So Much It Hurts (15 page)

“You could never look gross.”

I pat Tommy's arm. “Hey, thanks.”

I want to get away, but Tommy won't let me. “You're not hanging out with that friend of Ms. Cameron's, are you?”

“Of course not.” I roll my eyes to show him he doesn't know what he's talking about.

“It's just…that Jeep I saw you in. It's his, isn't it?”

I'm feeling cornered. “He gave me a lift once,” I tell Tommy. “It was no big deal. Remember how snowy it was outside that day? He saw me waiting at the bus.”

“You had the cat with you…” I can feel Tommy trying to figure things out.

“Forget it, will you?”

“You sure you're okay?” Tommy's forehead is scrunched up like some old man's.

“I'm sure.”

“Antoine said he thought he saw you—”

I don't let Tommy finish his sentence. “He didn't.”

Katie finds me at my locker. “What's with the purple and yellow eye makeup, Iris? You look like a crack whore.”

Katie laughs. I laugh too. Even more lightheartedly than before. “I had a little incident—with a kitchen cabinet. One eye got kinda bruised.”

Katie winces. “That must've hurt.”

“It was more the humiliation than anything else. I mean, can you imagine being so ditzy? I didn't even realize the cabinet door was wide-open. Anyway, you know how you're always telling me to put more effort into my makeup? Well, that's what I did this morning. I was hoping you'd be impressed.”

“Effort is good,” Katie says, tilting her head to get a better look at my eyes. “But I'd say go for a more subtle effect. If I were you, I'd ease off on all that yellow. It doesn't work with your complexion.”

CHAPTER 20

“…break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.”
—HAMLET
, ACT 1, SCENE 2

I
t's a long time before my face looks completely normal again. I try not to think about what happened and how Mick lost it, but little things remind me—like the washcloth hanging on the towel rack in his bathroom.

I wish I wasn't so influenced by Mick's moods. When he's in a dark mood, the thunderclouds roll in on me too. My shoulders tense up and my stomach rumbles like it knows trouble's on the way.

When he's in a great mood, like he is today, I catch it too. Everything makes me laugh. My spirit is so light I feel like if I stretched out my arms and took a leap, I could fly.

I guess when you love someone as much as I love Mick, you feel everything he does. Sometimes I wonder if I'm more tuned in to Mick's feelings than to my own. Is it like this for everyone who's in love? Maybe some people are better at keeping a part of themselves just for themselves, but that isn't how love works for me. I can't hold any part of myself back. Not from Mick. Besides, I wouldn't want to.

He wants to take me shopping downtown. I already know we're going to have a blast!

We traipse in and out of the little boutiques along Saint Catherine Street—the souvenir stores, the shops that carry buttery leather jackets, a cigar store—ending up at a department store, where Mick needs to buy socks. Mick forgets
not
to hold my hand, and when he does, I don't say anything. I just hold his, aware of the delicious sensation of his long cool fingers laced through mine. How nuts am I for this guy that just holding hands gets me hot?

After we buy the socks, Mick suggests we go down the street to Forever 21. Inside the store, we stand so close on the escalator that I can feel him breathing into my hair. A woman on the down escalator wrinkles her nose when she passes us. Mick and I both crack up. I catch our reflection in the mirrored wall next to the escalator. Mick has slid his knee between my legs. We look so great together. So happy. So sexy. If only there were some way to make this moment last forever. Of course, I know it's a silly thought. Who'd want to spend eternity on an escalator? Maybe me—if I knew I'd be with Mick and he'd always be in the mood he's in today.

The music's blaring on the second floor. Rihanna is wailing: “
When the sun shines, we'll shine together. Told
you I'll be here forever.
” I wriggle to the beat.

“Why don't you try this on?” Mick says, raising his voice so I'll hear him over Rihanna. He's picked out a very short red plaid skirt for me.

“I don't know.” I want to say the skirt isn't really me, but I don't want to disappoint him.

So I say I'll try it on. He picks a low-cut red T-shirt to go with it. I notice a black linen shirtdress that's more my style. It has red heart-shaped buttons down the front. “What do you think?” I ask Mick.

