So Much It Hurts Read online

  SO MUCH

  IT HURTS

  SO MUCH

  IT HURTS

  monique polak

  Text copyright © 2013 Monique Polak

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known

  or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Polak, Monique

  So much it hurts [electronic resource] / Monique Polak.

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0137-0 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0138-7 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8631.O43S6 2013 jC813'.6 C2013-901916-2

  First published in the United States,

  2013 Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935380

  Summary: A teen actress gets involved with an older director, whose explosive temper

  and controlling behavior threaten to destroy her life.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs

  provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book

  Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia

  through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover image by iStockphoto.com

  Author photo by Studio Iris/Monique Dykstra

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, STN. B PO BOX 468

  VICTORIA, BC CANADA CUSTER, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1

  For all the young women who see themselves in Iris,

  and for the people who love them

  and want to know them better

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  “I have a daughter—have while she is mine…”

  —HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 2

  I can feel myself becoming Ophelia.

  My shoulders drop, my face softens. The rows of orange lockers grow blurry, until they’re not lockers anymore.

  I’m in Elsinore, in Denmark, far away and long ago. I’m wandering outside the gray stone walls of the royal palace. The orange is the sun as it rises over the ramparts. I cross my hands over my heart.

  I never knew my mother, who died when she gave birth to me, and yet, with every breath I take, I miss her. No wonder that my father, Polonius, and my brother, Laertes, have been my everything.

  Until now.

  Until him.

  Until Hamlet.

  “Hamlet!” I don’t mean to say his name out loud. Or to moan.

  It happens when I’m getting into character. What’s weird is how much I like turning into somebody else. I think it’s because being me isn’t exactly fascinating.

  I’m in grade eleven at Westwood. I study hard; I make honor roll every term. Sundays, I waitress at Scoops. I’ve got a sort-of boyfriend—sort-of since I’m not sure I want him. At home, it’s just me and Mom. My father left the country when he and Mom split up. I was four. I haven’t seen him since. All Mom will say is there are complicated reasons why he can’t visit. I guess the most interesting thing about me is that more than anything, I want to be a professional actor. Most people I know (including my mom) think it’s a terrible idea. They think I should have a Plan B. I say, why can’t I have my Plan A?

  If I had to sum up in one sentence what my dilemma is, the way a plot gets summed up on a Broadway playbill, here is what I’d say: Iris Wagner is waiting for her life to begin.

  “I-ris, you total ditz!” When Katie nudges me, I nearly lose my balance, making me feel like even more of a ditz. “Are you talking to yourself again? Hey, I meant to ask you—did you do your chemistry homework?”

  What Katie really means is will I let her copy my assignment. Katie is not the academic type. She’s more the clubbing type.

  I can’t believe how much makeup she’s wearing today. Her eyes are rimmed in purple pencil, her eyelids are smoky gray, and her lips are glossier than her patent clutch. She signed up for Theater Workshop too, but only because it means she can do makeup—and because it lets her start school late on Fridays. Thursday is ladies’ night at the clubs on Crescent Street (which means ladies—even underage ones with fake IDs—get in free). Katie needs Friday mornings to recover.

  We have Theater Workshop in the basement at Westwood, just past the lockers. Our theater teacher, Ms. Cameron, helped design the space. The acoustics are amazing, and there’s a giant wooden stage with state-ofthe-art lighting and thick plum-colored velvet curtains that swish when they open. That swish is one of the reasons I want to be an actor.

  That swish means the show is about to begin—and I love beginnings. Beginnings of movies, of books, of meals. Beginnings are when everything is possible, when nothing’s gone wrong yet. It’s middles and endings I have trouble with.

  I tried explaining this to my mom the other night, but she didn’t get it. “You want to become an actor because you like the sound the velvet curtains make?” She shook her head. “It’s one thing to follow your heart, Iris—not that following my heart worked out too well for me—but in this day and age, a person needs to be practical. You don’t want to keep working in that ice-cream parlor for the rest of your life, do you? And chances are, if you really do try to become a professional actor, that’s where you’ll end up— waitressing between auditions. I’m not saying you should give up acting or that you’re not talented. Acting can always be your hobby, Iris.”

  The other students are filing into Theater Workshop now too. There’s Lenore, who’s playing Gertrude. It’s a bigger role than mine, but Gertrude’s a bitch (so’s Lenore, making her perfect for the part). I like Ophelia way better. Ophelia has soul. She cares about people and she loves with all her heart. She’d never get it on with her sleazy brother-in-law the way Gertrude did.

  Lenore’s with Antoine, Katie’s ex, whom Katie no longer speaks to. “He’s dead to me,” she said after they broke up. She slid the back of her hand across her forehead. For someone who’s not into Theater Workshop, Katie can be quite dramatic. Behind them is Tommy, the boyfriend I don’t think I want.

