So Much It Hurts (14 page)

I
don't expect Mick to apologize. He doesn't believe in apologies, the way other people don't believe in Santa Claus or the tooth fairy. I haven't heard him apologize to the lawyer after he's yelled at him on the phone, and I'll bet anything he's never apologized to Nial's mother either. Not apologizing is a point of pride for Mick.

Personally, I don't see the problem with apologizing. I apologized to Katie for missing her party. I apologized to Mom for being too busy to meet up for regular Saturday brunches at the bagel place. I even apologize to strangers when I'm trying to pass them on the escalator in the metro and our elbows bump. Apologizing makes me feel better, not worse. If anything, I probably apologize too
much
.

Even though I'm the one with the bruised cheek and eye, I actually feel sorry for Mick. He has to look at me this way, and every time he does, he has to remember how he lost it and ended up hurting me. That must kill him. Even if he won't say so. I know it would kill me.

I tried icing my face right after the incident—I used a bag of peas from Mick's freezer—but it didn't help much. Later, I couldn't sleep on my right side the way I like to.

When I got up this morning, I went straight to the bathroom to inspect my face. It was as if I'd somehow expected the swelling to magically go down, maybe even disappear altogether. Only of course it hadn't. And now there's bruising too. It breaks my heart to look at my mangled face. The skin around my eye's the worst, probably because it's so thin. It's as purple as a ripe eggplant, and it hurts when I blink. I feel ugly—not just outside, but inside too. If only I hadn't been so stupid. So what if I make the honor roll? I'm starting to think I need to be in a remedial section of life!

I call in sick to Scoops. Phil says not to worry; he'll find a replacement. “You sure you're okay, Iris?” he asks.

I cover the side of my face when Phil asks me that. There I go being stupid again. It isn't as if he can see me.

I won't be able to leave the loft all day, that's for sure. I don't even want to think about Monday. I'll have to come up with some excuse when people at school ask what happened. Because this time, they're definitely going to ask.

I also need to figure out what to tell Mom. That's when my eyes land on Mick's kitchen cabinets. Perfect. I'll say I bumped into a cabinet door. That I didn't realize it was open. That I can be such a klutz sometimes. I'll need to put my acting skills to good use. I'll demonstrate what happened. I'll throw my head back to show how startled I was. “I know it looks awful,” I'll say, and then I'll laugh lightheartedly. “People'll think someone hit me! Can you imagine that? Someone hitting me?”

“How do you want to spend the day, Joey?” Mick asks me over Sunday breakfast. He must've heard me talking to Phil. Mick has made poached eggs—I know it's his way of trying to make up for last night. What's weird is how when he looks at me Mick doesn't seem to notice my swollen cheek and eye. Maybe, I think hopefully, it's not really that bad. Maybe I'm making too much of it, overreacting. If Mick doesn't notice…except then I lift my knife and catch my reflection in it. I'm so ugly I have to put the knife down. I want to cry and never stop, but I know I can't cry in front of Mick. I don't want him to think I'm weak or to know I'm feeling sorry for myself.

“I just want to stay in,” I manage to tell him, but then I realize maybe that'll make him feel guilty so I add, “I need to finish off that college application.”

“Sounds like a plan. Let's make it a day for organizing— and lying low.” Mick doesn't say it in a way that suggests I've got a reason to lie low. It's more like we've been busy and we need to catch up on chores around the loft. “I've got a lot of computer work to do,” he adds.

I'm going to be gentle with myself today. Someone has to be. I take my time finalizing the application, reviewing every line, and then, after making sure no one's in the corridor, I go to Mrs. Karpman's to feed Sunshine. I sit in Mrs. Karpman's armchair, surrounded by the photographs of all her children and grandchildren. I can't remember the eldest grandson's name, but Mrs. Karpman's right— he is good-looking. In a boyish way. Something about his face—the openness, maybe—reminds me of his grandfather. No wonder Mrs. Karpman's so crazy about him.

When I get back to Mick's, he is busy on his laptop. I don't ask whether he's heard from the lawyer or if he's writing an email to him now. There's no way I'm going to step on that land mine again.

I wander back to the bathroom, where I hoist myself onto the edge of the sink and really look at myself in the mirror. I start with my left side, then turn my head slowly. I've always liked my profile, the way my nose goes up a little at the bottom, but not too much. My lips are nice too, even without lip gloss. They have a nice bow shape.

Mom says that when I was a baby, she used to stand over my crib and admire my lips. Was my father with her when she did that? Were things already bad between them? Maybe next time I talk to my dad, or if he comes back to Plattsburgh, I could ask him.

Slowly I turn my head so that I can see the right side of my face. I wince when I do. It looks like it belongs to a monster.

Part of me still wants to cry, but Mick would hear, and I don't want that. Besides, crying won't do me any good. My salty tears might make things worse, might make the skin look even puffier.

I let the cold water run until it's so cold it makes my fingers ache. Then I take a small square washcloth from the towel rack and hold it under the water. I squeeze it out and fold it in two so it makes a compress. I sit down on the toilet and hold the compress to the right side of my face. I'm careful not to press too hard. The skin is so sensitive.

I take a deep breath. Maybe the cold compress will help bring down the swelling. And I'm pretty sure I saw some Vitamin-E oil in Mick's bathroom cabinet. When I get up, I'll look for it. I read somewhere that Vitamin E speeds up healing. I need Vitamin E all over everywhere.

After I find the Vitamin E and dab a little on with just one fingertip, I suddenly feel very, very tired. More tired, even, than I've felt on the nights I used to go clubbing with Katie. Or even after a double shift at Scoops. I need to lie down.

“I'm going to take a little nap,” I tell Mick.

He doesn't look up from the computer. “Good idea.”

