So Much It Hurts Read online

  I take a quick look at what the kids have drawn on their place mats. The girl has made a giant purple blotch. Jackson Pollock, pre-K period. It’s hard to know if what is on the boy’s place mat is a house or an elephant. “Cool drawings!” I tell them.

  The family’s good for a five-dollar tip. More if the kids like the ice cream and the girl doesn’t figure out her brother nicked her crayon.

  Scoops has a long, narrow entrance, so I usually notice when someone walks in. But I must’ve been distracted by the kids’ drawings, because somehow, as if by magic, Mick Horton is sitting at the counter in the middle of the restaurant. I have to look twice to be sure it’s him. But I already know it is. I feel his presence, the way I did in Theater Workshop.

  Something about him makes me tremble inside. Maybe it’s because he’s Ms. Cameron’s friend and I look up to her so much. Or because he’s so well known in the theater world. I googled him after class, and I swear I got five hundred hits. Apparently, he’s known as the enfant terrible of the Australian theater scene. How cool is that? And he’s won a ton of prizes and traveled to theater festivals around the world.

  I feel myself blush when I look at him. Thank God he doesn’t know I’ve been stalking him online. He’s stroking his soul patch. I can’t believe Katie said it looks like pubes. I think the soul patch makes him look artistic.

  “Uh, Mr. Horton, right?” I say when I walk to the other side of the counter and hand him his menu. I hope he doesn’t notice my hands are shaking.

  I feel his eyes on my fingers. When I look up at him, he’s smiling, but just a little. The smile makes him look younger. He’s wearing the fedora again and a different pair of skinny jeans, this time with a white T-shirt.

  He lays the menu facedown on the counter. “How ’bout calling me Mick? ‘Mr. Horton’ makes me think people are talking to my granddad. You’re Iris, right?”

  I’m so surprised he knows my name that for a second I’m afraid I’m going to trip over my ugly shoes.

  “Isobel said you worked here,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world that an internationally acclaimed theater director would care where I worked.

  “Iso—?” I start to ask, then realize he means Ms. Cameron. “Do you…uh…know what you want?”

  The question makes him grin. I feel my cheeks get hot again.

  “What a guy like me wants…now that’s a complicated question. Existential even. But right now, what I really want is a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Dish, no cone.”

  I don’t say what I usually do when people order vanilla, that we have sixty-one other flavors and double mocha fudge is my personal favorite. I’m too nervous to say any of that.

  “I have to tell you, Iris, I didn’t just come for ice cream,” Mick Horton says. (I can’t call him just Mick, not even in my head.) “I came because I want you to know I think you’ve got a great deal of potential.” He pauses, and I get the feeling he likes the word potential. “As an actress. I’m looking forward to helping you develop that potential.”

  “Wow,” I say, and my order pad slips out of my hand and falls to the floor. I lean over to pick it up, and I can feel his eyes on me again. He’s checking me out. I know he is. But it’s more than that. He’s looking at me—gazing at me—as if he can see inside me too. I like how that feels. “That…that’s amazing,” I manage to say. “It means so much—coming from someone like you. Someone so…” I let the end of my sentence drop. What was I going to say? Someone so famous? Someone so hot?

  I’m saved by a customer calling from the front of the restaurant. “Miss, can I get a little more water over here, please?”

  “I’ll bring you that scoop of vanilla straightaway,” I tell him.

  The banana split I’ve ordered for another table is ready. I can bring the water at the same time. Then the family’s order, then the scoop of vanilla. Sometimes, waitressing is like being an air traffic controller.

  The customer who wants more water is an older woman who’s been reading the Saturday paper. She doesn’t look at me when I fill her glass. To her, I am just a waitress. I wish I could tell her I’m not. I push my shoulders back. Mick Horton thinks I have a great deal of potential. As an actress.

  CHAPTER 3

  “The time is out of joint…”

  —HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 5

  I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this.

  Not letting him take off my T-shirt or run his fingers along the outside of my jeans, pressing harder when he gets near my thighs.

  I don’t even want to be doing this. Not really. But it’s not just him moaning—it’s me too. Now that I’m here doing this, I can’t just make it stop.

