So Much It Hurts (10 page)

“I'm sorry,” I manage to say. I don't want to cry, but I feel the tears building up inside my head like a drain that's clogged and is about to burst.

Mick grabs my wrists again. This time, I know it's not because he wants to make love. I try to move away, but I'm not quick enough. “Let go!” I say, trying to shake myself loose.

I see Mick's palm, open like a fan, coming at me— and then he does something I would never have expected. Not in a billion years. Mick smacks me. Not the wall this time. Me. My face. My cheek. It happens quickly, so I have the weird sense I'm watching the scene unfold from a distance. As if there are two Irises. The good Iris—the one who makes Mick happy. The bad Iris—the stupid one who keeps screwing things up.

Bad Iris crumples to the floor like a toy that's lost its stuffing and can't stand upright. Her cheek burns.

The other Iris, the good one, just watches. She's afraid to make a sound. If she does, Mick might get even angrier.

Mick's right.

I'm reckless and stupid.

When he sees me run my hand over my cheek, he doesn't try to comfort me. He doesn't apologize either. Instead, he stomps over to the little kitchen. I watch him as he opens the oven door, then slams it shut. “It looks like the chicken's nearly done,” he says.

CHAPTER 13

“Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.”
—HAMLET
, ACT 3, SCENE 1

I
cry a little in the bathroom. But mostly I press a cold washcloth to my cheek. The skin is raised and red and warm to the touch where Mick smacked me. I should never have changed my status on Facebook. I should have known Mick would lose it if he found out. I should've remembered how private he is—and how much he has to lose. Things'll be different once I graduate. I know they will be. Then we won't have to hide our relationship. And Mick and I won't have anything left to fight about.

I take my time in the bathroom. Partly because I need to regroup, but mostly because I'm expecting Mick to come and get me, to say he's sorry and to promise he'll never ever hurt me again. Because he
has
hurt me. My cheek still stings, and even with the cold compress, the skin is swelling up. Hopefully no one'll notice. If anyone does, I'll have to come up with some excuse. I can say someone accidentally whacked me during Theater Workshop. That'll work, especially since Ms. Cameron gave us that warm-up exercise where we slapped each other.

Mick doesn't come to get me, so in the end, I go to him.

I know I probably shouldn't, that I should wait for him to come to me. But I can't stand us being in a fight. I need for things to go back to how they were.

Mick's trying in his own way to make it up to me. I know he is because he's put the chicken on our plates and he's sliced carrots into perfect rounds. He's waiting at the table, his cloth napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt like a bib.

If he notices my cheek is puffy, he doesn't mention it. I know it's because he's too upset to talk about what happened. I understand how he feels. I want to forget what happened too. I want to forget how much I upset him. How stupid and careless I was. I need to try harder not to upset Mick—especially when he's already under so much pressure. If only I could take it all back and start over again.

“After supper, I'll change my status on Facebook.” My voice cracks, but I don't let myself cry. I know if I cry, it'll only make Mick more upset. I don't want him to feel guilty about what happened. I had it coming to me.

Mick holds his fork like a spear as he cuts into his piece of chicken. “I've already gone ahead and changed it.

And I deleted that last ridiculous post on your wall too.”

I'm about to ask Mick how he knew my password when I realize I never shut down my laptop. “Thanks,” I say softly. I don't say what I'm thinking: I bet he'd go ballistic if I messed around on his computer.

“Chicken's good,” he says, wiping his lips with his napkin. “Nice and moist.”

“I marinated it in Italian salad dressing. The store-bought kind. I saw the recipe on the bottle and I thought it looked good. It's low-fat.” I'm babbling, but I can't stop. I don't want there to be empty air between us. I'm trying to act as if everything's normal. It's the only thing I can think of to make things better.

Mick hasn't even looked at my cheek. I hope that means the swelling isn't so bad. “Hey,” he says, “I nearly forgot. I've got a nice bottle of Australian chardonnay chilling in the fridge.” He gets up from the table to get the wine and the wineglasses. “When you come to Australia,” he says from the kitchen, “we'll tour the vineyards. I want to introduce you to some New World wines, Joey.”

My heart flutters when he says that. So he isn't upset with me anymore! Why else would he talk about my coming to Australia and visiting vineyards with him? I know it's Mick's way of saying he's sorry. “I'd love that,” I tell him. When I feel myself starting to choke up, I swallow to make the feeling go away. I don't want to cry—even if it's crying from relief. Mick and I are going to be able to get past what happened to us earlier.

I take a small sip of the wine Mick pours for me. I'm thinking how terrible he must feel and how I'd do anything to make things between us good again. Anything.

“Let's toast,” Mick says, lifting his glass into the air.

“To us,” I say hopefully.

“To theater!” Mick says. I watch his eyes as we clink wineglasses. The dark pools are calm again. I'm so relieved he's not angry anymore. Still, I wish he'd wanted to toast us, not theater. But now isn't the right time to mention it.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper instead.

Mick looks surprised. For a moment, I wish I hadn't reminded him of our argument. He looks over my head. “Let's get past that, Joey,” he says.

He's right, of course. In a good relationship, you need to get past the difficult moments—the blips that are bound to happen. Getting through hard times will bring us even closer.

For a while, we both just eat our chicken. “I meant to make rice,” I tell Mick, “only I didn't get around to it.”

If Mick realizes he had something to do with why I didn't get around to making rice, he doesn't let on. “Rice would've been good,” he says, “though you know I like to watch my carbs.” He pats his belly. It's as flat as a teenager's.

