INT. Classroom - Day
TEACHER is teaching. HAMLET flicks through the door. He has his backpack. TEACHER stops teaching, the class just stares at HAMLET.
TEACHER
You went to New England and back in a half hour?
Classmates still staring.
HAMLET
Well, I didnt actually go. Our car broke down halfway down the block and--
TEACHER
--Never mind! Never mind...just take your seat and we’ll continue on with the lesson.
HAMLET sits down. He looks over at CLAUDIUS who’s scribbling notes down. He has an elvish grin on his face. CLAUDIUS stops writing, and hands the pad to LAERTES, who gives it to HAMLET. It’s a cartoon of Hamlet, dead on the ground, Laertes with a puzzled look, and Claudius with a crown on his head. LAERTES nudges him.
LAERTES
He challenges you. Tomorrow.
HAMLET
Wha--?
TEACHER
Hamlet! No passing notes!
The TEACHER picks up the note pad and glances at the cartoon, then slams it down.
TEACHER
Report to the pricipal’s office immidiately.
HAMLET picks up his junk and strides out the door. Just as he gets out into the hallway, GERTRUDE runs by him, tears in her eyes. HAMLET is puzzled, the continues on. As he turns a corner, red and blue lights are flashig on him. He starts running.
INT. Main Office - Day
HAMLET enters the office, which is empty. The secretary isn’t there. He slowly sit’s down on one of the cushioned benches. He looks to see there is a man filing folders behind the counter. The man singles out a folder away from all the others. HAMLET sees Ophelia’s name on the folder. The man turns, and HAMLET swipes it. He opens it. It’s all this information on Ophelia. Her birthday, her...death...HAMLET stops dead.
HAMLET
To be, or not to be, that is the question:?Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer?The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,?Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,?And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;?No more; and by a sleep to say we end?The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks?That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation?Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;?To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;?For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,?Must give us pause: there's the respect?That makes calamity of so long life;?For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,?The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,?The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,?The insolence of office and the spurns?That patient merit of the unworthy takes,?When he himself might his quietus make?With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,?To grunt and sweat under a weary life,?But that the dread of something after death,?The undiscover'd country from whose bourn?No traveller returns, puzzles the will?And makes us rather bear those ills we have?Than fly to others that we know not of??Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;?And thus the native hue of resolution?Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,?And enterprises of great pitch and moment?With this regard their currents turn awry,?And lose the name of action.

Cut to: Immediate black after the word “action”.