So Much It Hurts by Monique Polak

little confusing. I’ve always been devoted to my mom. But things feel different—I feel different—since I started lying to her and since I’ve been in contact with my father.
    Mom’s face smells lotiony. There are new lines over her lips and by her eyes. “I had a last-minute cancellation,” she tells me. “One of my clients’ cars needs a new transmission. They’re going to hold off on redesigning their closets till next fall. To be honest, I’m great with it. I need some downtime. And this way we can spend the day together, Iris. How ’bout breakfast at our bagel place? And a DVD tonight? Like old times.” She must catch me biting my lip because she adds, “Unless you’ve got other plans, sweetpie.”
    I could object to being called sweetpie , but I don’t. “I can do breakfast, but then I need to get back to”—I pause to give myself time to get my story straight—“to school. For rehearsal. And I promised Katie I’d sleep over tonight.”
    â€œBut you slept there last night.” Mom’s voice is neutral. Not hurt. Definitely not suspicious. Even so, I can’t help feeling guilty.
    â€œThings get kind of intense, Mom, when you’re in rehearsal.”
    â€œI know they do. And I respect that you work so hard. Really I do. But you do seem to be doing an awful lot of rehearsing for a high school production…” Mom lets her voice trail off. She knows this is a sensitive subject for me.
    â€œIt’s more than a high school production, Mom. Ms. Cameron says she’s making a point of treating us like professionals. So we can get a feeling for what acting is really all about.”
    â€œAll right, Iris. I respect that. I think it’s great that you’re learning so much from Ms. Cameron. Hey, before I forget to ask—how was Katie’s birthday bash?”
    When I hear the word bash , I can’t help picturing the hole Mick made in the wall. I try to push the thought as far away as I can. I don’t want Mom to see it on my face. “Amazing.” Short answers make lying easier.
    â€œD’you want to have some green tea or should we head right out for those bagels?”
    â€œWe should probably get there before the line gets too long.”
    Mom tightens her housecoat around her waist as she gets up from the couch. Then she runs her hand over my forehead. “You’re gorgeous, Iris, but I have to tell you—you look a little stressed. Maybe it’s all that rehearsing.”
    There’s already a lineup when we get to the bagel place, but because there are only two of us, we don’t have to wait very long. A woman sitting by the brick wall waves. Mom did her closets two years ago. “Hoarder,” Mom says under her breath. “One of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. She’s got ten years of newspapers piled up in her hallway. You have to walk sideways to get to her kitchen.”
    I peek over my shoulder at the woman. Her hair is stylishly cut and she’s laughing at something her friend just said. I’d never have guessed she’s a hoarder, which goes to show how little you can tell from looking at a person.
    â€œDo people ever ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement?” I ask Mom when we’re seated across from each other. “Like a lawyer or an accountant?”
    Mom’s laugh has a tinkling sound. When I was little, her laugh made me laugh, but now I look around at the nearby tables, hoping the people sitting at them are too busy eating to notice it. “It’d probably be a good idea for some of my customers,” Mom says. “But it’d be awful for me. I’d have nothing to talk about. Except you, of course.” Mom takes my hand and squeezes it. I want her to let go—it’s embarrassing to be seventeen and holding hands with your mother in public—but I know if I shake my hand loose,