Henry Hamlet's Heart

by Rhiannon Wilde

  I finally look at Dad, and he’s making a face.

  ‘But …’

  ‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘There’s no “but” here. You don’t say things you wouldn’t say to someone’s face publicly, and then just rock up a day later.’

  Dad’s got his Yoda look on now. ‘Don’t you think that’s exactly why you should go?’

  ‘Um – no. I do not.’

  ‘If,’ Dad says, ‘you stay here holed up in your pillow fort, you won’t see Len again. For who knows how long. What’s he gonna think of that?’

  (Don’t start making sense now of all moments, old man.)

  ‘You should show up,’ he finishes. ‘Whatever else has happened.’

  I exhale again. ‘I really can’t.’

  ‘You really can,’ he says with certainty, leaning over to squeeze my shoulder. ‘You’re the son of The Reubenator.’

  ‘I don’t have my stuff ready,’ I protest.

  Dad just points to my uniform hanging on the door. He’s even polished my shoes.

  ‘BILLIE,’ he calls downstairs. ‘Start the car.’

  I rush to meet Martin outside the auditorium at four thirty. It’s still blaringly hot, the day showing no signs of ending. I haven’t checked my messages, so I don’t know if The Boiyss are here yet.

  ‘Henry!’ Martin calls when he sees me. ‘I knew you’d show.’

  ‘Er. Hey.’

  ‘Everything’s pretty much set up.’ He gestures to the stage, the house banners backdrop, the rows of seating on the floor.

  ‘Cool. Thanks.’

  (I think we’re friends. How is that even possible?)

  The Sniffer strides through the side entrance. Martin takes one look at his face and melts away, back through the stage curtains.

  ‘HAMLET! Where in the name of the Christ child do you suppose you’ve been?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I—’

  ‘Had an existential crisis about some personal matters,’ he says briskly. ‘I heard.’

  I freeze. ‘You did?’

  He pulls a list and a pen from his pocket absently, checking things around the room and ticking them off. ‘Yes. I expect everybody did.’

  I’m going to kill Dad for making me come here.

  I tap my foot rapidly inside my shoe. ‘Er, right. Do you not want me to speak tonight, then?’

  The Sniffer’s beady eyes snap up. After a couple of seconds, his brow furrows in understanding.

  ‘Oh, for the love of God,’ he mutters wearily. ‘I confiscate your infernal telephones a few times and you all think I’m an ogre. No. Your private life is your business. You are the leader of the student body – you give the farewell address.’

  ‘But won’t the P & F, or—’

  ‘Hamlet,’ he cuts me off. ‘Do you know how many years I’ve worked in boys’ education?’

  I shut my mouth and shake my head.

  ‘Enough that nothing – and I do mean nothing – shocks me, or even touches the edges at this point. You will deliver the best speech of your life tonight, as planned. Capische?’

  ‘Was … was that a joke, sir?’

  It feels like I’ve entered a parallel universe. The sky should be at our feet.

  He actually winks. Sort of. ‘Now go and make sure Finch has everything in order!’

  Mum, Gran, Marigold, Dad and Ham are all sitting front row when I take my position onstage with the rest of 12C fifteen minutes later.

  Everything seems normal. We’re all supposed to sit here in silence, while the school song drones through the speakers on repeat. I search again for The Boiyss.

  The ceremony is meant to kick off at five, if the teachers go by the timetable Martin drew up.

  I don’t let myself check if everyone from my home room is present until ten to.

  I scan the heads.

  He’s not here.

  I’m glad, really. Len’s not the one under fire – people have known about him, at least in whispers, for years. He’s dated enough girls that no-one asks about the rest.

  Ged must be sitting somewhere behind me, because I can’t see him either. I’m extremely grateful Clarkson’s in 12B. Everyone’s definitely staring a bit.

  At five minutes to five, the last few grey and red blazers trickle in through the side doors. I don’t look up – I’m busy counting the cracks in the linoleum floor (fifty-seven) to stop my hands from shaking – but I feel it when someone sits down in the empty chair beside me.

  I stiffen immediately, allowing myself a precautionary glance at his shoes.