“I can't tell,” he says. When he grins, I can tell he's planning another wild surprise. “You'll have to try it on.”

There's a girl my age supervising the dressing rooms. She has a bored expression on her face.

“You wait for me here,” I tell Mick. “I'll come out and model for you.”

“I've got three items,” I tell the salesgirl. She gives me a robotic smile and hands me a miniature hanger with the number three on it. When I turn around, I expect to see Mick sitting on one of the chairs by the dressing rooms, but he's disappeared. He doesn't answer when I call for him. “Mick!” I try again. “I'm just going to try the stuff on! Meet me out here, okay?”

I go into the dressing room and slip off my T-shirt and jeans and socks. I'm hanging my clothes on a hook behind the door when it opens just a sliver. I'm about to call out—maybe it's another customer who thinks this room is empty—when I spot Mick's fedora and his tousled hair underneath. Every time I see him, I'm struck all over again by how handsome he is.

“You shouldn't be in here,” I whisper, but I'm giggling as I say it. Mick has a pile of clothing draped over one arm. A maxi dress, more T-shirts, the same plaid skirt in another color.

He tosses the clothes onto the chair at the back of the dressing room. I can feel him checking me out—I'm down to just my bra and undies. His eyes are moving up and down my body so slowly it's as if he's touching me.

Mick backs up against the wall. Before he even loosens his belt, I know what he wants to do. He's totally crazy!

“Mick, we can't,” I whisper, but my voice is rough and I know I don't sound as if I mean it, even to my own ears.

“I want you, Joey,” Mick whispers into my ear. “Right here. Right now.” He reaches into his back pocket to show me he's brought a condom. Then he pulls down his jeans.

“What if someone hears?”

Mick is already pulling off my undies. He uses the weight of his body to push me up against the side wall of the dressing room. I could say no, but I don't. I want this too. At least, I think I do. I help him slide on the condom.

“Everything okay in there?” the salesgirl calls. Thank God she doesn't sound suspicious. Mick must have snuck by her when she was busy folding clothes or putting them back on the racks.

“Just fine,” I manage to say.

I love to watch Mick's face when we make love. Just before he comes, he closes his eyes, and he looks totally peaceful. As if nothing in the world—not lawyers, not actors who don't know their parts, not even the stupid things I sometimes say—could ever bother him. All the little lines on his face disappear—the ones across his forehead and near his eyes, and the really tiny ones over his lips—and then he makes this throaty groan and calls out
Joey
, and I feel so happy, so proud. Of all the women in the world, I'm the one Mick wants. I'm the only one who can make him feel like this.

If I wasn't so stressed out about the salesgirl hearing us, I know I'd have come too. It hasn't happened yet, but I know it will. I also know it won't help if I think too much about it. I know I just need to relax and let it happen.

“
Told you I'll be here forever.
” I don't mean to say the line out loud.

“What's that?” Mick asks as he zips up his fly.

“I can't get that song off my brain.”

Mick likes every single thing I try on. He gives me a thumbs-up for the red plaid kilt and the red T-shirt he picked to go with it. I prefer the shirtdress—I could wear it to school with leggings. Mick thinks it's okay, though he isn't crazy about the buttons. He really likes the maxi dress, the other T-shirts and the plaid kilt in blue.

“But I can't get everything,” I tell him. “It'd be way too expensive.” Mick hasn't said he'll pay, but I know he's going to offer. I also know he needs to watch his spending. The lawyer charges for every minute on the phone. The last thing I want is for Mick to end up in debt the way I think my father must have. “I'll just take the plaid skirt,” I tell him. “It's your favorite, right?”

“You're getting all of it, and it won't be expensive at all.” Mick winks, but I don't get the joke.

“Of course it'll be expensive.” I'm checking the price tag on the maxi dress. “This one's sixty dollars.”

“You must've missed the sign, Joey. All this stuff's on sale!” Mick says, gathering up the dress, the blue kilt and the other T-shirts he brought into the dressing room.

“The sign?” What is Mick talking about? “I don't want you buying them for me.” I don't mention the lawyer or Nial or my father. I'm afraid to break the spell of this perfect afternoon.

