Henry Hamlet's Heart

by Rhiannon Wilde

We play for half an hour, until my mouth is dry and my nerves are frayed and I’m running out of random women to imaginarily set him up with. We decide it’s a tie, to be broken by one last round.

  I pinch my chin. ‘Um … Brendon Urie … Pete Wentz or Barack Obama.’

  As soon as the words are out I want to claw them back in.

  ‘Cruise with Pete, marry Obama, shag Brendon,’ he says, without hesitation. ‘Obviously.’ A smile plays at his lips.

  ‘Er, right. Good choice. Your turn, then,’ I manage to choke out.

  ‘I think I’ll save mine – sit on the almost-win for a little longer.’

  ‘That’s not a thing! You can’t just not break a tie so you look like the winner.’

  ‘It’s too juicy to waste on a bus trip. You’ll just have to wait.’

  I roll my eyes, unravelling my headphones again. ‘Whatever.’

  He picks up an earbud and slips it into his ear, then reaches into the pocket of my hoodie with his other hand like it’s nothing, and retrieves my iPod. I’m too stunned to respond as he scrolls through the songs.

  ‘Okay. These are all bootlegs from musicals.’

  I inhale. This, at least, is familiar territory.

  ‘Not all.’ I grab it off him. ‘You’re in the musical theatre playlist.’

  I scroll around until I find something alternative enough for his snobbery: ‘Between the Bars’ by Elliott Smith. There. That ought to shut him up for a bit.

  I’ve never thought of this song as remotely sexy – it’s sad, if anything. Actually, it’s one of my cry songs (not that I’d ever tell anyone that). But there’s something about sitting together. The slow melody. His shoulder against mine. I look at him, then have to look away because he’s staring at me.

  I wish I knew what he was thinking. Or that everyone else would disappear, so I could touch him.

  We stay like that, our faces dipped towards each other. The song ends, and Katy Perry bulldozes in after it.

  Night falls in a sudden wave outside; the lights on the bus flick on. I can see my reflection in the window, but I don’t recognise the hectic eyes flipped back in the glass.

  Mum picks me up from the school parking lot wearing her dressing gown over scrubs. Several other mothers in expensive-looking coats stare at her haughtily. She doesn’t notice.

  She pulls me into a hug and sniffs my hair.

  ‘Mum, let me go.’

  ‘Sorry! Think I fell asleep for a second. Double shift.’

  Len’s eyes are fixed on us when I look up.

  Then he turns away.

  I try not to look disappointed as I follow Mum to the car, past where Vince’s dad is rapping him on the back of the head and lecturing him. ‘Cigarettes, Vincent? If you’re going to be a ruddy delinquent, at least do it well.’

  I’m so wiped from not sleeping that I fall into bed as soon as we get home. I pull my boots off in the dark and worm under the covers fully dressed.

  I’m half asleep when my phone vibrates.

  Hamlet – are you awake?

  Len never uses text speak. Always full words and sentences.

  Am now >:| I type back, squinting in the dim light.

  Sorry. Go back to sleep.

  Awake. Wat is it?

  Nothing.

  Giving u the finger.

  No, you’re not – you were just asleep.

  Figuratively giving u the finger.

  You can’t figuratively do that.

  Wat. Do. U. Want?

  Just to ask you something.

  Thud thud thud.

  Ask then.

  He takes so long that I drift off again for a bit. The buzz of his reply only just wakes me, but I stare at it for ages.

  Grace Kelly, or me?

  Part II

  It is also good to love: because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work for which all other work is merely preparation.

  – Rainer Maria Rilke

  14

  The start of the last week of term is entirely ordinary. At least on the surface.

  Gran mails save-the-date cards for her wedding after always insisting those were arbitrary, and Mum pretends not to be furious. Dad finishes the biggest of his sculptures and starts eating dinner with us again. Ham is Ham.

  Exams start on Tuesday. We’re revising so much I don’t really get an opportunity to assess other things.

  There’s a collectively frantic air hanging around the senior classrooms. These are the big exams, really. Next term’s just a four-week-long closing ceremony. This Is It.

