SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET (5 page)

Her father smiled at her. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet
_/
”

“Well, yeah. But, Dad, why do they think that other man, Vere, was the real author?”

Her father leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. “Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford. We call him Oxford, although you're right, his descendants go by the last name of Vere. Actually, the whole thing is hotly debated in my circles. Most academics still favor Shakespeare as the true author of the plays, barring proof to the contrary. But over the years, Oxford has emerged as a real possibility.”

Hero could sense her father drifting into one of his lectures. She straightened her homework sheets impatiently and took a pencil out of her backpack. “But why?” she persisted. “What makes people think he's the secret Shakespeare?”

“Well, he has the right background,” her father said. “The perfect background, really. He was clever, well educated, well traveled, a great favorite of Queen Elizabeth's, and frequently at court. Certain events of his life bear a fascinating resemblance to events in Shakespeare's plays. And recently, scholars discovered that Oxford's personal Bible was annotated—it had notes in the margins—and the marked passages correspond with important verses in Shakespeare's work.”

“But did he write anything else? Could he spell his own name?” To Hero, that seemed a fairly basic test of a writer's skill.

Her father laughed. “Yes, indeed. Oxford left behind many literary documents. He was a well-known poet whose talent as a playwright was widely praised. But—and here's the other piece of the puzzle—historians have been unable to discover any plays published under his name. To some, that suggests he might have had a secret life, creating plays under a pseudonym: Shakespeare.”

Hero looked at her father, balancing her pencil on her knuckle. “But why would he do that? Why wouldn't he want people to know he wrote those great plays?”

Her father stood, his chair scraping the floor as he pushed away from the table. “That's the key question, and no one's found a good answer to it. Some believe that it was beneath Oxford to publicly reveal himself as the author of the plays. They think that since he was a nobleman, his reputation would have suffered if his name were linked to the lowly pursuits of the theater. Playwriting was considered unworthy of the nobility.”

“Do you think that?” Hero asked.

Her father paused. “Well, there was some prejudice against it, but it was fading during Queen Elizabeth's reign. And it's not as if he were royalty.”

“So you don't think he's the real author?”

“To be honest, I don't know. There's a case to be made, absolutely. But I have to admit, I'm reluctant to give up the man from Stratford. The idea of a simple, unschooled merchant stringing together some of the most beautiful phrases in the English language . . . now that's inspiring.” Her father's face creased in a smile. “Still, as Shakespeare himself would say, the play's the thing.”

Hero glanced down at her math worksheet, with its orderly march of numbers followed by blanks: the promise of crisp solutions. “So nobody knows anything for sure,” she said, disappointed. “What did Mr. Murphy say about it?”

“Well, naturally, his wife's family prefers to believe that Oxford—their ancestor Edward de Vere— is the true Shakespeare. And Murphy seemed quite convinced. But I asked if they'd ever come across any documents—papers, letters, anything—that supported it, and he didn't know of any. So I suspect it will remain a mystery.”

Her father winked at her, tugging a strand of her hair. “I must say Hero, I'm delighted by this sudden interest in Shakespeare. You know, we have plenty of books on sixteenth-century England in the study. You could do a little reading on it yourself if you'd like. I'd be happy to pull them out for you.”

“Oh, that's okay,” Hero said quickly. “I was just curious because of what Mrs. Roth said.”

“Well, if you change your mind ...” Her father started to leave the room but stopped at the door. “So, school went well today?”

Hero glanced up and saw her mother turn, too, both of them looking at her with expectant smiles,
their faces reflecting exactly what they hoped she would say. It really was so much easier just to say it. “Yeah, fine. The teacher seems nice.”

“There you go! You were worried for nothing.” Her father thumped the door frame. “It's all in your attitude, Hero. That's the key.”

Hero smiled at him. Her father was always so clueless about her real life. She felt a strange mixture of pity and gratitude. It was good to be home, in the bright, safe kitchen, with the smell of dinner filling the air and her parents bustling obliviously just a few feet away.

Later that night, as Hero and Beatrice crowded at the bathroom sink to brush their teeth, Beatrice demanded the real story.

“Okay so what happened?” she asked impatiently. “Mom and Dad think you're finally well adjusted.”

Hero laughed. “Oh, it was terrible. I got stuck showing a little kid where the first-grade classrooms were, so I was late. Then, when I had to say my name, it turned out there was some girl in my class with a dog named Hero, and of course she had to announce it to everybody”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. So, for the whole entire day, the other kids were whistling at me and making dog jokes.”

Beatrice looked awed. “That's probably the worst first day you've ever had.”

“Pretty much,” Hero answered.

“And it's not like they're going to forget about the dog thing. Not any time soon.”

