Read Online The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet by Erin Dionne - Free Book Online
Authors: Erin Dionne
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from Stratford-on-Avon and one of his plaques at Westminster Abbey that Mom shot on a research trip. On the couch are pillows with Shakespeare quotes embroidered on them (Gram, who tolerated Mom’s nuttiness but didn’t really get it, made them before she died), and in one corner we have a suit of armor.
Yes, a real one.
Dad bought it at an auction at a British castle and shipped it home in pieces. It weighs a ton, and they’ve never let me or Dezzie try it on, even though it’d be too small for anyone else to wear. Go figure—it’s the only cool thing we own. I think they’re afraid that we won’t be able to get out.
Dad’s office is a mess. There are books and papers everywhere, as well as fifteen years worth of lost lecture notes. The only thing that he keeps neat is his Globe Theatre collection. He started building them a couple of summers ago, and he makes them out of different materials. I asked him why he did it—they all look the same, after all—and he said it was because he enjoyed the feeling of re-creating something so special over and over again. Sometimes I wonder why not try designing something new that’s special, but he likes doing it, so it’s not really any of my business.
Ty and I cleared off space on the large coffee table. Before I was born, Dad built it as an anniversary gift for my mom. It’s made of really heavy wood, and he put copies of Elizabethan England-era maps all over the top of it, then covered them with about eight inches of varnish, so nothing can stain them and the table will never get wrecked. It looks kind of cool, actually.
Hoping to be spared several dinnertime lectures of information and “helpful hints,” I hadn’t told my dad about the Globe project in advance, so Ty had downloaded Build a Globe Theatre plans from the Internet. We spent the first few minutes trying to figure out how to follow the directions.
Ty laid a basic foundation, and then the basement door opened. Dad came downstairs, wearing the big goofy grin that he only gets when we pull into the Ren Faire parking lot. And his “Shakespeare hates your emo poems” T-shirt. It’s his favorite.
“I heard that someone down here is doing some pretty exciting work,” he said.
“Hi, Mr. Kennedy,” Ty said as Dad came around the corner into the room.
“Tyler,” my dad responded, nodding. His eyes were on the materials scattered across the coffee table and Ty’s crooked foundation. “I thought maybe I could give the two of you a hand.” He rubbed his hands together. By the look of him, we wouldn’t be doing any of our own work that afternoon—not that I was complaining.
The basement door opened again.
“Roger, may I speak with you for a moment?” Mom called.
Dad left and we heard him clomp up the stairs. The basement door closed.
“What are you going to do about it?” Ty said, picking up our conversation from the day before.
“About what?” Maybe if I pretended like I didn’t know what he meant, he’d stop talking about it.
Ty glared at me from under his bangs. “English. You can’t hide from it forever.”
“I’ll just read the part,” I said, irritated. “I’ll pretend—follow along in the book with my finger and talk slow if I have to. It’s no big deal.”
“If that’s what you need to think, that’s fine by me. But you could just read the way you did the other day and see what happens.”
Before I could ask him what he meant by that , the door opened for the third time. Dad came downstairs with the spark missing from his eye, less exuberant than before. Behind him were Ely and Judith, each carrying a shopping bag of what I guessed were more supplies.
“Hey,” I said. They sat down with Ty and me while my dad hovered around the coffee table, waiting for everyone to get comfortable.
“How about I show you four some other versions of the Globe?” he said.
Something was not right.
“Aren’t you going to help us with ours?” He was staring at the
Yes, a real one.
Dad bought it at an auction at a British castle and shipped it home in pieces. It weighs a ton, and they’ve never let me or Dezzie try it on, even though it’d be too small for anyone else to wear. Go figure—it’s the only cool thing we own. I think they’re afraid that we won’t be able to get out.
Dad’s office is a mess. There are books and papers everywhere, as well as fifteen years worth of lost lecture notes. The only thing that he keeps neat is his Globe Theatre collection. He started building them a couple of summers ago, and he makes them out of different materials. I asked him why he did it—they all look the same, after all—and he said it was because he enjoyed the feeling of re-creating something so special over and over again. Sometimes I wonder why not try designing something new that’s special, but he likes doing it, so it’s not really any of my business.
Ty and I cleared off space on the large coffee table. Before I was born, Dad built it as an anniversary gift for my mom. It’s made of really heavy wood, and he put copies of Elizabethan England-era maps all over the top of it, then covered them with about eight inches of varnish, so nothing can stain them and the table will never get wrecked. It looks kind of cool, actually.
Hoping to be spared several dinnertime lectures of information and “helpful hints,” I hadn’t told my dad about the Globe project in advance, so Ty had downloaded Build a Globe Theatre plans from the Internet. We spent the first few minutes trying to figure out how to follow the directions.
Ty laid a basic foundation, and then the basement door opened. Dad came downstairs, wearing the big goofy grin that he only gets when we pull into the Ren Faire parking lot. And his “Shakespeare hates your emo poems” T-shirt. It’s his favorite.
“I heard that someone down here is doing some pretty exciting work,” he said.
“Hi, Mr. Kennedy,” Ty said as Dad came around the corner into the room.
“Tyler,” my dad responded, nodding. His eyes were on the materials scattered across the coffee table and Ty’s crooked foundation. “I thought maybe I could give the two of you a hand.” He rubbed his hands together. By the look of him, we wouldn’t be doing any of our own work that afternoon—not that I was complaining.
The basement door opened again.
“Roger, may I speak with you for a moment?” Mom called.
Dad left and we heard him clomp up the stairs. The basement door closed.
“What are you going to do about it?” Ty said, picking up our conversation from the day before.
“About what?” Maybe if I pretended like I didn’t know what he meant, he’d stop talking about it.
Ty glared at me from under his bangs. “English. You can’t hide from it forever.”
“I’ll just read the part,” I said, irritated. “I’ll pretend—follow along in the book with my finger and talk slow if I have to. It’s no big deal.”
“If that’s what you need to think, that’s fine by me. But you could just read the way you did the other day and see what happens.”
Before I could ask him what he meant by that , the door opened for the third time. Dad came downstairs with the spark missing from his eye, less exuberant than before. Behind him were Ely and Judith, each carrying a shopping bag of what I guessed were more supplies.
“Hey,” I said. They sat down with Ty and me while my dad hovered around the coffee table, waiting for everyone to get comfortable.
“How about I show you four some other versions of the Globe?” he said.
Something was not right.
“Aren’t you going to help us with ours?” He was staring at the
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