by Elise Broach
“Oh!” Hero said. “That is a lot. Why did she give him so much money?”
Her father ruffled his hair so that it puffed in a wiry cloud around his face. “The Oxford theorists believe that the allowance is another piece of the puzzle. That Elizabeth was paying him to write the plays but not take credit for them.”
“To keep it a secret?”
“It’s a theory. Again, it’s intriguing, but there’s no proof.”
“But why would she care?” Hero asked. “Why would she care if Edward de Vere wrote the plays under his own name?”
Her father nodded. “Exactly. If there were some connection between Oxford and Elizabeth that meant the royal name would be besmirched by his ambitions as a playwright—but no one has ever uncovered that kind of connection.” He reached out and tugged her ponytail. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Elizabethan history.”
Hero had never thought so before. But she could see it now, what her father loved about Shakespeare, about that entire, mysterious time, with its pomp and majesty, secrets and betrayals. She nodded slowly, looking down at the portrait of Elizabeth and thinking again of poor Anne Boleyn, facing her death on Tower Green.
“Dad—” Hero hesitated.
“What is it, ladybird?”
“Anne Boleyn . . . they told those terrible lies about her. But I was reading what she said right before she died, and she didn’t defend herself. She didn’t say it wasn’t true. Why?”
Her father rubbed one hand over his rough beard. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. There was no escaping her fate at that point. The king wanted her gone, and remember, her enemies had tortured her own brother and four other men to get confessions. Those poor fellows were sentenced to be drawn and quartered.”
“What’s that?” Hero asked.
“Medieval torture. They tied each leg and arm of the victim to separate horses, and sent the four horses running in different directions. The person was literally torn apart.”
“Ugh!” Hero cried, wincing. “Really?”
Her father looked sheepish suddenly. “Well, the king changed the sentence. They were beheaded just like Anne in the end. But your mother probably wouldn’t appreciate my telling you all this. Don’t repeat it, all right?”
“I won’t,” Hero promised. “But Dad,” she persisted, “even if it wouldn’t have changed anything, why wouldn’t Anne Boleyn want people to know the truth?”
Her father ran his hands through his hair again, this time raking it smooth. “I remember her speech on Tower Green very well,” he said thoughtfully. “The first time I read it, it gave me chills. It was elegant, but so full of courage. Don’t you think people knew the truth from that speech, Hero? Sometimes the best way to defend one’s honor is simply to behave honorably.”
Hero was quiet for a minute. “Still?” she asked finally. “Even today?”
Her father smiled at her. “Even today.” He gestured toward the book. “Have a look at that. See what you think about the Oxford theory.”
Hero climbed the stairs, slowly turning the pages. The portrait of Edward de Vere showed a pale man with dark eyes. A frilly lace ruff framed his jaw, and a velvet cap angled jauntily over his forehead. The portrait of William Shakespeare was one that Hero had seen before: a balding sober-looking man with a broad, plain collar. Their faces gave away nothing. Who could tell which man was the true author of the plays? Shakespeare’s secret was safe. Maybe it would always be safe.
“What are you looking at?” Beatrice asked, passing her in the hallway.
“Just a book Dad gave me.” Hero closed it and tucked it under her arm. Beatrice followed her into her room. “So how’s it going at school?” she asked.
Hero felt equally unprepared to lie or tell the truth. She lay on her bed and fiddled with a corner of the pillowcase. “Oh, you know.”
“Are they still making fun of you?”
“Pretty much.”
Beatrice picked up Hero’s hairbrush and sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair. “You need a way in,” she said.
Hero looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“You need a way in. Just one person. I know you think they either hate you or they like you, but that’s not how it works. You just need one person to let you in, the right person, and then the rest is easy.”
Hero snorted. “What do you know about it? You never have any problem fitting in. You’re ’in’ from the very first minute.”
“No. No, I’m not.” Beatrice put down the hairbrush. “I needed Kelly.”
“Kelly!” Hero groaned. “She’s so mean. Why are you even friends with her?”
