One Last Thing ✅

thirty-two things

In my opinion, I begin, Ophelia is a tragic character. I think her flaw is that she loved too much, wanted too much. And when her world ends up crumbling around her, she just can't deal with it. The way she dies, clutching a handful of flowers, and just letting the water claim her, is kind of the basic definition of tragic.

Mr. White is at the front of the room again. "Circle up!" He exclaims gleefully, grabbing an empty desk and flipping it around so it faces the middle of the room. I'm not sure what "circle up" means, but when everyone starts turning their desks inward, I get it. There's no way, however, with my bad arm, to really move my desk.

After maneuvering his own desk into position, Abbott handles mine. I stand back and watch him, slightly embarrassed. "Thanks," I tell him when he's finished.

We both sit down and look at Mr. White, who is clutching a worn copy of Hamlet. He leans forward and flips through a few pages, looking for something. "Someone summarize what happens in Act IV of Hamlet." He looks up from the book and scans the room. People shift in their chairs, not wanting to be called on. "Jason," Mr. White says, directing his attention toward a boy wearing a red and gold football jersey. I know his face, maybe we've had a few classes together. "Refresh our memories."

Jason thumbs through his own copy of Hamlet. "Well, the queen tells the king about Hamlet killing Polonius, and then they decide to send Hamlet to England."

"Okay..." says Mr. White. "What else? How does Ophelia act after her father's death?"

Jason looks uncomfortably. "Uh, crazy?"

"How so?" Mr. White prods.

"Well, she's wandering around with a bunch of flowers and singing weird songs. That's not something a sane person would do."

"So she's mad with grief. What else is she grappling with?"

A girl with a french braid half-raises her hand, and Mr. White nods at her. 

"Well, Hamlet pretty much dumped her," she says.

"Okay," Mr. White replies. "So she's lost almost everyone important in her life—parents, her first love. And how does she deal with these obstacles?"

Jason jumps in. "She drowns."

"She kills herself," the braided girl corrects, shooting Jason a disparaging look. "Which you'd know if you read Act IV." She continues in sort of a know-it-all tone of voice. "The gravediggers are talking about whether they should bury her in the churchyard because suicide was considered a sin."

"That's so pathetic," Jason says, face red. It's clear he didn't enjoy being corrected by the girl. "She was a doormat. She just let people push her around the whole time. Her father, her brother, Hamlet. Only losers give up."

I catch Abbott rolling his eyes.

But maybe giving up was her way of  exerting control, I think to myself.

"Let's hold that thought," Mr. White says. "I want to talk about the big battle scene now." He goes off on a tangent, but I'm no longer listening.

I spend the rest of the period watching everyone else—the guys in the corner who spend more time drawing obscene pictures on their desks than participating in discussion; the girl who corrected Jason, diligently taking notes; and Abbott, who keeps looking over at me but snatching his eyes away when I catch him.

I wonder what the worst thing Abbott ever did in his life was. Did he pour salt on snails when she was younger? No, of course not. He was the one who refused to dissect that cat fetus in biology. I can't imagine Abbott ever doing anything really bad.

Scanning the classroom, I play this game with each person, wondering if anyone has me beat. And every time, the worst thing I can imagine them doing doesn't even compare with what I have done.

Stole a pack of cigarettes from the corner store?

Yeah, I killed my English teacher.

My eyes rest on Mr. White, who's leading the discussion, making sure to draw each student out, everyone except for me. I wonder what the worst thing he's ever done is. Try as I might, I can only picture him sitting on a couch, drinking beer and munching potato chips while watching Saturday Night Live.

And who is that hurting, exactly?

No one.

Compared to me, he's a saint.

They all are.

I tap my pen against my notebook, thinking about Ophelia, her last moments, what she was thinking. Was she truly mad? Did she even know what she was doing? Or was that moment, right before she sank below the water, her last true moment of sanity? Maybe she was in so much pain that escape was the only answer.