’

  Len rolls his eyes.

  ‘I wonder if they’d let me just go with Ged, since there’s next to no chance things will actually work out with Jess.’ I fish for pity.

  ‘You can’t take same-sex dates, remember?’ Len says.

  ‘Sure, it’s frowned upon.’ I frown upon that. ‘But I don’t think it’s technically banned.’

  ‘Fucking fascists,’ Len says with surprising force.

  I laugh, even though I’m not sure if I’m supposed to.

  ‘Good to know that in an ideal world you’d choose Ged as your date,’ he continues when we’re passing the spire of the admin building. His voice sounds weird.

  ‘Ged’s the only one likely to wind up a loner on the night!’ I say. ‘Besides me, obviously.’

  Len shakes his head. ‘You could get a date, if you actually tried.’

  ‘How? By just approaching some poor unsuspecting St Ads girl at the bus stop and saying, “Hey, I’m Henry, but you might know me as Spew Grant”?’

  ‘You could just ask someone.’

  I scoff. ‘Who?’

  He looks suddenly irritated. ‘Dunno. Ged, apparently.’

  ‘What’s up yours?’

  Len’s expression smooths back to something closer to normal. ‘Nothing. I’ll ask around, if you want.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When I drop my bag in the hallway twenty minutes later, it’s chaos in the Hamlet house. Gran’s baking something with Ham – the kitchen counter is covered in flour, ditto the walls. He’s propped up on a stool, stirring carefully. I sneak up behind him and pretend to electric shock him in the ribs.

  He giggles, falling back into me. ‘I’m stirring.’

  ‘Sorry, Hambam.’ I set him back on the stool.

  ‘You should be,’ Ham says. ‘I could have rooned it.’

  ‘Ruined, sweetheart,’ Gran corrects.

  Ham thinks for a second. ‘That’s what I said. Rooned. It’s like when Dad says, “I’ve fucked it”, but you can’t say that when you’re a kid, can you?’ He turns to me. ‘Hen, can you say “fuck” when you’re a kid?’

  I nearly choke on my glass of water. ‘Uh. No, little man.’

  ‘Are you allowed to say it?’ he asks curiously, licking sugar off the palm of his hand.

  ‘Um.’

  ‘Of course, he is!’ Gran says. ‘He’s allowed to do it, if he wants.’

  Ham laughs. ‘Gran, you’re silly. You can’t do fu—’

  ‘Let’s maybe stop saying that word for now,’ I put in, because Gran’s got a dangerous glint in her eye. Just as well too, because Mum comes home a few minutes later.

  ‘Apple pie for dinner?’ she questions.

  ‘Just go with it, Billie,’ Gran says. ‘You need sugar.’

  ‘How was work?’ I ask Mum quietly once she’s put her bag down and is sitting at the table.

  ‘Oh, good, Hen. Great. Lots of babies being born.’

  ‘Boys or girls?’ I ask, because she always remembers.

  ‘Two boys.’ She smiles. ‘How was school?’

  ‘Eh. Fine, I guess.’

  I make my way upstairs to rip off my uniform and then I run a blisteringly hot shower.

  Afterwards, I lie on my bed listening to Panic! at the Disco for a bit, trying to wind down. When that doesn’t work, I log on to my computer and aimlessly update the coding on my Myspace for a while.

  I scroll through updates from my friends, guys from school and St Adele’s girls I know from debating and various musicals over the years.

  I look at the profiles of the ones I’ve actually spoken to (that leaves three), trying to discern through the song/picture on their page whether or not they’d be open to a pity date.

  I stare at Lily’s the longest while it plays a choppy pop song through my speakers, and think about asking her.

  It’d be fun. We were getting on, I thi
nk, during the section of The Party I actually remember. But would a dance be a friend thing? Or too close to A Move? (A Bonnie-and-Clyde type of friends thing.)

  I click back to the home page.

  Ged’s put up a photo of his toe after footy training. It’s scrunched in on itself at an unnatural angle and looks like an angry toad.

  Broken? I comment.

  Absolutly fucked XD, he replies immediately. I shake my head.

  Len’s just posted a bulletin.

  I click on it and scroll through the questions, reading his brief response to each one. As confirmed Desperate and Dateless, I’m pathetically pleased to be the last person he spoke to, called and hugged.

  7

  On Friday the week after, Len and Vince are home sick with a fever-dream flu that’s picking off our whole class. Despite Martin’s sniffly indignation, I call it on debate club.

  Ged persuades Harrison and me to catch the bus into the city with him after school instead to look for a ‘date shirt’. He’s managed several miraculous dates with Jess Fitzpatrick already, and none of us can figure out how.

  ‘It’s different this time,’ Ged tells us on the way. ‘I think she might be The One.’

  ‘That’s great, man,’ I say, keeping my eyes on the progression of old brick buildings as we wind through the city.

  Harrison snickers beside me. I thump him on the knee, and he turns towards the window too. It’s been raining all week, the world outside smudged pearl.

  We get off near ANZAC Square, pulling our shirts untucked and making our way down the footpath and and then over the pedestrian crossing towards Queen Street. Harrison stops in the Plaza for Starbucks while Len’s not here to judge. I get a cream-topped monstrosity too, out of rebellious solidarity.

  The dripping city is quiet around us, still holding its breath in the four-thirty light before it exhales commuters for the day.

  We duck inside a menswear store, and Ged holds up a Hawaiian shirt that even I know should be an actual crime.

  I communicate a hard ‘no’ with my eyes, and he shoves it back on the rack.