Read The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet for Free Online Page A

u?
greeneggs22: have 2.
tyboardr11: if she wreks ur life u cld always
join the Ren Faire circus
    Pretty much.
    greeneggs22: Huzzah!

vii
    That first week, my parents wanted daily updates of the classes at HoHo. I let Dezzie do all the talking at the dinner table. Big mistake.
    “In art, we are making abstract expressionist paintings, like Jackson Pollock’s. Saber and Mauri, with whom we sit, do not like them very much, but they are looking forward to the Salute to Shakespeare project in English and history.”
    I could have fallen off my chair. I hadn’t told my parents anything about our exploration of the Bard.
    “Do tell!” My mother put down her fork and pushed back the sleeves of her nubby hand-loomed sweater. It was Sunday, which was seventeenth-century chicken stew night . . . which was way better than “potage of mutton” night. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what a “potage” was, even though I had to eat it.
    “What is this about?” my father said, giving us his full attention. He’d been skimming student sonnets while we ate.
    I glared at Dezzie.
    “Do not give your sister a cross look,” Dad admonished. When I sat back in my chair, he continued. “Now, explain to us about this Shakespeare event going on at school.”
    “Dezzie can tell you,” I said, and folded my arms. Her eyes went big. She could tell I wasn’t happy, but I bet it didn’t occur to her as to why. Sharing her “intellectual pursuits” with my parents came as naturally to her as calculus or four-syllable words. Iago, who’d been sleeping under the table, hopped into her lap.
    “Well,” she began, “some of the English and history classes are studying Shakespeare and Elizabethan England.” She patted Iago’s head, speaking to him more than us.
    My mother brought her hands to her chest in two excited fists. “Marvelous! What a wonderful opportunity for the students!” At home, when she’s not dressed in her regalia, Mom wears pleated broomstick skirts with those handmade sweaters and “stocks and socks”—Birkenstock sandals with big, thick woolen socks. Sometimes I don’t know which is more mortifying—being out in public with her in a costume, or the thought of someone showing up unexpectedly and seeing her “loungewear.”
    “Agreed,” said Dad. I pretended that I didn’t exist, praying to the ghosts of geeks past they would be so excited at the thought of junior high kids learning about Shakespeare that they wouldn’t actually ask the question that made the most sense. It had happened before.
    “Is your English class one of the ones studying the Bard, Hamlet?” Mom asked. She gave me her professor stare: narrow eyes, tight lips.
    So much for my prayers.
    For a moment, I considered lying. If I said no, there was a chance that they’d forget about it, or at least only question Dezzie about the class. But they’d find out eventually. Best to get it over with now.
    “Yes,” I replied. Shock flitted across Mom’s face, Dad’s showed mild curiosity.
    “Why did you not tell us?”
    “Because I wanted to surprise you,” I explained. And because it’s only been the first week of school, I added in my head. And I don’t want any more Shakespeare-o-rama in my life. “I thought it would be more fun that way.”
    Their faces changed to mirrors of happiness and pride.
    “Perhaps we will make ourselves available to consult,” Dad said.
    “Consult?” I coughed the word out. “Like, help?”
    “Why, yes,” Mom added. “It would be a lovely way to be involved in your studies.”
    No it wouldn’t.
    “Uh, well, let me check with my teacher,” I said lamely. Shock spread through my body. “I will let you know what she says.”
    Dezzie, probably figuring out what had gone wrong, changed the subject to a calculus problem and the conversation moved away from me. Although relieved, I now had to figure out how to avoid any parental involvement in “Salute to Shakespeare.” And that would be about as easy as