“That couldn’t have been easy for you,” Mick whispers. “But you did good, Joey.”
When we’re back on the highway, I twirl the dragon ring around and around my finger. The red stone eyes look flat until I turn my hand. When the light catches the stones, the dragon’s eyes shimmer.
“That ring, by the way, has got to be the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Mick says.
I leave the ring on for a while. It’s all I have from my father—that and the green tissue paper in my pocket. But Mick’s right. The ring is creepy.
Before we cross back into Canada, I slide the ring off and drop it into my purse. It falls to the bottom without making a sound.
CHAPTER 12
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in ’t.”
—HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 2
I can hardly believe this is my life! It’s too perfect!
Two weeks after our trip to Plattsburgh, Mick gave me the keys to the loft! Now I can go there whenever I want to, even if Mick is out. Mick wants to share his life with me. Why else would he have given me the keys?
I had to stop myself from jumping up and down like some little kid. The keys—there’s a small silver one for the lobby door and a bigger gold one for upstairs—mean as much to me as that beautiful, beautiful poem Mick wrote for me. Even if he hasn’t said out loud he loves me, I know he does, since he said so in the poem. Now I know for sure he loves me as much as I love him.
Though I’ve never been religious, I’m so grateful for Mick that I’m starting to think there really is a God. Yesterday when I was alone in the loft, I actually dropped down on both knees and thanked him.
Thank you for making my heart glad. Thank you, God, if you’re really up there, for bringing me Mick. Please help me try to be good enough and loving enough to deserve him. And God, while I have your attention, there’s one more thing: please please stop me from saying or doing anything dumb that might make Mick angry with me— because I don’t know what I’d do if he ever stopped loving me. I need Mick the way I need oxygen and food and a place to sleep.
Afterward, I just stood for a while in front of the windows, taking in the view of the city and feeling grateful. We’d had our first snow, and Montreal looked as if it’d been dusted in icing sugar.
The days end earlier this time of year. It’s only four thirty now, and it’s already getting dark. Mick is still at school, meeting with Ms. Cameron—I mean, Isobel— about Hamlet. He’s put together a list of ways to make the production more relevant and edgy. I’ve noticed edgy is another one of Mick’s favorite words.
I pick up some groceries on the way to the loft after school. I want to try and cook a romantic dinner. When I let myself in, there is still a little light coming in from outside, which makes me notice dust I haven’t seen before. So I drag the vacuum cleaner out of the closet and get to work. I even find the power nozzle so I can get into the corners.
It might not be cool to tidy up your boyfriend’s loft, but I’m enjoying it. It makes me feel grown up, and like the loft’s mine too. How amazing is that? To be seventeen and sharing a loft with your super cool, super sexy, edgy older boyfriend?
I turn off the vacuum cleaner when I see the movement of my phone vibrating on the table. Katie is texting to say she wants to meet up at Starbucks.
No can do, Kates, I text her back. Wrtng wrld hsty es-y.
Loser, Katie writes in her next text. Any news from Pop? Besides Mick, Katie is the only one who knows about my father. She thinks it’s cool he contacted me, but she was ticked off when I told her I took the bus alone to Plattsburgh to meet him. “I can’t believe you’d do that,” she said. “That is so totally what a best friend is for. Plus we could’ve gone shopping together afterward. Makeup’s way cheaper in the States.”
No news, I text her. Since Plattsburgh, my father has sent me a couple of Facebook messages. Mostly he says how excited he is about the deal he’s working on.
Katie doesn’t text me back. When I start vacuuming again, I remember how when we were little, Katie and I sometimes played house or pretended we were in school.
She always wanted to ride bikes or skip, but even back then, I was more into pretending. Maybe I was getting an early start on my acting career.
Vacuuming Mick’s apartment and planning our romantic dinner (baked chicken with wild rice and a small green salad, like in a restaurant) feels like playing house again. Only now, it’s real. Every time a dustball flies up from the floor and gets swallowed by the nozzle, I feel triumphant. Death to you, dustball!
I have to hurry. I want to put the vacuum cleaner away and get the chicken in the oven before Mick comes home. Mick keeps bringing me irises. The latest bouquet is in a glass milk jug on the table. The flowers are so pretty, I take a picture of them with my cell phone; I’ll post it on my Facebook wall later. Maybe I’ll even make the shot my profile picture. Irises for Iris.
I brush my hair away from my face. I don’t want Mick to see me looking gross and sweaty. If I work quickly, I’ll have time to shower and fix my makeup.
Mick bought me a toothbrush so I don’t have to keep bringing mine over. Just seeing our two toothbrushes together in the bathroom, in the same cup, makes me want to sing or something.
By the time I hear Mick’s key in the door, I am sitting on the couch, updating my Facebook page.
