So Much It Hurts by Monique Polak Page A

it’ll hurt her feelings.
    Thank God Mom releases my hand when the waitress comes over. I make a point of asking the waitress how she’s doing. I also take the napkins and cutlery she’s carrying and put everything in the right spot. I know how tough it is to stay on top of things when a restaurant gets busy.
    â€œThanks,” the waitress says. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I know she knows I’m a waitress too. It’s like being part of a secret society. Freemasons have a secret handshake; waitresses help each other with cutlery.
    Mom points to the bottom of her menu. “We’ll have our usual. Scrambled eggs with sesame-seed bagels. Toasted. Fruit salad instead of home fries. Please.” Mom hands the menu back to the waitress.
    My hands are in my lap now—safely out of Mom’s reach.
    â€œI’ll have poached eggs, not scrambled, please,” I tell the waitress.
    â€œSure,” she says, scratching something out on her pad.
    â€œSweetpie!” Mom says. (The waitress gives me a sympathetic look.) “Poached eggs? Since when do you like poached eggs?”
    â€œI guess I’m in the mood for a change. Besides, I’m starting to like poached eggs. I’ve been eating them at”—lying is harder than acting because you have to make up the script as you go along—“Katie’s.”
    Mom’s not good with change, even if it involves eggs. I think if she had her way, she’d keep me a little girl forever. Not because she doesn’t want me to grow up and have my own life; I think Mom just got used to having a little girl around for company.
    â€œIris,” she says, “why don’t we plan to come here for breakfast every single weekend? If we did it first thing on Saturdays, I could still—”
    â€œMom.” My voice comes out sharper than I want it to. “I can’t go making plans like that. Not with the play coming up.”
    This time, Mom bites her lip. “You’re right. I’m being a pest. So tell me everything …”
    I have a sudden urge to check the time on my cell phone. I’m meeting Mick back at the loft at one.
    There’s no way I’m going to tell my mom everything , but I know I’ve got to tell her something .
    â€œI’m really getting into Ophelia’s character.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful,” Mom says.
    I’m waiting for her to say what she usually does—that I should probably have a Plan B—but she doesn’t. That makes me want to tell her a little more.
    â€œOphelia is really close with her brother and her dad. So she’s super torn when her dad says he thinks Hamlet’s totally wrong for her. But the thing is, Ophelia’s crazy in love with Hamlet.” Just saying the words crazy in love makes me think of Mick and how I’m crazy in love with him. His lips, his shoulders, the way he calls me Joey and holds me so tight it almost hurts to breathe.
    â€œIt’s been ages since I read the play, but wasn’t Hamlet bonkers?” Mom asks, twirling one finger in a circle by the side of her head to emphasize bonkers .
    â€œHe’s brilliant, not bonkers. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s a prince.”
    â€œA difficult prince,” Mom says. “Why is it some women always fall for difficult guys?”
    I want to ask Mom whether my father was difficult. But I can’t. My father has always been the forbidden topic in our lives. Besides, I already know he was difficult. That’s why they broke up and also why I’m supposed to be grateful he didn’t make an effort to stay in touch with me. Only maybe what he wrote to me is true—maybe he did make an effort. Maybe Mom blocked it. But why?
    Take it from me—we’re better off without him . Mom said that so many times when I was little, I took it for a fact. Now I’m not so sure.
    The waitress brings our food. Mom gives me a