  The lockers become a hub of shell-shocked guys rubbing their bloodshot eyes, demanding to know just how the hell the rest of the class got Hiroshima as the answer to question twelve when they put 1750.

  I go into full Reuben Hamlet blackout mode, bunkered down in my bedroom with notes spread everywhere, my phone locked in a cupboard so I can’t text him.

  Len and I don’t say it, exactly, but the game’s switched … so far up. Whenever we see each other there’s this burning anticipation that’s almost unbearable.

  I was half-hopeful and half-afraid the feelings would mellow now I’ve given into them, but, if anything, they get worse. I nearly have a stroke every time his knee brushes mine. Which is often, because he sits next to me at lunch whenever he gets the chance.

  (Is that a sign?)

  (Do we need signs, at this point?)

  Thankfully, tests and study periods are all sat alphabetically, so it’s just me and H through J for most of the week.

  My exams go okay, in the end. English is the best because I get to go on a long anti-capitalism rant about the American Dream. I manage to nail the short essay section in modern history. Maths is a complete shit show that I think comes together in the written questions.

  On Wednesday afternoon, Ged decides we’re in dire need of a Macca’s run. The one Harrison works at is only about a kilometre from school, so we set off on foot in search of chicken nuggets to help us retain knowledge ones.

  Len walks next to me, mirroring my steps and trying to trip me over. He used to do it all the time when we were younger; all the guys did – I’m an easy target. I wonder if any of them notice, now, that he’s twisting our thighs hard together. Or that I have to bolt ahead and strike up a conversation with Vince about Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, so I don’t pass out.

  When we get there, Harrison shoots Ged a look from behind the counter that’s all daggers; last time we were here there was an incident with some hotcakes being flushed down the toilet that Ged maintains innocence on.

  The place is empty, apart from a couple of other North guys milling nearby, hollow-eyed and inhaling life-saving trans fats.

  ‘Good morrow, Harrison Ford!’ I greet Harrison when it’s our turn to order.

  ‘What are you guys doing here?’ he asks tetchily, still looking at Ged.

  ‘Visiting you, our worker bro!’ Ged says.

  ‘Cause it’s so funny that I work, right?’ Harrison snaps.

  ‘No,’ Ged looks confused.

  ‘Some of us have to, you know, because there’s no other option.’

  ‘Oi,’ Vince cuts in. ‘We didn’t mean—’

  ‘Forget it,’ Harrison says, tapping the screen in front of him. ‘What do you want?’

  We order frozen drinks, nuggets and chips, watching as Harrison’s hairnet-framed face turns gradually redder.

  ‘All right,’ Ged says once he’s handed over his money. ‘What’s up yours?’

  ‘I mean, I tanked chemistry today,’ Harrison says in a rush. ‘So, there’s that.’

  ‘I doubt you tanked it …’ I start.

  Harrison leans against
the sticky counter. ‘I blanked. Completely. My average is gonna be screwed, and I’ve already put down Engineering for preferences.’

  ‘Shit a brick,’ Ged muses softly.

  ‘It was a bad exam,’ Len says. ‘You can make it up next term.’

  Harrison eyes are wide. ‘I’ll have to. I have to do well.’

  We all frown at him for a second, eating our nuggets in respectful silence.

  ‘Would you … perhaps like some of my chewy?’ Ged eventually asks delicately.

  I don’t know why it’s funny, but suddenly we’re cracking up.

  ‘Yes,’ says Harrison, pulling at the name tag on his chest. ‘Gum’s really gonna fix all my problems.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be right, mate,’ Vince says, rallying. ‘If anyone can pull it out of their arse at the eleventh hour …’

  We make noises of agreement. Harrison chews the gum savagely.

  ‘Oh shit,’ says Len. ‘That reminds me. I’ve still gotta do those portraits of you guys.’

  ‘When by?’ asks Ged, blowing a bubble that snaps and gets stuck to his nose.

  ‘Friday, probably. Then I can edit over break.’