  Tommy waves. I feel obliged to wave back. When he realizes we haven’t left him room on the bench, his shoulders slump. Which makes him look sad. Which makes me feel guilty. Which makes me think I definitely don’t want him for a boyfriend. Not now. Not ever. Even if he is nice—and decent-looking. Even if Mom approves.

  If we’re taking notes in Theater Workshop, we sit on the stadium benches where
the audience sits during performances. Luckily, there isn’t much theory. We don’t even use a textbook. Ms. Cameron believes in what she calls the “experiential approach,” which means we mostly do on-the-spot exercises and rehearse. Ms. Cameron says people learn more from their own experience than they do from books.

  Ms. Cameron has someone with her today. A lanky guy with a soul patch is watching us from the corner of the room. I like how he’s dressed—gray fedora, gray plaid shirt and skinny black jeans. When his eyes land on me, I straighten my back. I know my posture sucks. When the visitor’s gaze shifts to someone else, I feel disappointed.

  Ms. Cameron is about thirty. She was a child actress, and she still has many friends who are actors. The lanky guy is probably an actor too, though I don’t recognize him. Maybe he’s from the Concordia University theater program, or he could be a drama specialist from out of town. Ms. Cameron won a prize for excellence in teaching, and visitors sometimes come to watch her work. I guess she’s still performing, even if she gave up acting long ago to become a theater teacher.

  Katie says Ms. Cameron must’ve peaked when she was ten, and her career went south after that. I hate when Katie badmouths Ms. Cameron.

  Ms. Cameron claps. “Today,” she says, “I want you to slap yourselves.”

  I’m not sure I’ve heard right, but then Ms. Cameron repeats herself. “Slap yourselves.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea, Ms. C?” Antoine calls out.

  “Of course it’s a good idea, Antoine. They’re the only kind I get.” Ms. Cameron throws her head back when she laughs—and I notice her exchange a look with the guest. “Well then, go ahead,” she says, turning back to us. “Use both hands. Start with your foreheads and cheeks; make your way down to your toes.”

  Ms. Cameron closes her eyes to demonstrate. Leave it to Ms. Cameron to make slapping herself look sexy. As usual, her long blond hair is tied back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing all black—black tank top, black tights and a slinky black skirt. When she slaps herself, it’s like she’s playing drums, only the drums are her body. “This is a marvelous way to get the blood flowing,” she says, her eyes still closed.

  At first, there’s some laughter—this happens a lot during Ms. Cameron’s warm-ups, and then we all (even Antoine) start slapping ourselves. My body bristles at the first slap, but I’m careful not to slap myself too hard. Soon I feel my body waking up, coming to life in a way I’m not used to.

  I don’t feel like Ophelia. But I don’t feel like Iris either. I feel more like…like Ms. Cameron. Sexy. Confident. Grown up.

  I don’t know where Ms. Cameron gets all her ideas. She never uses the same warm-up twice.

  “Now,” Ms. Cameron says, “I want you to find a partner and take turns slapping each other. Gently. We never hurt each other in Theater Workshop—or anywhere else.” Her eyes meet the visitor’s again.

  Katie shimmies over. “Hey, partner.” She lowers her voice. “I came to save you from Tommy. You owe me. You can repay me in chemistry assignments.” When Katie raises her hand to slap me, I back away. That cracks her up. “What do you think I’m going to do?” she asks. “Beat up my bestie?”

  “Let’s keep things serious, please,” Ms. Cameron calls out. “Fingertips only. No palms.”

  Katie must not know her own strength, because the whack she gives me makes my cheek smart. “Hey,” I say, rubbing the skin, “that hurt!”

  Katie brings her hand to her mouth. “Yikes, Iris. Sorry. I swear I didn’t mean it. You get me back now, okay?” She turns to me, closes her eyes and grins.

  She knows I’d feel awful if I hurt her. I’d feel awful if I hurt anyone. I’m the kind of person who’d rather scoop a spider up in a napkin and carry him outside than flush him down the toilet. Slapping Katie is even harder for me than getting slapped.

  “Who’s that guy in the corner?” Katie whispers.

  “How should I know?”

  “He’s seriously hot.”

  “People!” Ms. Cameron claps again. “Now that you’re warmed up, I’d like to introduce a friend of mine. This is Mick Horton.”

  Mick Horton gives us a businesslike nod; then he turns to Ms. Cameron and nods at her too, like he’s giving her permission to continue. “Mick is an award-winning stage director in Melbourne, Australia, and he’s come to Montreal to consult on a project here. He’s kindly agreed to sit in on our class today.”

  Katie leans in close to me. “D’you think Mick and Ms. Cameron are getting it on?”

  “How should I know?”

