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But now Hamlet, which had always given me a shred of hope, rang hollow too.
“Fuck.” I slammed the broom to the ground. It echoed through the theater with loud, hollow crack.
Martin came out of his office, and joined me on the stage, hands in his pockets.
“What’s happening?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing.” I bent to pick up the broom.
He watched me, waiting. I kept my mouth shut. I was fucking done talking.
Martin nodded to himself after a second and dragged two chairs onstage.
“Let’s talk Hamlet,” he said, taking one and patting the seat of the other. “A little character analysis before everyone gets here. I want to make sure you and I are on the same page through the rest of the rehearsal process.”
I set the broom down and sat in the chair, crossing my arms over my chest, and my feet at the ankles.
“Now that we are this far along, what do you think of Hamlet?”
“He talks too much.”
Marty sat back in his chair, lips pursed, thinking. “Can you expand on that?”
“He talks too fucking much.”
Marty gave me a look.
“He over-analyzes every aspect of every situation,” I said. “Instead of doing something, he winds up doing nothing.”
“Act Two,” Marty said with a nod of his head. “What an ass am I…?” He grinned. “But then he concocts the idea of having an acting troupe play out his father’s murder. That’s something.”
“The ghost of his father told him to seek vengeance,” I said. “Instead of walking up to Claudius in Act One and putting a knife in his ribs, he talks and talks and talks. Torturing himself. Hurting Ophelia.” My hands tightened into fists. “All he needs to do is what he vowed to do at the very beginning of the play.”
“Ah. But then there is no play.”
I shrugged. “In the end, everyone winds up dead. No one gets a happy fucking ending, Marty. No one.”
“That’s the peril of drama, isn’t it?” Martin said after a long moment. “You’re constrained to the lines that are given, and the fate of the character the playwright has written.” He leaned forward. “But you, Isaac, are not confined in that way. On the stage, yes. In real life, you’re free.”
Bullshit.
I didn’t feel free. Harmony constrained me with a role I never auditioned for. The son of an abusive alcoholic. A loser with a failed business. A high school drop-out. A potential criminal. The fate I needed to make for myself was to get out. End of story. Scene. Curtain.
Martin observed my hardened expression and sighed.
“Come on. Rehearsal is about to start. Is Willow going to be joining us?” he asked. “The other night she wasn’t feeling well.”
“I think so,” I said.
Willow texted me that Angie and her mom covered, but no other details. If Willow’s dad hadn’t found out about us and the cemetery by now, she was still in the play. And my stomach would stay tangled with nerves until she walked through the door.
Seven o’clock came and went, and no Willow.
When Justin Baker arrived, he shot me a look of contempt. Willow embarrassed him by ditching him at the dance and getting a ride with me. He didn’t give a shit about the reasons why, or how she’d felt. Only his pride.
Laertes would ultimately deal Hamlet his deathblow, but Hamlet kills Laertes in return. I suddenly had an intense desire to rehearse that scene so I could disarm the smug little bastard and run him through with his own sword.
Jesus, get a grip.
