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?”
“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
It’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 M
ick 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?
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