  Pointed, with non-regulation socks. I look up.

  Len makes himself comfortable in the chair, not even bothering to stop his elbow from brushing mine.

  The seating plan is alphabetical. He must have swapped with someone. This is calculated. I look behind us; about a third of the class are muttering to each other and watching us.

  He shifts his arm so that it rests on the back of my chair. Not around me, exactly, or even romantic. Loose and best-friendly. He throws a corrugated-iron glance at the mutterers.

  Not just calculated, I realise – it’s a statement. He is, publicly, daring them to fuck with me. Which they won’t, not if we’re a package deal. Lennon and Hamlet, back for one last hurrah.

  I love you, I think, louder than I’ve ever thought anything.

  The Sniffer strides onstage, turning on the mic and commencing his opening address. It’s the same, word for word, as the one he gave last year. (I know, because I proofed it for him then as one of my captaincy candidate acts of kiss-arsery.)

  ‘And so,’ he finishes, finally going off-script. ‘Let us celebrate this, our graduating class for 2008. May they go forth as world-shakers, leaders, iconoclasts and, above all, individuals of integrity, judgement and merit.’

  The academic awards pass by in a blur – I get two, Len three. The cheers for us coming from the stage are pretty lacklustre, but Gran hoots and hollers so loud it’s almost imperceptible. Martin wins Dux of the Year, and I’m genuinely happy for him.

  As the bronze academic awards wind down, my hands are fists on my knees in anticipation of the speeches. Len looks down at them like he wants to unfurl them himself.

  (Wishful thinking, Hamlet. Focus.)

  Martin grabs the microphone from Mr Schiffer and waits for me by the lectern. He’s wearing his version of a steely look – ready to take over if need be, I expect. I shake my head slightly; I’ve made it this far.

  He hands me the mic, and I position it under my chin, the way I have every week of the year. I breathe in, imagining it’s one of those times – mundane and low stakes – and begin.

  ‘Good evening parents, teachers, guests and fellow NGS graduates.’

  (That wasn’t so hard. Now what?)

  I give the speech. I couldn’t tell you afterwards what I spoke about, but speak I do, and pretty well at that. Generic stuff about the end of childhood, thanks to our parents and teachers, etc. Martin and I banter back and forth – genuinely, this time. There’s polite tittering laughs throughout, and it ends before I have time to remember I wanted it to.

  Mr Schiffer gives me a brusque nod for a job well done, and I go back to my seat.

  This Is It. The end smells like polyester rugs and two hundred bodies under the hot breath of old studio lights.

  The final item on the agenda is the big-ticket awards – for mateship, overall achievement, sport and spirit. I’m so relieved nothing went wrong in the speech that I’m not even listening as they rattle off the nominees for each.

  A guy I swear I’ve never seen before takes out mateship. Martin gets overall achievement. I tense when they get to sport – Len won that last year.

  ‘Lennon Cane.’

  There’s a faint sprinkling of unsurprised applause when he gets up, sheepish, to grab the trophy. H
e looks at me, right as they’re taking the posed picture of him and Mr Schiffer. I throw him a thumbs up.

  Spirit is last, because it’s the most lucrative – awarded to the boy who best embodies the school motto. I slump in my seat a little. At the start of the year, which feels several planets away, I’d set my sights on this one. It’s normally awarded to one of the captains as a kind of farewell gesture. Normally.

  I half-hope they’ll let Martin have it, just for the irony. Or some other faceless person. As long as it’s not Jake bloody Clarkson, I’ll deal.

  Mr Schiffer unfurls the envelope, and squints down at the name. ‘Henry Hamlet,’ he says in my head.

  Except, everyone’s sort of staring at me.

  I look over at Mr Schiffer. He’s staring too.

  Len, standing beside him, mouths congrats.

  I stand up somehow, even though my legs feel like pad Thai noodles plugged into the sockets. I walk over and take the trophy, the faux-gold almost slipping through my clammy fingers.

  The auditorium is quiet – the click of the shutter when they take the picture reverberates through the entire room.

  Mum and Dad stand up, clapping furiously. Gran whistles. Len and Martin join in, as do the faculty onstage. Slowly, it spreads down through the parents and alumni into ringing applause.