Mick tops up our glasses. The wine helps me relax. He leans back in his chair. “Good theater,” he says, “is about lying.”

I don't know where that comment came from, but I'm glad we're talking about theater and not about us or the argument we had. I lean back in my chair too. “Lying? What do you mean?”

“The lie starts as soon as the audience comes into the theater space. We're asking people to check their disbelief at the door, along with their coats and, if it's raining, their umbrellas.” Mick chuckles at his own joke.

That makes me laugh too. It feels good to laugh. So light, so free. I love Mick's sense of humor—the way he says funny things in a deadpan way so that if you didn't know him the way I do, you might miss the joke altogether.

Mick tilts his glass and examines the color of the wine. “Great actors are great liars,” he says.

“I'm not a very good liar.” I'm thinking how hard it's been to lie to my mom and Katie. Sometimes I think I need a notebook to keep track of all the lies I've been telling.

“You know what great actors and great liars have in common?” Mick asks me.

“I don't know. Tell me.”

Mick leans back on his chair. I know he likes telling me things. “Empathy. A great actor inhabits the character he's playing. Years ago in London, I saw Anthony Hopkins playing Lear. And that's exactly what Hopkins did. He
was
Lear. A great liar has to get inside the mind of the person he's lying to. So he'll know exactly what that person wants to hear.”

“I'm confused,” I say. “Isn't the whole point of art—any art—to tell the truth?”

“You're right, Joey. ” (I can't help feeling proud when Mick says I'm right. See, I think to myself, I am smart— about some things anyway.) “That is the point of art. To raise people's consciousness, especially about difficult subjects. To make them reflect on their own lives and society. But sometimes, it takes a lie to convey the truth.”

I'm still confused. Maybe it's the wine—it's making me light-headed. I reach for Mick's hand across the little table. For a moment, I worry he won't let me take it, that maybe he's not over our fight yet—but he does. “I really love talking to you about this stuff,” I tell him.

“Me too, Joey,” he says. “Me too.”

CHAPTER 14

“Friends to this ground.”
—HAMLET
, ACT 1, SCENE 1

M
om leaves for work at seven, so there's time for me to phone my father before school. It's already evening in Bangkok. He knows I'll be calling because I messaged him on Facebook. I told him I had something I needed to ask him and that I didn't want to ask it over Facebook.

“Iris!” he says when he picks up. It's as if I can hear him smiling. “How's everything going over there?”

I need to swallow before I answer. “Great. Everything's great.”

“And the play? How's that coming?”

“It's getting a little better with every rehearsal. Thanks for asking.” I nearly call him
Dad
, but I stop myself.

“So what do you need to ask me?”

This is harder than I expected. I take a deep breath. “Was naming me Iris really your idea?”

“It sure was. Don't tell me that's what you couldn't ask me over Facebook.” His voice is gentle. He must know I'm working my way up to the real question.

I take an even deeper breath. “If what you said is true and my mom wouldn't let you see me…” I'm finding it hard to go on. To formulate the question. But I don't have to.

“Oh, Iris,” he says, and now I know he isn't smiling. “You want to know why she prevented me from contacting you…that's it, isn't it?”

I can barely say, “Uh-huh.”

“I'm sorry, Iris, I really am.” I know from his voice that he means it. “But your mom's the only one who can answer that question. You're going to have to ask her.” He pauses. “When you're ready.”

I can't stop thinking about the phone call. Not even when I'm in Theater Workshop and, later, in Economics class. Why won't my father tell me what happened—and will I ever be ready to ask my mom?

The Economics teacher calls my name twice before I look up. “Iris, can you answer the question, please?”

“Uh, I'm sorry…but I don't think I heard it.”

Lenore's arm shoots up. “I think the term you're looking for is the law of diminishing returns.”

“I'm glad to know some of you are paying attention,” the teacher says.

Lenore turns her head just enough to give me a condescending smile.

After school, Katie and I hurry along Monkland Avenue, on our way to the Villa-Maria metro station. Our arms are linked, and we keep our heads down to protect our faces from the gusty November wind. “I can't believe you couldn't answer that question about decreasing returns,” Katie says.

“Diminishing. Not decreasing.”

Katie doesn't seem to notice that I've corrected her.

“You know what else I can't believe? That you didn't take a picture of him! You should've known I'd want to see what he looks like.”

“I know it's dumb, but I only thought about it afterward,” I tell her. “He sent me a picture on Facebook—I'll show you that later. You'll see he looks like me. I mean, I look like him. Same cheekbones, same wide-apart eyes. And we have the same laugh. He's taller than I expected, and handsome. Well, kind of. I can sort of see why Mom fell for him.”

I can almost feel Katie shiver under her jacket. “You still haven't told her about Plattsburgh?”

“I don't think she could handle it. Did I tell you he used to act?”

“That's pretty cool. So maybe acting's in your genes.”

“She could've told me.”

Katie knows I mean my mom. “So are you happier now that you've seen him and he's your Facebook friend?”

We're crossing Girouard Avenue. At least it'll be warm inside the station. “Do I seem happier?”

Katie does something unusual for her. She stops to think about the question. “You seem different. Not necessarily happier. But definitely different. You're not hanging out with Mick what's-his-name, are you?”

I can't believe Katie has just asked me that. It's a good thing she can't see my face.

“Of course not.” I figure I should go on the offensive. “Why would you ask me such a weird question?”