“Smells amazing in here,” Mick calls out. I’m relieved his voice sounds happy. The meeting with Isobel must’ve gone well. I’m so tuned in to Mick’s feelings, I can tell his mood just from his voice or the look in his eyes. If he’s been arguing with his lawyer or someone from his Australian theater troupe, his voice and eyes turn steely. But I’m learning how to deal with him when he gets like that. I know it only makes things worse if I ask if there’s anything I can do (and it’s hard for me not to ask). No, the best thing is to take careful steps around him—it’s like looking out for land mines in a war zone. You never know when you might step on one, but you get used to the not knowing and then it becomes a habit to step more carefully. Just in case. Mick is worth the trouble though. I’d be bored if I was with a guy whose mood never changed—who wasn’t edgy the way Mick is.
Mick doesn’t say anything about how clean the apartment is or how nice the table looks.
He does something even better. He kneels on the floor in front of where I’m sitting and starts kissing my knees. At first, it’s just little kisses, but then the kisses get harder. “I’m starving,” he whispers, and I know he’s not talking about chicken and wild rice.
He’s starving for me. With one hand, he pins my wrists against the wall; with the other, he tears off my underwear. Then he’s straddling me, pressing all his weight against me. It’s a little uncomfortable, but I don’t complain. I want to be in the moment with him. Besides, this is another way of feeling close to Mick. Everything about him is smooth. His skin, his touch, every move.
“Say your lines,” he says. His voice is rough now, and I know it’s because he’s so excited.
He’s remembering that first time we made love. I laugh because I know just what he wants. “ ‘My lord,’ ” I whisper, “ ‘as I was sewing in my closet, Lord Hamlet with his doublet all…’ ”
Even the little hairs on the outside of Mick’s ears are standing up. He kisses me so hard, it makes my neck hurt.
I kiss him back. I want to bring my hand to my neck, to show Mick I need him to be gentle, but he’s still got both my hands pinned against the wall. I’ll try to forget the soreness in my neck.
“We shouldn’t make too much noise,” I whisper, suddenly aware of the wall behind us and of the sound of the TV coming from Mrs. Karpman’s apartment. “We don’t want to bother your neighbor.”
“The old girl is deaf as a post. Besides, she could use a thrill.”
When we’re done, we snuggle on the couch, my head on Mick’s shoulder. If I only lean in one direction, I don’t feel the crick in my neck. I wish Mick would say he loves me, but I know I shou
ldn’t ask him to. If I did and he did…well then, it wouldn’t count, would it?
Mick never asks me how it was, the way Tommy did that time. In a way, I’m glad he doesn’t, because I’m pretty sure I still haven’t had an orgasm. Not that I care. I know I’ll have one eventually. All that matters is that Mick and I are together.
Mick reaches for my laptop, which I’ve left open on the coffee table. “I like the picture of the irises,” he says. His voice sounds relaxed and his face looks relaxed too. The tension I sometimes see around his eyes is gone. I love knowing I’m good for him. With Tommy, I never cared about stuff like that.
I should boil the water for the rice, but I don’t want this moment to end. Ever. I wish Mick and I could stay like this forever. Mellow and happy, just the two of us.
Mick is scrolling down my Facebook wall. I know something’s wrong when I feel his shoulder muscles get taut under my cheek. “What the fuck were you thinking, Iris?” It’s the first time I’ve heard Mick swear. The word fuck, which always sounds ugly to me, sounds even uglier coming from him.
“What’s wrong?” There’s a sick, sour taste in my throat. I don’t understand what could be making Mick so angry. I didn’t see this land mine. All I did was change my profile picture.
“It says here you’re in a relationship!” His voice is booming; it’s as if he’s acting in a small theater and he wants his voice to project. I need him to calm down. I need us to go back to how we were just two minutes ago. Mick is overreacting.
“I am in a relationship,” I say quietly. “We are,” I add.
“And what do we have here?” I’ve heard Mick shout before, but this is the first time I’ve seen him sneer. The sneer makes his nose look even longer, like a fox’s snout. “Here it says you can’t believe how ‘tuned in’ you feel to your new guy, M!” He sneers again when he says the words tuned in. I can tell he thinks it’s a corny expression. Why did I ever write that?
“I didn’t say your name. M could be…” I’m so rattled I can’t even think of a guy’s name that starts with an M. “Matthew!” I sputter. “Or Mark!”
“Iris! I can’t believe you could be so reckless…so stupid.” He spits out the word stupid. Mick is right. I am stupid. So what if I get good grades in every subject at school? In real life, I’m stupid! The stupidest girl who ever walked the earth! I should’ve known Mick would be upset.
“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 tim
e 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.”
So Much It Hurts Page 7