Beatrice sighed. “She’s my way in. It’s not always someone you like, you know.”
Hero frowned at her. “But then what’s the point?”
“The point is, it gives you somewhere to start. And then you meet other people, and you can figure out who you want to be with. And then, if you’re lucky, if everything goes okay, you’ll get to choose.”
“Maybe you’ll get to choose. I’ll never get to choose.”
Beatrice shook her head in frustration. “You know, Hero, you think it’s so great for me, so easy. But it’s not. I mean, it’s not hard the way it is for you. But it’s still hard.”
Hero raised her eyebrows. “Being popular is hard?”
“Yes, it’s hard. Everybody’s watching you all the time, and you don’t feel like yourself anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Okay. In English last week, the teacher quoted Shakespeare, that line from Hamlet: “To sleep, perchance to dream.” How many times have we heard Dad say that? And he asked if anyone knew where it was from, and I couldn’t raise my hand.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not like that at school. I’m not the smart one who knows Shakespeare. Or if I am, I can’t be friends with Kelly.”
Hero thought about that. “Okay, so it’s hard for you, too,” she consented. “But, come on, Triss. You wouldn’t want to be me.”
“Maybe not,” Beatrice said impatiently. “But I’m just saying, you wouldn’t want to be me either. You would hate it. You would have to change too much about yourself.”
That was true, Hero suddenly realized. She would hate being popular. She thought of the poem Mrs. Roth had recited to her. Something about how dreary it was to be somebody. It would be too public, too much attention.
“I guess the best thing is just to be in the middle,” Hero said. “Not popular, but not, you know, an outcast.”
“Yeah,” Beatrice said. “But you still need a way in. Everybody needs that.”
Hero sat up, pulling off her socks and starting to get ready for bed. “Well, if you have any ideas, let me know.”
“I do,” Beatrice said. “I think Danny’s your way in.”
Remembering all that had happened during the week, Hero couldn’t help laughing. “Uh, no. I don’t think so. He’s sort of the opposite.”
Beatrice looked at her questioningly “Why? In the eighth grade, he’s it. It’s weird, but the order of who’s popular is totally obvious. And he’s different from the rest of them. He doesn’t care what they think.” She paused. “He’s not at your school, so that’s a problem. But the kids around here know him, and he likes you. It’s going to help you.”
“Believe me, Triss,” Hero said. “It’s not going to help.” She couldn’t decide how much to tell Beatrice. “They’re making fun of me for it. They can’t believe he’d hang out with me.”
Beatrice’s brow furrowed. “Did you tell them you’re friends with him?”
Hero couldn’t remember what she’d said. All she could remember was trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. “No, but—”
“Well, geez, Hero, don’t deny it. Let them know you’re friends with him. Let them wonder what’s going on. If you act embarrassed, you’re just asking for it.”
Hero pulled her nightshirt over her head and shook her hair loose. “Maybe yo
u’re right,” she conceded. “But it’s a little late now.”
The thought of school on Monday made her stomach clench with worry. She stretched out on the bed and opened the book her father had given her, trying to concentrate on Edward de Vere. She skimmed the pages quickly, reading about his early childhood, the years at court, the affection of the queen. He was a poet. A scoundrel. An adventurer. Could he have been Shakespeare? Was there any way to know for sure?
CHAPTER
20
On Monday, Hero lingered in the hallway outside her classroom. She had decided to wait until the last possible minute to go in. That way, maybe she could avoid the morning chatter and whatever else lay in store for her. As the other kids crowded past her, she tried to look engrossed in the bulletin board, haphazardly covered—just before Parents’ Night—with essays on the Salem witch trials.
Mrs. Vanderley appeared in the classroom doorway.
“Oh, Hero. Good. I was afraid you were absent. You’re wanted down at the principal’s office.”
“I am?” Hero looked at her in alarm.
“Yes, they just buzzed. Go right now so you’ll be back in time for Math.”