“We'll pay for this,” Mick whispers, handing me the red kilt and T-shirt. “I'm not so sure about this,” he says, handing me the shirtdress. “We'll tell her you don't want that.” I nearly tell Mick that I do want that dress—that I like it more than any of the other things I tried on—but I figure it's not worth arguing about.

Nothing could prepare me for what happens next.

Mick fishes an army knife out of the front pocket of his jeans. I never even knew he carried an army knife. Then he fiddles with the security tag on the maxi dress. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Having some fun.” He uses the blade to snip the plastic tag, then the screwdriver attachment to pry the pin inside loose. He's careful to catch the pin before it falls to the floor. Then he folds the dress, along with all the other clothes he brought in with him—and puts them into the main compartment of my backpack.

I shake my head. “You can't do that,” I whisper. “It's stealing.”

“Bah,” Mick says. “It's not called stealing when you take it from a corporation as large as Forever
21
. It's called justice. Companies like this gouge consumers. That sixty-dollar skirt probably cost them a few pennies. It's got hardly any fabric. Besides, this is an adventure, Joey.”

I don't tell Mick about the sick feeling in my stomach. “We could get arrested,” I say instead.

Mick holds my hand the whole time he's paying for the two items. He also keeps up a steady conversation with the salesgirl. “We weren't sure about that shirtdress,” he tells her. “The buttons are a little odd. What do you think of the buttons? Be honest, all right?”

“I hope you found everything you wanted,” the salesgirl says when she hands me my shopping bag. I hope she doesn't notice I'm trembling. “You two have a great day now.”

We take the escalator back down to the main floor. This time, I don't look at our reflection in the mirror. All I can think about is that there must be security guards everywhere—some dressed like ordinary shoppers. Are they on to us? I'm afraid to make eye contact with anyone. Afraid they'll read the guilt in my face.

I don't even let myself breathe till we're out of the store and halfway down the block.

Mick is tugging on my arm, steering me toward Peel Street, where we've parked the Jeep.

It's only when I'm sitting in the Jeep and Mick is turning on the motor that I realize my mistake.

I was wrong to say,
We could get arrested.

I
was the one who could've been arrested.

Not Mick.

CHAPTER 21

“O vengeance!
Why, what an ass am I!”
—HAMLET
, ACT 2, SCENE 2

I
hate it when I can't find something. Especially when it's something important like my college application. I know I put it in a brown envelope, but where is it? At first, I think it'll turn up somewhere obvious. Under the pile of scripts and newspapers by Mick's sofa. On the counter in his kitchen, where he keeps the mail. But I can't find the brown envelope anywhere. Which is when I start to panic.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I never swear, so the words feel weird in my mouth. Rather than making me feel better, which Katie says swearing does for her, it only makes me feel worse. More stressed. I go through the pile of scripts and newspapers again. What if Mick put it in the green recycling box? Then what?

I can't find the envelope anywhere.

“Shit!”

I can't phone Mick. He's in a meeting with some theater people from Quebec City who've come to talk to him about a theater festival they're organizing this summer. “This is a major opportunity for me, Joey,” he told me last night. “For both of us.”

So I text Mick. Cant find colg app. U seen it? Brn
evlp. Strssd. Luv U.

I hope he'll answer straightaway and tell me where the envelope is, but he doesn't. Looking at the blank screen on my cell phone makes me even more upset.

I pull open the kitchen drawer, though it doesn't make any sense to look in it. Who'd put an envelope where the cutlery goes? There's nothing there, of course, except forks and knives and spoons, all nestled in their separate compartments.

“Shit!”

I slam the drawer closed so hard that I bang my wrist. I rub the bone, and for a moment I see myself—rubbing my wrist in Mick's tiny kitchen.

Okay, Iris,
I tell myself,
calm down. You're losing it.
And then I think, Is this what losing it feels like? Is this what happens to Mick when he gets so angry he explodes? So angry he can't stop himself? It must be like being on a train that's going too fast and flying off the track, only you're not a passenger—you're the train. I close my eyes to make the feeling stop.