If I Could Fly. // h.s. au

Two

                ~May 14, 2015~    

                To be or not to be.

                The question Shakespeare says each individual must confront and answer for himself truthfully at least once in his or her lifetime. And here I am, in my literature lecture with Hamlet wide open on the desk in front of me and the question at hand. To be here or not to be here. To leap from my chair and valiantly chase after the real adventures of life like a Sprite from Midsummers Night Dream or to sit here and endure this torture.

                And to most the answer should be obvious.

                But instead, I sit here quietly and try to make some sense of the chicken scratch my English professor had furiously scribbled across the board in an excitable hurry to read into every miniscule analogy of the four hundred year old play. I knew this was the right path, maybe not the path my dad would have told me to take, but I think he would've been proud of me for chasing after something I was passionate about. And I guess maybe that was what kept me grounded.

                I watched absentmindedly as Mr. Renner scribbled a few more illegible words onto the board and toss the chalk dramatically onto the tray.

                "Ms. Foster?"

                I snapped my head to meet my professor's furrowed expression. "Uh, yes." I answered, completely failing at trying to cover up the fact I had no idea what was going on.

                Mr. Renner raised his eyebrows quizzically. "Yes?"

                "I mean, no."

                A small smile stretched across his face. "Would you like me to repeat the question, Ms. Foster?"

                My cheeks were burning. I gave a small nod.

                "The question at hand was how did Hamlet spend his last dying moments?"

                "Probably not winning the lottery." The kid behind me muttered earning a subtle groan of laughter from the class and a disapproving frown from Mr. Renner.

                "He spends them with Horatio, telling him what do to after he's gone."

                I raised my head to see Sam a couple seats away twisting his pencil thoughtfully in his fingers as he answered the question. His eyes meet mine and I quickly found interest in the seam of my sweatshirt sleeve.

                Mr. Renner sighed happily. "Please expound, Mr. Evans."

                I dared to look up and watch Sam as he frowned the way he does when he's trying to think of the perfect way to phrase something. He leaned forward in his seat and pushed his blonde waves off his forehead. "Well..."

                Here we go.

                "I mean, he knew he was dying. The poison was acting fast and there was no way to stop it. But instead of feeling sorry for himself or trying to stop the inevitable from happening, he takes care of those who were still living. And at this point in the play the only last standing character that anyone actually cares about is Horatio..."

                This got another round of subdued laughter from the class.

                "Carry on Mr. Evans," Mr. Renner pressed encouragingly.

                Sam nodded curtly before doing just that. "Instead of asking for something from Horatio that would benefit him in his dying moments, he only asks that Horatio would go on living after he's gone, after everyone's gone. To not let this mass tragedy corrupt his mind to the point of suicide. And I guess that in itself is something wildly courageous. Because even staring death straight in the face, Hamlet only wanted the best for his friend that he was leaving behind."

                Sam caught my gaze again, but this time I was so caught up in his words that I couldn't break away.

                Mr. Renner tapped his desk loudly. "Well put, Mr. Evans," 

                Sam offered me a smile before turning back to the front of the class.

                I resisted the urge to sigh at my luck. Always my luck. Just focus on your work, worry about boys later. I listened to the more logical side of my brain and hunkered down in my chair and flipped to Act II Scene 5 and pretended not to think about the boy two seats over.