  ‘God’s actual sake,’ grumbles Vince.

  ‘Don’t worry. We can just do them in study period tomorrow,’ Len says.

  ‘You can call mine “Essence of Failure”,’ Harrison says glumly.

  ‘Or,’ I respond cheerily, “The Comeback Kid”. “Eau de Resilience”.’

  ‘“Real Aussie Battler”,’ Ged joins in.

  ‘Nah.’ Vince shakes his head. ‘You killed it.’

  Harrison pushes himself off the counter. ‘I’d better get back.’

  We do some more sympathetic grunting, then go and sit to eat. Ged and Vince still look shaken. I am too. If Harrison Ford – follower of any and all instructions to the letter – can fail at anything, none of us are safe. This (really) Is It.

  ‘Sheet,’ Ged hisses suddenly.

  ‘What?’ asks Vince.

  ‘Fantalanche!’

  Frozen orange liquid is seeping out of his knocked-over cup, across the white tabletop and all over the floor.

  ‘Abort mission!’ says Ged. ‘Quick, let’s go, before he gets up me!’

  After Len mops up the worst of it with some serviettes, we hastily wave to Harrison and leg it back to school still carrying our food.

  In the student car park, Vince skids off in a spectacular doughnut in the turning circle and Ged chases his car for a bit. I don’t look up at Len, but I sense him behind me in the fading day. Shiver with it.

  Our cars are parked two empty spots from each other.

  He touches my arm. It’s barely anything; it lights up everything.

  ‘Your portrait,’ he murmurs. ‘Friday night. Dad’s away.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘WHAT’D YOU SAY?’ Ged bellows from up the road.

  ‘I said you’re a disgrace,’ Len says, without missing a beat.

  On Friday afternoon I spend longer than necessary packing up my stuff, feeling nervous suddenly. I’ve stayed at Len’s hundreds of times before, especially when John’s away. But this is different.

  I find him in the school darkroom.

  It’s not a proper darkroom as much as a sound-proofed cupboard behind the art room with works-in-progress hanging over spare desks. But it is dark.

  Len turns around to look at me as soon as the door shuts. He’s doing his smouldering face, and it shouldn’t work on me – but it does.

  I lean on a desk for support and do a sort of cough.

  ‘Don’t know if you should come over.’ He pretends to dither. ‘I mean, if you’re sick.’

  ‘I am.’ I swallow. ‘Sick.’

  Len raises his eyebrows. ‘Are you, like, trying to be sexy?’

  I turn away, cheeks flaming. ‘No!’

  He pulls me back by the crook of my elbow. ‘Stop.’

  ‘What?’

  He lets go. ‘Don’t be weird.’

  I look down at my hands, irritated by how transparent I am. I have no idea, as in none at all, how to do this.

  We sit down on opposite desks, facing each other with our legs dangling. Len stretches his foot out to touch mine with the tip of one pointed black shoe.

  ‘What do you want me to do, then?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I try not to look disappointed. Then he says, ‘I want you to be you.’

  The words I and want and you make my stomach drop to the floor.

  ‘Annoying,’ he continues, kicking his foot against mine. ‘Know-it-all, irritatingly handsome, you.’

  ‘Did you just refer to me as “handsome”?’ I try to sound nonchalant, but it doesn’t come off that way. At all.

  His mouth quirks up as he shrugs. ‘Are you planning on staying here all night, or can we go get some dinner?’

  We end up at a pub on the river that has flickering torches on the walls and big leather booths. We sit in the back, tucked between the wall and a window, watching as workers hop on the end-of-day ferry. My eyes are starting to burn dully, so I pop my contacts out and pull my glasses from my blazer pocket.

  Immediately, this strikes me as the least attractive thing I’ve ever done in my life.

  (Should I have done that? Do I look better or worse? Does he care what I look like?)

  He orders the same thing as always (parmigiana without the parmigiana).

  My stomach is in knots, so I settle for something bland: cheese pizza with salad. The waiter stares at our uniforms.