Hero started down the hallway, her heart pounding. What now? She’d never been to the principal’s office, not once in her entire life. She didn’t even know what one looked like. She hurried to the main office, where she and Aaron had stopped on the first day of school. The secretary smiled at her.
“How can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
Hero swallowed. “Um, I ... I think I’m supposed to see the principal.”
“Oh.” The secretary checked a calendar on her desk. “Your name?”
“Hero Netherfield.”
“Oh, yes, go on in. Mrs. Rivnor’s expecting you.”
Hero looked around in bewilderment, at the chairs and desks and the many nondescript brown doors leading to offices on all sides. “I don’t know where to go.”
The secretary smiled again. “You don’t? Well, I suppose that’s a good thing. Some of the students know their way blindfolded.” She gestured to the door behind her.
Hero felt so nervous she thought she might faint. She took a deep breath and cautiously opened the door.
Mrs. Rivnor was sitting behind her desk, writing briskly on a yellow notepad. She was a large woman, with graying hair and bright red glasses that slipped to the end of her nose. Hero could remember seeing her in the hallway during the first week of school and once at an assembly, but she had no other impression of her. She waited, but Mrs. Rivnor continued writing. Finally, she looked up.
“Yes?”
Hero clutched her backpack and tried to keep her voice steady. “Mrs. Vanderley said you wanted to see me.”
Mrs. Rivnor gestured at the chair in front of her desk. “Oh, yes. You’re Hero Netherfield? Sit down, please. You and I need to talk about a few things.”
Hero shuffled warily to the chair and sat on the very edge of it. She held her backpack on her lap, pillowed against her chest. What could they possibly need to talk about?
Mrs. Rivnor leaned back in her chair and rested her pen on the pad in front of her. She considered Hero for a minute, then said crisply, “When I arrived at school this morning, one of our custodians informed me that a stall in the boys’ bathroom was vandalized over the weekend. The wall was spray-painted black.”
Hero’s heart pounded so loudly that she thought the sound would fill the entire room. She looked at the floor. Danny had done it.
“I understand from various sources that this particular stall had been vandalized with graffiti last week and that your name appeared in the, mmm, vulgar commentary. I assume you were aware of that.” She was watching Hero closely.
Hero nodded, not knowing what to say.
Mrs. Rivnor picked up her pen, rolling it lightly in her palm. “Did you inform your teacher about the graffiti? Did you report it to anyone here in the office?”
Hero looked up. “No. . .”
“And so you took matters into your own hands.”
“No-”
“Listen to me carefully, Hero.” Mrs. Rivnor leaned forward, and Hero realized, nervously, that she was very angry. “I understand that in many schools, what those boys wrote about you in the bathroom would have gone unnoticed by the administration, a ’boys will be boys’ attitude. But not in my school. I will not tolerate that kind of uncivil, abusive, harassing behavior among my students.” She rapped her pen sharply on the desk. Hero jumped in her chair.
“I am sorry that you did not have enough confidence in me, as your principal, to approach me about this situation.”
Hero nodded meekly. “I didn’t know—”
“I realize that you were probably embarrassed and upset by this. But let me remind you that now, instead of ballpoint graffiti, my custodial staff has some kind of permanent black paint to contend with.” Mrs. Rivnor grimaced in annoyance. “I am not going to ask you if you were involved in this vandalism, Hero. And I am not going to ask you if you know who was involved. I am going to tell you what I intend to do.”
Hero sat back in the chair, clutching her backpack for protection.
“I have spoken to Mrs. Vanderley. There will be no more teasing or harassment of any kind in the classroom. That is not acceptable behavior under any circumstances, and children who participate in that kind of“—Mrs. Rivnor drew herself up indignantly— “persecution will be severely punished. I have instructed all of the teachers to speak to their classes about tolerance and respect for others, and to observe the students closely for violations of school policy.”
Mrs. Rivnor paused, studying Hero. “I realize that you are new to our school, Hero. Perhaps that explains the breach in protocol in this matter. But in the future, if something of this nature arises, I hope you will feel that you can turn to this school’s administration for support.”