  Officially, without a doubt, the weirdest twenty-four hours of my life.

  Because this is Brisbane, and trees are dying, there’s no paper diplomas to give the night a conclusion. We’re all just loosely dismissed to the soupy air of the quad, where there’s party pies and sausage rolls and sweaty parents checking their watches every few minutes.

  I’m edgy and ready to quit while I’m ahead. To be done for good. Mum insists on staying for half an hour to say goodbye to people she hasn’t spoken to for years.

  ‘Proud of you,’ Dad says quietly, bumping my shoulder with his. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I’m starving!’ Ham announces, and they disappear in search of pies.

  Ms Hartnett catches me on her way out. She’s in full academic regalia, complete with a consequent sheen of sweat. ‘Congratulations, Nick Carraway! I voted for you, you know.’

  ‘Oh! Er, thanks. I didn’t think …’

  She touches my shoulder lightly. ‘Your speech yesterday confirmed it was the right choice.’

  ‘You were my favourite teacher!’ I tell her, realising I might not get another chance. ‘Really. You’re great.’

  ‘You were my favourite too.’ She winks. ‘Best luck, Henry. I hope you’ll write more – you have it in you.’

  A parent grabs her elbow, then, and she’s gone.

  I stand by the auditorium door, soaking it in. The last time I’ll ever be here, in the snug hold of this itchy grey ensemble. It feels surreal.

  Also, I have to pee.

  I peel myself off the wall and head for the bathrooms by the art block, which are always slightly less like a scene from a horror movie than the rest. They’re also more isolated.

  ‘Hamlet!’ someone calls from behind me.

  I start, but it’s only Ged.

  Vince and Harrison run up behind him.

  ‘We tried to find you today,’ Harrison says breathlessly.

  At the same time, Vince says, ‘I figure if you were going to try and snog me, you’d have done it by now.’

  My chest squeezes.

  I look at them, leaving Ged for last.

  ‘It’s shitty that you lied to us,’ he says. ‘And I don’t really wanna watch you kiss dudes. But you can, and you’re still my mate. Okay? Forevs.’

  Vince elbows him hard in the ribs.

  ‘What?’ Ged hisses at him. ‘I didn’t say anything bad!’

  ‘What the hell was that last bit?’

  ‘We don’t think you lied,’ Harrison tells me hastily, peacekeeping.

  ‘I kind of did.’ I shrug. ‘To myself, anyway.’

  Harrison frowns. ‘We’re shit friends for not getting it.’

  My throat constricts. ‘Nah. It’s—’

  ‘It’s not fine!’ Vince exclaims. ‘We’re meant to have your back. Be your—’

  ‘Boiyss,’ Ged finishes quietly. ‘North strong all day long.’

  ‘Oh man,’ I say, laughing, and then I do cry a bit, but no-one sees because they’re huddling around me, and Vince and Harrison are patting me on the back hard and awkward.

  Then Ged says, ‘You can kiss dudes in front of me if you want!’

  I shove him away. ‘Yeah. I’m not gonna do that.’

  ‘You totally could, if that’s what you—’

  ‘Shut up, Ged,’ Vince cuts him off.

  ‘Speaking of,’ Harrison says suddenly, looking over my shoulder.

  I turn back towards the quad. The familial groups are dwindling, but there’s one I recognise, standing spaced apart by the drinks table.

  John looks different to the last time I saw him. He’s not wearing a suit, for one – just a plain blue shirt rolled up over a gaudy silver watch. He’s standing off to the side, glowering at Len and Lacey, but still talking to them. At them, his mouth shaping low rapid words.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I say.

  I walk across the manicured lawn, until the downlights of the quad roof wash me in white and I’m standing right behind them.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re even doing here, if you’re just going to be like this.’ Lacey sighs.

  ‘Trying to figure out what exactly your plan is,’ John hisses, looking at Len.

  ‘Move out, together,’ Len snaps, ‘like we’ve said. It’s already done.’

  ‘Stop this—’

  ‘Hey guys!’ I cut John off brightly. Bolstered by The Boiyss, I feel giant.