  It feels different now, the two of us sitting here, alone. Like a date.

  (I hope it’s not. I’d have worn better shoes.)

  Len folds his arms on the tabletop and leans forward slowly, tilting his head to the side. ‘What are you thinking?’

  Whoever said being friends first is key to successful romantic relationships was sorely mistaken. There’s nowhere to hide.

  ‘I was thinking … I definitely misquoted Winston Churchill in the year level assembly this morning.’

  He snorts. ‘As if.’

  I push my hair out of my eyes. It needs a wash; it’s clumping together in untidy waves across my forehead. ‘I’m really not leadership material, am I?’

  ‘You’re the smartest person in that room, and you know it.’

  I blink at the second unexpected compliment, embarrassed and (pathetically) elated. ‘Er, thanks.’

  He pauses, eyes intense. ‘What were you really thinking?’

  ‘Just … I don’t know. This is weird.’

  ‘It’s not like we haven’t had dinner before,’ he points out. ‘A lot.’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s different now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Different?’

  ‘More.’

  ‘More.’

  ‘Can you stop repeating what I’m saying?’

  He smiles again. ‘Sorry.’

  Our bread arrives, and we’re quiet for a while, chewing and scraping.

  ‘It doesn’t have to mean anything,’ he says, looking at me. ‘If you don’t want it to.’

  ‘Don’t you say I’m always obvious?’

  ‘Not always,’ he demurs, but then the waiter comes back and the moment slips.

  When we get back to Scott’s Corner, it’s still light outside. The air smacks of freedom – two weeks of holidays stretched like a little infinity ahead of us after so much study.

  ‘The portrait?’ I ask after a long pause, hoping/wondering if it was a ruse.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Len nods. ‘This is perfect, actually.’ He points to the arched window in the kitchen leaking orange. ‘Golden hour.’

  We settle on the balcony, cars drifting past on the road below us. As soon as he looks
at me it’s a flame licked between us. Him mapping the contours of my face with his mind, now, is like making out on high.

  Len swallows like he feels it too, and lifts up his camera. ‘Relax,’ he orders. I don’t know which one of us he’s speaking to.

  I try to keep my mind on permitted topics – groceries we’re low on, Gran’s bunions, global warming. Definitely not the way the waning sun makes his hair glow silver, or the movement in his forearm.

  He stares intently, his teeth worrying at his lower lip while he snaps this way and that.

  The flash rebounds off my glasses. I reach up to take them off.

  Len tilts his head and smiles sideways. ‘Yeah.’

  I grip the chair underneath me. Global warming. Financial recession. Ham’s dirty soccer socks.

  A few shots later he gets up and unscrews the big lens, and I think we’re done, but then he reaches across towards my face.

  With the lens, he guides my chin upwards and to the side. With the lens. The metal and glass are cold on my face, but his fingertips are feather light. His breath fans across my face and I can smell it – a himness that absolutely kills me.

  I hold my breath and try to look like this isn’t the hottest thing that’s ever happened on a semi-wraparound suburban verandah.

  ‘Sorry. The light,’ he says softly, sitting back down and gesturing to the sun, which has sunk westwards and left me here to spontaneously combust.

  I gulp. ‘It’s okay.’

  The day dies around us as he works, the sky turning bruised behind his head. I feel his eyes on me; every time they home in on a new section their focus leaves a trail of warmth.

  ‘Okay,’ he says finally. ‘I think I just got it.’

  ‘Cool.’

  We’re quiet for a minute. Len looks almost … nervous, or something. But that can’t be right. I must have entered a phase of turned on where you hallucinate.

  ‘What now?’ he asks, rubbing his thighs.

  I take a breath, and stand up. ‘I kind of want to go to bed.’

  I have no idea where this is coming from. Some smooth-talking alter ego who’s been lying dormant until this exact moment. I hope he sticks around.

  Len swallows. ‘Okay.’

  We take the stairs slowly. Even though it’s still early he flips off the lights, dimming the heavy chandelier until we’re being guided only by the foggy glow of the street lamps outside.