“Probably not.”

“Wow, that's rough.” Beatrice flipped off the light switch and they drifted together into the hallway, silently assessing the damage.

“How was it for you today?” Hero asked. Part of her didn't want to know.

Beatrice shrugged. “It was okay. I mean, I get teased too, but nothing like that.”

“You get teased?” Hero looked at her sister in amazement, feeling a small flicker of hope.

“Sure. Some of the boys were passing notes about me, and on the bus this afternoon, somebody behind me kept pulling on my hair.”

“Oh, geez, Triss,” Hero protested. “That's because they
like
you. Don't you see? That's their stupid way of getting your attention.”

Beatrice paused. “Maybe,” she said. “But it's still annoying.”

Hero shook her head in disbelief. There were few things worse than having a beautiful, popular sister. It changed the way you looked at the world. And the way the world looked at you.

Beatrice stopped at the doorway of her bedroom. “You can sleep in here tonight if you want,” she offered.

Hero changed into a T-shirt, grabbed a book, and padded barefoot into her sister's room. The large windows overlooked the backyard. She could see the moonlight streaming over the trees and bushes, making long, crazy shadows across the grass. Was there a diamond hidden out there somewhere? She looked at Beatrice, already settled under the covers. She wanted to tell her about the Murphys, but at the same time, she didn't. She wanted to keep the secret. To have something that belonged only to her.

At school the next day, Hero decided her plan would be to attract as little attention as possible. She got to her classroom early, slid her notebooks into her desk, and steadily ignored the whispered dog comments that percolated from the back row. She found that if she avoided eye contact with Mrs. Vanderley, the teacher never called on her. Actually she wondered if Mrs. Vanderley even remembered her name. By afternoon, Hero had decided to concentrate all her psychic energy on becoming part of the laminate wooden seat, solid yet invisible. If she could keep her name from being spoken out loud for a few days, maybe the other kids would forget the dog association.

With this as her goal, Hero slipped through the rest of the day as quietly as possible. She didn't talk to anyone. She didn't raise her hand in class. She sat by
herself in the cafeteria and ate, quickly and unobtrusively, the tuna sandwich her mother had packed that morning. She couldn't entirely avoid the teasing. The boys standing behind her in the lunch line jostled one another and barked a few times. But, for the most part, they didn't bother Hero, which made her feel relieved. And alone.

When she got off the bus that afternoon, she forgot all about school in her eagerness to get to Mrs. Roth's. But as she was heading away from the corner, she heard frantic shouting.

“Ben! No! Give that back! Give it
back
!
That's my hat!”

Hero stopped and turned. Aaron was racing around the street sign, yelling and sobbing, while two much bigger boys tossed his beloved Orioles cap back and forth. Hero immediately recognized them as two of the boys who had been waiting at the bus stop yesterday. The third boy was leaning against the street sign. She realized with a start that he was looking directly at her. He was tall, with blond hair falling over his forehead. To her amazement, he smiled.

She looked at him in confusion. Then, suddenly, she felt a surge of anger. She dropped her backpack
on the pavement and strode back to the street corner. There was Aaron, running between the two other boys, beating them with his fists and trying futilely to grab the hat they waved just out of reach. “No, Ben! Give it back! It's mine!”

“Give him back his hat,” Hero said loudly. She could feel her hands start to tremble. She clenched them at her sides.

The tall boy looked amused. The other two just stared at her. The one holding Aaron's hat had dark, curly hair, and something about him was familiar.

“What are you looking at?” the dark-haired boy demanded.

Hero could feel her cheeks grow hot. “Oh, I don't know,” she said. “Just a couple of juvenile delinquents picking on a kid half their size.”

The boy stepped toward her, and Hero deftly snatched the hat from his hand. She tossed it to Aaron, who clutched it to his chest and fled toward his front lawn, his skinny white legs flashing in the sun.

“Hey! What do you think you're doing?” The dark-haired boy yelled. He grabbed Hero's shoulder.

But the tall boy intervened. “Aren't you Beatrice Netherfield's sister?” he asked.

Hero shook free. All she wanted to do was get out of there.

“Yes,” she mumbled. She turned and started walking away.

“You're Beatrice Netherfield's sister?” She heard the other two boys laugh incredulously.

“Whoa, you look
nothing
like her.”

“What, are you adopted?”

Hero didn't turn back. She could see the picket fence surrounding Mrs. Roth's shimmering oasis of garden. She felt like a parched traveler in a desert. She began to run.

“Hey, Netherfield!” It was the tall boy. Hero kept running.

“Netherfield, wait up!”

She could hear him behind her. She stopped, her heart pounding.

“You forgot your backpack,” he said, holding it out.