So Much It Hurts by Monique Polak

see me…” I’m finding it hard to go on. To formulate the question. But I don’t have to.
    â€œOh, Iris,” he says, and now I know he isn’t smiling. “You want to know why she prevented me from contacting you…that’s it, isn’t it?”
    I can barely say, “Uh-huh.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Iris, I really am.” I know from his voice that he means it. “But your mom’s the only one who can answer that question. You’re going to have to ask her.” He pauses. “When you’re ready.”

    I can’t stop thinking about the phone call. Not even when I’m in Theater Workshop and, later, in Economics class. Why won’t my father tell me what happened—and will I ever be ready to ask my mom?
    The Economics teacher calls my name twice before I look up. “Iris, can you answer the question, please?”
    â€œUh, I’m sorry…but I don’t think I heard it.”
    Lenore’s arm shoots up. “I think the term you’re looking for is the law of diminishing returns.”
    â€œI’m glad to know some of you are paying attention,” the teacher says.
    Lenore turns her head just enough to give me a condescending smile.
    After school, Katie and I hurry along Monkland Avenue, on our way to the Villa-Maria metro station. Our arms are linked, and we keep our heads down to protect our faces from the gusty November wind. “I can’t believe you couldn’t answer that question about decreasing returns,” Katie says.
    â€œDiminishing. Not decreasing.”
    Katie doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve corrected her.
    â€œYou know what else I can’t believe? That you didn’t take a picture of him! You should’ve known I’d want to see what he looks like.”
    â€œI know it’s dumb, but I only thought about it afterward,” I tell her. “He sent me a picture on Facebook—I’ll show you that later. You’ll see he looks like me. I mean, I look like him. Same cheekbones, same wide-apart eyes. And we have the same laugh. He’s taller than I expected, and handsome. Well, kind of. I can sort of see why Mom fell for him.”
    I can almost feel Katie shiver under her jacket. “You still haven’t told her about Plattsburgh?”
    â€œI don’t think she could handle it. Did I tell you he used to act?”
    â€œThat’s pretty cool. So maybe acting’s in your genes.”
    â€œShe could’ve told me.”
    Katie knows I mean my mom. “So are you happier now that you’ve seen him and he’s your Facebook friend?”
    We’re crossing Girouard Avenue. At least it’ll be warm inside the station. “Do I seem happier?”
    Katie does something unusual for her. She stops to think about the question. “You seem different. Not necessarily happier. But definitely different. You’re not hanging out with Mick what’s-his-name, are you?”
    I can’t believe Katie has just asked me that. It’s a good thing she can’t see my face.
    â€œOf course not.” I figure I should go on the offensive. “Why would you ask me such a weird question?”
    â€œAntoine said he thought he saw you two—at the mountain. In a pedal boat.”
    â€œIn a pedal boat? That’s insane! Hey, I thought you said Antoine was dead to you.”
    â€œHe is,” Katie says. “Usually anyway.”
    The metro is late. Katie grabs my arm. “D’you think there was a jumper?”
    â€œDo you have to call them jumpers ?”
    I hate the dirty-socks smell of Montreal’s underground city. But as long as there are no mechanical difficulties—and no suicides (what Katie calls jumpers )—you can usually set your watch by our metro system.
    It was my idea to take Katie downtown shopping. I want to buy us friendship bracelets. I told Katie I wanted to make it up to her for missing her