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Marry, I’ll teach you. Think yourself a baby…
Ophelia bore the brunt of these exchanges on her face. Everything playing across her beautiful features. The audience was enraptured. She wilted under the pressure of her brother and father. Her love for Hamlet crumbled under the weight of their expectations. Willow was telling the story of the other night, of her life, as if Shakespeare had written it for her. My heart broke.
I took that pain onstage with me for the ghost scene, when the spirit of Hamlet’s father tells his story. Betrayal and murder. Poison poured into his ear by his brother’s hand.
I went looking for Willow the second I was offstage. I found her in the wings, sitting on an overturned bucket in the dark, her hands folded in her lap. She gasped as I took her arm, immediately pulling away. “No. Isaac, I can’t talk to you.”
“Shh.” I moved her to a dark corner, dimly lit by an emergency exit sign.
“I can’t talk to you,” she said again, her voice rising.
“Willow…”
“I can’t.” Her gaze darted around the darkened area. I’d never seen her so frail and nervous. She’d blow away at the slightest wind.
“You can. Tell me what happened.”
She shook her head, her eyes wide. “I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t.”
“Promised who? Your dad?” I gently took her shoulders. “He’s making you do this. Why? For what?”
Her mouth opened and shut. She looked almost panicked as she pulled from my grasp. “I have to go. I’ll miss my entrance.”
“Fuck the play,” I said. “Talk to me.”
“Don’t say that,” she said. “You have casting agents out there. This is your night to—”
“Is this about the money my dad owes?” I said. “If it is, forget it. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head miserably. “It’s so much more than the money.”
“Then tell me.”
“He’ll destroy you…”
“Fuck him too,” I said. “I’m not afraid of him—”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“Because you have no idea what you’re up against.” She was calmer now, stoic and resigned, which was worse than the frantic fear. “I’ve seen firsthand what privilege can do when it wants something.”
I ran my hands through my hair. “You don’t trust me to make this right? Is that it?”
“You can’t do anything,” she said, her voice breaking down to a whisper. “And he’s taking us away.”
“Away.”
“He’s been transferred to Canada. We leave Harmony in four weeks.”
The words hit me in the chest. She couldn’t go to Canada. She was just finding her way out of the cold. She needed Harmony to heal.
“He can’t do that,” I said, rage burning in my throat.
“He can. I’m not eighteen and even if I were—”
“You’ll be eighteen in a couple of months.”