  “I love you, Iris,” Tommy says as he pulls his T-shirt over his head. His chest is narrow and his nipples are hard brown acorns.

  Tommy’s parents have gone to New York for the weekend and taken his little sister with them. He has the house to himself. When I said I’d come over tonight, I knew what I was agreeing to.

  Tommy and I have spent whole nights making out, usually at my house, in the basement with the door open (Mom’s rule), but not doing it. The way we are about to now.

  I know Tommy expects me to say I love him back. I feel guilty for not saying it. But I can’t. Because I’ve never been more sure that I don’t love him.

  It’s my first time, but not Tommy’s. He told me he had sex with a girl last summer when they were both working at a camp in the Laurentians. Even if I don’t love Tommy, I can’t help feeling a little jealous of that girl.

  “Are you sure you want to?” Tommy whispers, even though there’s no one around to hear us. We’re lying on his bed. The walls in his room are covered with vintage Star Wars posters. He stretches out his arm to reach for something. It takes me a second to realize he’s got condoms in the top drawer of his nightstand. He must’ve known—or at least hoped—this was going to happen.

  “I’m sure,” I tell him, though I’m not.

  Tommy makes a gasping sound. He’s still got his jeans on too, and I can feel how excited he is. How much he wants this to happen.

  I’m seventeen. That’s two years older than Katie was the first time she had sex. I’m sick of waiting. I’m sick of feeling like some kid. And it’s not like Tommy’s using me, the way a lot of guys our age use girls for sex. Tommy really cares about me.

  “It can hurt the first time.” His voice is shaky. “I don’t want to hurt you, Iris.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Why am I the one reassuring him?

  Tommy is standing up now, kicking off his jeans and white boxers. I’ve never seen a naked guy with an erection before, and the sight of Tommy standing there makes me want to laugh. He looks so…so funny. Almost like some cartoon character.

  I don’t think a girl is supposed to feel like laughing the first time she has sex.

  The whole thing happens so quickly, I can hardly keep track of the steps that come between following Tommy into his bedroom and doing it. When I start taking off my clothes, Tommy says, “No, I want to do it.” His excitement adds to my own. My mind may not be sure that this is the right thing to do, but my body’s not arguing. “Mmm,” I hear myself say when Tommy runs his fingers across my belly.

  Tommy’s hands are shaking. He’s nervous, too, even if this isn’t his first time. Knowing that makes me feel bad for him.

  I want to ask Tommy to slow down, but there isn’t time, and besides, I don’t think he could. And then, too quickly, it’s over. His eyes are closed now, and he’s got this blissed-out Buddha look on his face. His forehead’s sweaty, and when some sweat beads land in the space between my breasts, I untuck one of my hands from behind his neck to wipe the sweat away.

  If I loved him, I wouldn’t mind his sweat on me.

  It did hurt, the way everyone says it does when a girl has sex the first time, but the pain was sharp and over quickly. Now, my belly feels as tender as on the first day of my period.

  There is a spot of brownish blo
od on the sheet.

  “You okay, Iris?”

  I should tell him about the blood. He’ll have to wash the sheets before his parents get home. “I’m fine.”

  I’m afraid he’s going to tell me again that he loves me. But that isn’t what he says. “Did it hurt?”

  “Nah.”

  “Did you…like it?” I know what Tommy means is did I come. I know all about coming—Katie is obsessed with orgasms (she says she once had three in one night with Antoine)—but I’m pretty sure I didn’t have one. From what Katie says, it’s the kind of thing you can’t miss.

  I give Tommy my best smile. “Yeah, sure,” I tell him. “Sure I liked it.”

  The main thing is, I’m not sorry we did it. Not one bit. Tommy’s a decent guy. And, well, at least I’ve gotten it over with.

  “Let’s just rest,” I tell Tommy. “And not talk.”

  He wraps one arm around my shoulders. I close my eyes. When I do, I am startled by what I see in my head. Not Tommy, not his vintage posters, not his white boxer shorts crumpled on the carpet. My mind’s not even in this room.

