Read Online The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet by Erin Dionne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erin Dionne
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him. It wasn’t satisfying—just flitted in the air and landed on the table.
“This is my true nature: no Shakespeare, terrible at algebra—”
“Perpetual crush on Carter Teegan,” Judith teased. I glared at her. “Ooooh, do you think he was the one who left—?”
I cut her off quickly and gave her a little kick under the table. I still had no plans to share my pig mystery with either of them. “That is not what I was going to say!”
“But it’s true,” she said.
Ty snapped a piece of wood in half. “He’s an idiot,” he muttered. “I don’t know why you waste your time.”
“Why is this all about me?” I cried. “Don’t you people have any drama to deal with?” I was only half kidding. All of a sudden, I felt attacked in my own house. It was a new, and unsettling, feeling.
“Chill, yo,” Ely directed at Ty and Judith, “or Ham is going to climb into that suit of armor and go medieval on us.” I cracked a smile.
That broke the tension, and I think the others realized that talking about any of my issues wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Instead, our talk shifted to a songwriting contest Judith wanted to enter and how Ty and Ely scored tickets to the last regular season Red Sox game, thanks to Ely’s uncle, who worked for the team.
By the time they went home, we’d set up the foundation and stage level of our theaters. The theater Ty and I made was constructed from the balsa wood. Learning something from Dad’s agonizing lecture, we planned to use a cardboard/Styrofoam combo to build the upper levels.
“Nicely done,” Dad said when he came down to check it out after dinner. “Have you decided what scene you will stage yet?”
I shook my head.
“Not a decision to be taken lightly,” he said, mistaking my lack of consideration for indecision. If it weren’t for Ty’s suggestion to work on it, I probably wouldn’t have started.
“I’m thinking of using LEGO people as the characters,” I said, trying to distract him.
“Speak ye no of such heresy!” He spun toward me.
Well, he was distracted all right. “No players of the Bard’s work shall be represented by an infant’s figurines .” He said the last word as though it tasted like spoiled milk.
“Well, what should I use?”
“Something noble! Something that is worthy of the representation.” He rubbed his chin. “I have just the thing.” He disappeared into his office and came back with a book, which is how I found myself cutting fancy illustrations out of a collection of sonnets (“I have a second copy, and it’s for a worthy cause,” my father admitted) and mounting them to cardboard to serve as my players, cursing Mrs. Wimple and Mr. Hoffstedder in my head the whole time.
While I dissected the pictures, I couldn’t help but think about what Ty said about acting. It would be kind of cool to have something I was good at, but why did it have to be this? It was difficult enough to get my parents to chill out and join the twenty-first century. This could set us all back by a few hundred years.
Sunday night, I sat in my room, copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream propped open on my knees. Mom, Dad, and Dezzie were out at a lecture. After all the talk about Shakespeare and Globes this weekend, it was the perfect time to test out Mrs. Wimple’s theory that my Shakespeare-spouting was a “gift” and not an accident.
I opened it randomly to the end of Act II. Helena, Hermia, and Lysander were fighting. I picked Helena’s lines:
“Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?/When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?/Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man,/That I did never, no, nor never can,/Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye,/But you must flout my insufficiency?” It was easy—the phrases came out of me as naturally as talking to friends. I tried another one from the same scene, this time with Lysander speaking:
“For as a surfeit of the sweetest things/The deepest loathing to the
“This is my true nature: no Shakespeare, terrible at algebra—”
“Perpetual crush on Carter Teegan,” Judith teased. I glared at her. “Ooooh, do you think he was the one who left—?”
I cut her off quickly and gave her a little kick under the table. I still had no plans to share my pig mystery with either of them. “That is not what I was going to say!”
“But it’s true,” she said.
Ty snapped a piece of wood in half. “He’s an idiot,” he muttered. “I don’t know why you waste your time.”
“Why is this all about me?” I cried. “Don’t you people have any drama to deal with?” I was only half kidding. All of a sudden, I felt attacked in my own house. It was a new, and unsettling, feeling.
“Chill, yo,” Ely directed at Ty and Judith, “or Ham is going to climb into that suit of armor and go medieval on us.” I cracked a smile.
That broke the tension, and I think the others realized that talking about any of my issues wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Instead, our talk shifted to a songwriting contest Judith wanted to enter and how Ty and Ely scored tickets to the last regular season Red Sox game, thanks to Ely’s uncle, who worked for the team.
By the time they went home, we’d set up the foundation and stage level of our theaters. The theater Ty and I made was constructed from the balsa wood. Learning something from Dad’s agonizing lecture, we planned to use a cardboard/Styrofoam combo to build the upper levels.
“Nicely done,” Dad said when he came down to check it out after dinner. “Have you decided what scene you will stage yet?”
I shook my head.
“Not a decision to be taken lightly,” he said, mistaking my lack of consideration for indecision. If it weren’t for Ty’s suggestion to work on it, I probably wouldn’t have started.
“I’m thinking of using LEGO people as the characters,” I said, trying to distract him.
“Speak ye no of such heresy!” He spun toward me.
Well, he was distracted all right. “No players of the Bard’s work shall be represented by an infant’s figurines .” He said the last word as though it tasted like spoiled milk.
“Well, what should I use?”
“Something noble! Something that is worthy of the representation.” He rubbed his chin. “I have just the thing.” He disappeared into his office and came back with a book, which is how I found myself cutting fancy illustrations out of a collection of sonnets (“I have a second copy, and it’s for a worthy cause,” my father admitted) and mounting them to cardboard to serve as my players, cursing Mrs. Wimple and Mr. Hoffstedder in my head the whole time.
While I dissected the pictures, I couldn’t help but think about what Ty said about acting. It would be kind of cool to have something I was good at, but why did it have to be this? It was difficult enough to get my parents to chill out and join the twenty-first century. This could set us all back by a few hundred years.
Sunday night, I sat in my room, copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream propped open on my knees. Mom, Dad, and Dezzie were out at a lecture. After all the talk about Shakespeare and Globes this weekend, it was the perfect time to test out Mrs. Wimple’s theory that my Shakespeare-spouting was a “gift” and not an accident.
I opened it randomly to the end of Act II. Helena, Hermia, and Lysander were fighting. I picked Helena’s lines:
“Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?/When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?/Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man,/That I did never, no, nor never can,/Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye,/But you must flout my insufficiency?” It was easy—the phrases came out of me as naturally as talking to friends. I tried another one from the same scene, this time with Lysander speaking:
“For as a surfeit of the sweetest things/The deepest loathing to the
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