Hero nodded. “I’m-”
“Every child at Ogden Elementary is entitled to learn in a safe and respectful environment.”
“Your teacher, Mrs. Vanderley and I are here to make sure that your experience at Ogden is a good one, Hero. We will listen to your concerns.”
“That’s-”
“Do you understand?” Mrs. Rivnor lifted her pen again, writing something on the yellow pad. “Is there anything you’d like to say to me?”
Hero took a deep breath, startled by the silence in the room. “No,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry about the bathroom.”
“All right then. Would you like me to schedule a conference with your parents about this harassment issue?”
Hero shuddered. “No, please—”
Mrs. Rivnor nodded briskly. “Then I believe we’re finished. Let’s get you back to class before you miss any more instructional time.” She stood up and strode to the door, holding it open for Hero.
“Thanks,” said Hero, feeling dazed.
She wandered out of the office, her backpack dangling from one hand. She thought about Danny, climbing through the bathroom window last night with his can of spray paint. Mrs. Rivnor was right. It was vandalism. And Mrs. Roth was right. It was the wrong thing to do. And Triss was right. Danny must not care what anyone thought. But suddenly, none of it mattered. Danny Cordova had done this for her.
CHAPTER
21
When Hero stepped off the bus that afternoon, she saw Danny leaning against the street sign, talking to his friends. She walked quickly over to him, ignoring the look that Aaron’s brother gave her. “Hey, Danny,” she said quietly. “Thanks.” He smiled at her. “Sure. No problem.” As Hero turned away, she heard him say something to the other boys. A minute later, he was walking beside her.
“So it worked?” he asked.
Hero thought he looked a little smug. “Well, I had to go to the principal’s office this morning,” she said. “But it was okay. I mean, she was almost more upset about what they wrote than I was.” She laughed, remembering. Then she stopped. “What did they write?”
Danny glanced at her. “Oh, you know. The usual.” He grinned. “Maybe I should have left it there. It might have made you more popular.”
Hero gave him a shove, but he only laughed at her, unfazed, his blond hair flopping over his forehead. “You going to Miriam’s?”
Hero nodded. “Are you coming?”
“Sure, in a while.” He turned back to his friends.
When Hero reached Mrs. Roth’s, she found her stooping over a flower bed, pulling weeds. A handful of roots and grasses lay in a sodden pile at her feet.
“Hey,” Hero called. “I can do that.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Hero.” Mrs. Roth smiled at her, flexing her hands and rubbing the knuckles. “You and I have more important things to do. Come see what I found.”
She led the way to the porch, where Tudor England was splayed open, pages ruffling in the breeze. “Look at this.”
Hero could hear the excitement in her voice. She sat on the step and lifted the book into her lap, glancing at a page crowded with portraits of Queen Elizabeth in all her usual regalia. “I know,” she said. “I’ve found lots of pictures of her, too. She’s always wearing those dresses that look like they’d weigh a ton.”
Mrs. Roth pointed, her smile widening. “Look at her necklace in this one.”
Hero bent closer to the page. It was hard to see the necklace. “There’s no pendant,” she said, squinting.
“No,” Mrs. Roth said. “But look at the necklace itself, the pattern of pearls and rubies.”
“Is it our necklace?” Hero gasped. She tilted the page in the sunlight. “Do you think it is?” She jiggled the heavy book on her knees. “But how did Queen Elizabeth ...”
“From her mother, of course. From Anne Boleyn.”
Hero nodded slowly, beginning to piece it together. “But where’s the pendant?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that.” Mrs. Roth gripped the post and lowered herself to the step. “Anne Boleyn was tried for adultery and executed for treason. Elizabeth’s own position was not at all secure. There were lots of people plotting against her. She knew how easily she might suffer the same fate as her poor mother. So I think she would have been careful not to wear something the public would recognize as Anne Boleyn’s. The pendant is very distinctive, and of course her mother’s crest was on the back of it.”