  In my imagination, I see someone else.

  Mick Horton. His fedora hangs low over his forehead, and he’s smirking at me. It’s as if he knows exactly what I’ve just done.

  CHAPTER 4

  “…she would hang on him

  As if increase of appetite had grown

  By what it fed on…” —HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 2

  It’s ironic that my mom owns the Clear Your Clutter Closet Company (try saying that quickly five times in a row!). She goes around Montreal organizing other people’s closets. She tells customers what to throw out and what to keep; then she draws up elaborate plans to redesign their closet space. Deep shelves for sweaters, low shelves for shoes, taller ones for boots. Mom charges a hundred dollars an hour. What’s ironic is that our closets are a disaster. Open any one and expect to be struck by an avalanche. “Don’t mention it to people, Iris. Not even as a joke,” Mom says. “It could be bad for business.”

  It doesn’t help that I collect clothes. It drives Mom crazy that I shop mostly in the vintage shops along Mount Royal Avenue. Mom insists that everything I bring home either gets hung out on our clothesline or, when it’s too cold for that, spun in the hot dryer for two cycles. “Those old rags could be crawling with bedbugs. If we had a bedbug infestation, Iris, and people found out—it would destroy my business. And where would that leave us?”

  The Clear Your Clutter Closet Company has been supporting us for as long as I can remember. My father isn’t able to send money. Mom won’t say why that is. When I was younger, I sometimes asked about him, but she always got a stomachache or headache, so I stopped. When you only have one parent, the last thing you want is for her to get sick. The only thing I know for sure is that my dad had problems with money. That’s why we lived in a cramped apartment for so many years before Mom saved enough to buy the house we live in now. It’s also why my dad left Canada—and why he can’t come back to visit.

  Though Mom and I have always been pretty tight (we’ve had to be), there are certain things she doesn’t get about me. Like why I’m so into theater and vintage clothes. Now, as I push on the door of Second Life, my favorite vintage shop, I feel the familiar rush. It’s not just the smell of lavender and mothballs. It’s the feeling that I’m on the hunt, that I could be seconds away from the fashion find of a lifetime, the perfect skirt or dress or pair of capris—the outfit that’ll transform me into the Iris I was meant to be.

  I recognize the salesgirl. Julie has huge Marilyn Monroe-style platinum-blond hair and she’s wearing a royal-blue cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline.

  “Hey, Iris.” She looks up from her copy of Vogue (it’s probably from the stack of old magazines near the cash register). “You picked a great day to come by. A woman came in yesterday with two bags full of stuff—skirts and dresses from the fifties. They belonged to her mom. And she must’ve been about your size.”

  Julie doesn’t say whether the daughter is selling her mom’s old clothes because the mom is dead. Some people get grossed out by the idea of wearing a dead person’s clothes. I like it. Sometimes I swear I can feel a woman’s spirit in her clothes, and by wearing them, it’s as if I’m somehow keeping that spirit alive.

  Julie’s unpacked one bag. Because I’m a regular, she lets me unpack the second bag with her. The clothes haven’t even been priced. I fall in love with the first thing I see—a short, sleeveless, black velvet dress. Julie notices me eyeing it. “It’s going to look amazing on you. Try it on!”

  I’m in the dressing room, zipping up, when the bell attached to the front door jingles. “Hi, how you doing?” Julie asks.

  “Okeydokey. How ’bout you?”

  It isn’t only the Australian accent that’s familiar. It’s also the casual, confident way he’s just asked, “How ’bout you?” What’s Mick Horton doing here?

  Julie laughs in a way that I know means she thinks Mick’s hot. There’s a pair of black high heels in the dressing room. They’re a couple of sizes too big, but I slip them on and make my exit, being careful not to totter. The last thing I want right now is to look like a little girl playing dress-up.

  “So what do you think?” I do a small spin in front of the floor-length mirror.

  It doesn’t occur to me until afterward that Mick isn’t surprised to see me.

  “Oh my god,” Julie says, covering her mouth, “it’s so you.”

  Which is exactly what I want when I try on clothes. For them to be me. Maybe because I’m still not sure who me is.