I lie down on the bed, and it isn't long before I feel myself falling into a half-doze. Resting will help me heal; I know it will. The sun is streaming into the room, but when I close my eyes (it hurts a little when I close them), I'm in a deep, dark forest. The trees are so tall that even when I tilt my head, I can't see all the way to the top. When I look back down at the ground, there's no path for me to follow. The trees are so dense that hardly any light can get in. How will I ever find my way out of here?

From somewhere a world away, I hear a gentle clattering. Has someone come to rescue me—to lead me out of the forest? Then I realize I'm half-asleep in Mick's loft. He's gotten up to close the curtains so I'll be able to sleep better. I smile because Mick is looking after me. Smiling hurts my face. Then I hear Mick mutter something about how the sun is in his eyes and he's having trouble reading what's on the computer screen.

I go back and forth between the apartment and the forest. The forest floor sinks under my feet when I try to take a step forward. What if I sink too? Who'll find me here? No one will know where I am. And no one is coming to save me. I need to save myself. But how, when I'm afraid to even take a step?

Where did all these leaves come from? They are covering me so softly that I'm less afraid. I feel my lips curl into a small smile. Oh, that feels nice and warm.

It's Mick. He's covering me with the comforter, tucking it in around my hips and over my feet so I won't get cold. See, I think, he is looking after me. This time I don't smile though.

I know Mick loves me. Adores me. And I know he's sorry for what he's done. So what if he can't say so in words?

I have to spend the night at Mick's. Mom would freak out if she saw me looking like this. I phone to tell her I'll be at school rehearsing until late, and that it makes more sense to sleep over at Katie's since her house is closer to the school than ours.

Mom says she's worried I'm spending so much time in rehearsal. “You sound exhausted, Iris. Can we at least plan a quiet evening at home tomorrow? It would be good for both of us. I've been putting in long hours at work too,” she says. “I'll make us a batch of chicken wings.” Chicken wings were my favorite when I was six. I don't tell her that now I think they're greasy and too much effort for too little chicken.

“I'll try,” I say instead.

Should I mention I bumped into a cabinet? Prepare her for when she sees me? In the end, I decide not to. Who knows? Maybe by tomorrow night my face'll be back to normal.

At the end of the afternoon, I check my Facebook page. My father has messaged me.
Fingers crossed
, he writes,
that this deal is going to work. This one really feels
big. We're on the cusp of something major here. Will keep
you posted. Say hello to Ophelia. Love, Dad.

I'm still his only Facebook friend. That pleases me, because it confirms he only got on to Facebook so he could find me.

I read his message over. He didn't ask how I am.

In a way, I'm glad. I'd have had to lie to him too.

Katie would know what to do about my face. Part of me wishes I could tell her what happened and ask for her help. But she'd never understand.

Katie isn't too impressed by my regular makeup routine, which never takes me more than five minutes max. “What kind of actress doesn't care about makeup?” she asked me after rehearsal last week.

“This kind,” I told her. “And the preferred word these days is
actor
, not
actress
.”

“You could do a lot more with yourself, Iris. Really, you could. If only you put in a little effort. And used mascara.”

“I hate mascara. It leaves tire tracks on your cheeks.”

“Lenore's using this new product that makes your eyelashes grow. It costs a hundred and sixty bucks a bottle. But you should see her eyelashes. They're amazing.”

“It sounds like you and Lenore are getting pretty tight.”

“Lenore makes time for her friends,” Katie said. “Unlike some people I know.”

On a regular day, I put on a little eye shadow—pink over the lid, grey in the crease—and a touch of clear lip gloss. Concealer when I have a zit. But this morning I spend thirty-five minutes on makeup. I can't help thinking Katie would be impressed.

I use half a tube of concealer. It says
Let the real you
shine through
in white letters on the outside of the tube. The real me? I'm not sure who that is anymore. Then again, I'm not sure I ever knew. I'll need to buy more concealer after school. Using just the tips of my fingers—the skin still feels tender to the touch—I apply the gooey cream all over my face, putting an extra layer on the right side. There's still some swelling, but at least I've got the color almost right.

The bigger job is making my eyelids match. The purple in my eye shadow compact isn't dark enough, so I mix in some gray. And I use a little yellow at the corner, under the crease. Yes, that's good.

The upside of focusing so much on getting the colors right is there isn't time to feel sorry for myself. That only happens afterward, when I'm pushing open the door to Westwood.

I take a deep breath.
It's just another performance, Iris,
I tell myself.
You can do it. Break a leg.

The noise hits me like a too-strong smell. Lockers slamming shut, swearing, laughter, the secretary's voice on the
PA
system saying someone's forgotten to turn off the lights on a green Toyota parked in the school lot. Is it always so noisy or am I extra sensitive after hiding out in the loft all weekend?

Though Tommy's the last person on earth I want to see right now, he practically crashes into me. Someone should tell him it isn't wise to jog down the school corridors. I throw my hands up. I don't think I can handle another ounce of pain. “Hey, Iris,” he says, blushing when he sees it's me, “what's up?” Is he looking at me funny or am I imagining it?

“Not much,” I say. I won't mention the kitchen cabinet “accident” unless I have to.

I'm worried he'll say he misses me or that he wants to talk. What'll I say then? But when he doesn't say either of those things, somehow I feel a little disappointed. Now I can feel Tommy's eyes on my face. “If you don't mind my saying, Iris, you look a little…off. You didn't meet some guy in a dark alley, did you?”

I laugh lightheartedly, just the way I practiced in my head. Here goes, I think, it's time for me to try out my story. This can be my audition. “I walked right into one of our kitchen cabinets—can you believe I didn't realize it was open?
Bang
! This happened. I'm such a klutz. Tell me the truth—do I look totally gross?”