  John looks up at me. For a second he seems almost chagrined, then it passes, as quick as it came.

  ‘Well done on your academic awards, Henri,’ Lacey says sincerely, drawing out the French accent.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I pipe up, my voice too loud. ‘Not as good as this one.’ I point at Len, adrenaline coursing.

  Len shuffles his feet.

  John doesn’t say anything.

  Fuck you, I think, and then I can’t help it, no matter what else has happened.

  I say even louder, staring hard at him so he can’t look away, ‘Three awards is a few too many for it to be a fluke. Far too many for a “no-hoper”. Don’t you think, Mr Cane?’

  Lacey looks torn between amused and sad. Len looks … like I probably did, when he sat down beside me earlier.

  John’s face changes when he realises I’m quoting him. Caught.

  ‘Do you really think—’ he starts.

  ‘I think you should go, Dad,’ Len cuts him off, so firmly that pride shoots through me. ‘Now.’

  John looks at Len as if noticing he’s there for the first time. His forehead creases slowly, right down the middle. Something passes between them again. It’s different this time, though. There’s a different winner.

  ‘I’m gonna bring the car around,’ Lacey says once he’s gone. She squeezes my arm as she leaves.

  Then we stand there, just the two of us.

  Looking at each other.

  Len opens his mouth and closes it again, pulling one side of his lip into his teeth.

  Our gazes stay locked (there should be a law against all the colour in his eyes – it’s greedy).

  ‘OI!’ Ged calls from across the quad, the sound cutting through the night. ‘We’re going to the bridge! You guys coming?’

  27

  I find Team Hamlet by the food table and ask if I can borrow Mum’s car, ignoring Mum and Dad’s not-so-subtle tag-team, ‘Are you going to talk to him?’

  (Am I? I don’t even know if he’ll come.)

  We meet on the bridge people used to live inside, because it�
��s equidistant from all our houses, sitting on the railing at angles that vary in degrees of recklessness. The city blinks glittering awake in the thick dark behind us.

  Vince drops something in the river as soon as we arrive.

  ‘What was that?’ Ged demands. ‘Cane and Harrison Ford aren’t even here yet.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Vince says, leaning out to peer at the surface of the water, his legs swinging over the void. ‘Thought it might’ve been my phone, but it was just my wallet.’

  I stare up at him from where I’m sitting cross-legged on the ground. ‘Sorry, but – that’s better how?’

  ‘Empty, isn’t it? But my phone has Matilda’s number on it.’

  Some things never change.

  ‘Who’s Matilda?’ Harrison calls from behind us. He jumps over the road divider, then leans back against it with his arms folded.

  Vince exhales sharply. ‘I met her at a gig. Remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Harrison nods in faux-understanding. ‘All those gigs you go to.’

  ‘Wait. You mean the one from dinner at the RSL with your parents?’ Ged says.

  ‘What happened to Kayak Girl? That’s what I want to know,’ I interrupt, catching the look on Vince’s face. It’s the wrong thing to say, though, because his hands ball into fists.

  Boyfriend, Ged mouths, shaking his head in solidarity.

  ‘You didn’t think to maybe check that first, before you spun your great love fantasy around her?’ Harrison puts in.

  ‘It was not—’ Vince starts hotly, nostrils flared. ‘I didn’t— Wait. Where’s Cane?’

  ‘Late,’ Ged says. ‘He texted that he’ll defs be here, even though …’ He looks at me very obviously. ‘Ah, shit.’

  They all eye me, tense.

  I sigh. ‘Look, I don’t want this to be weird. I can go, if you—’

  ‘Go where?’ says a smooth voice. ‘To hang out with all the other friends you don’t have?’

  Len’s mouth quirks into a half-smile as he climbs up to sit beside Vince. His cheeks are red when our eyes catch, but like – maybe he had to park far away and then run here.

  ‘Finally,’ Ged exclaims, visibly relieved to have escaped Dealing With Emotion.

  ‘To be fair,’ Vince says to Len. ‘He’s got Martin Fincharoo, now. He looked like he wanted to hug you when you spoke tonight, Hamlet.’