  “Hey, Iris.” I feel Mick’s eyes on my face, then moving down the length of the dress, pausing at my chest, then at my hips. “Very elegant,” he says. “Way better than those silly purple tights you were wearing the other day.”

  My cheeks get hot when Mick makes the comment about my purple tights. I got those tights on sale at H&M before school started. Usually, wearing them makes me happy, but now I make a mental note to dump them in the donation bin outside the Salvation Army store on Sherbrooke Street. Mick’s right. They’re silly. What was I thinking when I bought them?

  “You two know each other?” Julie sounds impressed.

  “Mr. Horton’s working with—” He shakes his head when I call him Mr. Horton. I remember—too late—how he’s told me to call him Mick. “I mean…Mick is working with our theater class.”

  “Wow, that’s totally cool. Are you a director or something?” she asks Mick.

  “Yeah, I’ve directed a few things.” I like that he’s so modest.

  “Mick’s famous,” I tell Julie. Of course, I don’t mention my online search.

  Julie tells me the dress would normally sell for forty dollars, but that I can have it for thirty. “I mean, you’re one of our best customers.”

  “That’s great. Thanks so much, Julie.”

  I’m reaching for my wallet when Mick slaps two twenty-dollar bills down on the counter. “I want to buy that dress for you,” he says. His eyes are dark pools.

  “No way,” I say, shaking my head and looking away because I’m too embarrassed to keep looking right at him. “I can’t let you do that. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “But I want to. It would make me happy. And you want to make me happy, don’t you, Iris?”

  “I do. Of course I do. It…it just doesn’t seem right. Besides, I’m not used to someone treating me to things.”

  Mick pushes my hand back into my purse. His touch isn’t what I expect. Not gentle but forceful, strong. Grown up. “Maybe it’s time you started getting used to it.”

  It’s Julie who ends up deciding for me. “Let him,” she hisses. “Just say yes and enjoy your present.”

  So I do.

  Mick wants to check out the men’s hats. He tells me his fedora is vintage. He also says that though he’s used to working with costume designers, he’s always looking for interesting clothing his actors can wear onstage. “Vintage shops are a bit of a
n obsession for me,” he tells us.

  “You and Iris both,” Julie says. Later, when he isn’t looking, she winks at me.

  Most of the men’s hats are displayed on a pair of coat racks at the back of the shop. Julie says there are more in a box in the stockroom. When she goes to get the box, Mick and I check out the other hats. “You’d look good in that one,” I say, pointing to a faded gray cowboy hat.

  When Mick removes his fedora, I notice his hairline is receding. It’s the only thing about him that makes him look older. He must notice me noticing because he pops on the cowboy hat. “What do you say?” he asks me.

  “You look like a cowboy.” What I’m really thinking is that he looks like a super hot Australian cowboy.

  Mick makes me try on a pink pillbox hat. Its lacy veil covers my face. He shakes his head when I model it for him. “A face like yours shouldn’t be covered.”

  “I’m also interested in vintage children’s clothes. You don’t carry any, do you?” Mick asks Julie when we’ve checked out all the hats.

  I look at him when he says that. Something feels as if it’s caught in my throat. It hadn’t occurred to me that Mick might have a kid. Or that, for all I know, he might be married.

  Mick must know what I’m thinking. “I have a little boy back home in Melbourne. His name is Nial. He’s nearly two.”

  “Oh,” I say, “that’s great.” I keep my voice bright, happy-sounding. Theater Workshop has made me good at pretending.

  I can feel Mick watching my face. “His mom and I are separated. We have been since Nial was a year old.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Can Mick tell I’m lying?

  “How ’bout a lift home?” he asks when the bell on the door jingles behind us.

  “That’d be great.” I’m trying to get into character. I don’t want to come off like some goofy schoolgirl who’s run into her crush. I want to be a sophisticated young woman out for a walk on Mount Royal Avenue with a sophisticated man. Because the sidewalk is crowded, I have to move closer to Mick. For a split second, the outsides of our hands touch. I swear I can feel the fine hairs on the back of his hand. Oh my god.