  Mick Horton sits on a tall stool, watching as we start rehearsal. Is it my imagination or does he have a permanent scowl on his face?

  Ms. Cameron wants us to do some work on the end of Act 1, Scene 3. Which is where Ophelia comes in. Drop shoulders, soften face. It’s time for my Ophelia mind-meld.

  I feel Mick Horton’s eyes on me as I say my lines. I don’t know if it’s because he thinks I’m talented—or terrible. Terrible, probably.

  Polonius is rattling on and on the way Polonius does. He criticizes Ophelia for giving her heart too easily to Hamlet—he says she has not placed a high enough value on herself. Tender yourself more dearly, he tells her. Poor Ophelia—stuck with such a depressing windbag for a father. Do not believe his vows, he warns her, and then he orders Ophelia to keep away from the Danish prince!

  I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth,

  Have you so slander any moment leisure,

  As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.

  Look to’t, I charge you.

  I bow my head. Ms. Cameron is always telling us to draw on our deepest feelings to bring our performances alive. I think about how my father’s not around to warn me against guys he doesn’t like. I know what it feels like to miss a father. So I take that feeling and try to find the love inside. How much I’d love my father if I only knew him! How torn apart I’d be if he told me Lord Hamlet was no good for me. Because I love the Danish prince with every fiber of my being.

  “ ‘I shall obey, my lord,’ ” I say—I mean, Ophelia says. Only it’s both of us speaking, me and Ophelia in one breath.

  When I look up, Mick Horton is still watching me.

  “Nice work today, people,” Ms. Cameron calls out when the bell rings.

  “That was deeply felt, Iris,” she says when I pass her. “Fine work—as usual.”

  Mick Horton is standing next to her. His nose is too big for his narrow face. Still, Katie’s right—there is something hot about him. Something magnetic. I can’t help hoping he and Ms. Cameron are not getting it on.

  Then Mick Horton does something I’d never have expected. He plants his hand on my shoulder. His fingers are long and slender, like a pianist’s; his touch is cool and dry, but something about it makes me feel privileged. I have the feeling he’s a person who keeps his distance, and yet he is not keeping it with me.

  “The way you slouch,” he says, looking right at me (he has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen), “works for Ophelia. Especially when she’s submitting to her father. But you should do something with your hair. Comb it away from your face.”

  Katie is next to me, but we don’t say a word till we’re outside the theater room. “I can’t believe he said that about your hair! I love your hair! The guy’s got some nerve. You shoulda told him that soul patch looks like pubes.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star;

  This must not be.” —HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 2

  A family of four sits down at one of my tables. I grab two menus and some crayons. When I get to the table, I look at the mom, avoiding direct eye contact with the dad. Parents want crayons for their kids. Crayons keep kids occupied and, with a little luck, quiet. And even if it’s usually Dad who leaves the tip, a waitress who makes too much eye contact with him risks being considered by Mom to be flirting with her husband—adversely affecting the tip.

  Waitressing is just another role I play—one I happe
n to be very good at. Sundays from twelve to six, I become a cheerful, charming and efficient waitress. I greet every customer with a smile, put others’ needs before my own and take pleasure in my life of service.

  At the end of each shift, my apron’s heavier than the shield they make me wear at the dentist’s office when they x-ray my teeth. Only my apron pockets are filled with coins and bills, not lead.

  Four months of working here and I could write a book about tipping.

  I worked full-time over the summer. I wasn’t planning to keep working once school started, but the manager, Phil, is flexible about my hours. He gives me time off when I’m performing. “I know it’s important to support the arts, Iris. A person’s gotta have balance. A person can’t think business business business all the time.” That’s what Phil told me when we were working out my schedule. He’s a decent guy, even if he’s a little too into speechifying. I’m also used to the tips. Mom’s decluttering business is doing okay now, but she still has to be careful with money, and this way, I don’t need to ask for spending money.

  On the other hand, there are some things I really hate about this job. Number one: my uniform. It’s supposed to be retro, but even when I try thinking of it as a costume, I still despise it. It’s a brown-and-white-checked blouse with short puffy sleeves, and over the blouse is an awful brown apron-dress made of scratchy polyester. The shoes are worse, and though we get the uniform for free, we actually have to buy the shoes. They’re the kind nurses wear—thick white leather with white leather laces and gray crepe soles that stick to the floor, especially after some kid has spilled his milkshake.

  I open my order pad to a fresh page. “Have you ever tried our bubblegum ice cream?” I ask the two kids, who are already drawing on their place mats.

  “Bubblegum!” The two kids look up from their masterpieces.

  The little girl is the spitting image of her dad. Same wavy red hair. She doesn’t notice when her brother takes one of her crayons and adds it to his pile.

  The mom looks up at me, smiling. I can tell she feels sorry for me that I have to wear such an ugly uniform.