The Fragile Ordinary

It was almost comical how quickly Michael Gates, a guy in the year above us, agreed to read the part of Hamlet after that.

Mr. Stone relaxed, clearly refusing to allow one kid to ruin the class, and we continued.

“‘Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, and let thine eye...’” I wanted to look over my shoulder and grin at Steph as she read, because she was reading the queen’s part in a fake English accent that was causing a buildup of giggles in the back of my throat.

Michael read as Hamlet with absolutely no inflection or enthusiasm. Poor William must have been rolling in his grave to hear it.

“Stop there, Michael, thank you,” Mr. Stone said. “What do you think is being said here between the queen and Hamlet? Comet?”

I raised my head from the words on the page, feeling everyone stare at me.

Mr. Stone gazed at me encouragingly. “What do you think, Comet?”

It wasn’t that I wasn’t used to answering questions in class. We’d had to do class talks, where we either did a presentation to a group of peers or to the entire class. I’d hated every minute of those, but I’d gotten through them. I guess I was nervous because there was a person in our class who had never heard me talk, and I was passionate about this stuff, while he seemed to think it was all a joke.

Come on, Comet. Like you should care what that Neanderthal thinks of you?

“I think,” I started, “the queen is questioning Hamlet’s continued grief over losing his father. When she says, ‘cast thy nighted color off’ she means his mourning clothes and his mood. And then she asks why, when everyone knows of the inevitability of death, should Hamlet’s father’s death be so unique. It’s almost like she’s questioning whether Hamlet’s grief is real or for show, and Hamlet replies that yes, from his outward behavior it might be easy to think he’s just acting a part, but he insists that his grief is deeper than mere appearance.”

Mr. Stone stared at me a moment and the class seemed to wait with bated breath along with me. A slow smile curled his mouth and he nodded. “Excellent, Comet.”

I flushed, relaxing in my chair, as he asked Michael, who was reading the king’s part, to continue.

Pleased with myself, relieved I really did understand the flowery, beautifully overcomplicated prose of Shakespeare, I settled back in my seat to follow the rest of the scene. But that burning sensation I had on my neck when the class was staring at me, waiting for me to answer, hadn’t gone away. In fact, it felt like my neck was burning hotter.

Giving in to temptation, I glanced over my shoulder, searching for the cause, and froze, breath and all, when I did.

Tobias King was looking at me.

Really looking at me.

Our gazes held for a moment, and my cheeks grew warm as my heart picked up pace.

Tobias frowned and jerked his gaze away.

Flushing harder, I turned back fully in my seat and willed my heart rate to slow.

So what if Tobias King had finally noticed me. He was a bad boy. He was arrogant, cocky, hanging out with guys who were going nowhere in life, and he definitely shouldn’t be in my Higher classes with me. I was not attracted to this boy, and I should not feel a thrill of anticipation, a flutter of butterflies, just because we’d made eye contact.

No.

Nope.

Definitely NOT.

I was Comet Caldwell. I might be many things, and not many other things, but I was above having a crush on a boy who disdained Shakespeare.

* * *

“Uh, Comet.” Mr. Stone approached me after the bell rang.

I looked up from putting my books and jotter away. “Yes?”

My teacher leaned a hand on the desk and lowered his voice as the rest of the class filtered out for their last class of the day. “I was wondering if perhaps your dad might be interested in coming in next term to talk with the class about writing skills.”

An instant flush of irritation rushed through me and then worse...

Self-doubt.

Had Mr. Stone paid attention to me only because of who my dad was?

“I just found out.” He smiled, looking sheepish. “I never put K. L. Caldwell and your dad together. It was Mrs. Bennett that told me yesterday.”

Mrs. Bennett was my third-year English teacher. She’d also tried to get me to ask dad to come speak with the class.

“Um...” I stood up, pulling the strap of my heavy bag onto my shoulder. “Did Mrs. Bennett tell you my dad doesn’t do school talks?”

The light of anticipation died in his eyes as he straightened. “She mentioned it. I was just hoping he might have changed his mind.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stone. I really am. But it’s not his thing. He asked me not to ask him again. He doesn’t like being put in the position of having to say no to me,” I lied.

“Oh, then don’t, please,” Mr. Stone reassured me. “It was just a thought. You better get to your next class.”

As I was leaving he called my name again. I looked back and he gave me an encouraging smile. “You did well today.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stone.” I smiled back and left his classroom feeling reassured that my favorite teacher liked me as a pupil and not as K. L. Caldwell’s kid. But the lie I’d told him, and not the thing about my dad not enjoying saying no to me, sat heavy on my chest, refusing to shift.

I hated lying.

Yet, I hated the idea of my dad coming into our class and talking about writing and books with us. There was no way I’d let the rest of the world see the strange dynamic between me and my father. Plus, he’d love the whole thing. Educating young minds. Passing on literary wisdom. I didn’t want him to have that.

I didn’t want him to have any part of the one place in my life right now, outside of my beach and bedroom, that fit me.

* * *

“Comet!”

Startled by the interruption, I pulled out my earphones and twisted my neck to find my dad standing behind the bench I was sitting on. The sea wind blew his hair off his forehead and his T-shirt batted around his body like a flag.

I looked out at the sea and frowned to see how rough it was getting out there. The clouds above us were growing steadily dark.

“Carrie made her celebratory chicken curry. Thought you might want some.”

Although when I’d gotten home from school I’d eaten two muffins that Mrs. Cruickshank had baked, I wasn’t going to say no to Carrie’s chicken curry. Grabbing my stuff, I hopped off the bench and followed my dad over the esplanade and into the garden.

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “You’re not even wearing a jacket. It’s cold out here, Comet.”

Goose bumps prickled my skin, but I hadn’t even noticed, I’d been so lost in writing. “Yeah.”