He girds himself and reaches for his sister now, mind-to-mind, a trick they’ve been practicing for years. A game, really. But maybe this time it will work.
He follows the bread-crumb trail of memory—first her face, her voice, then deeper, down to the ghost in him. Mom used to correct him. “I think you mean your soul, mijo.” But he means more than a soul.
He’d gotten the idea from a song Mom used to play a lot from an old mixtape Dad made her. He could almost see his ghost with his eyes closed tight, a soft mist of a thing like shower steam or cotton candy. Iph has one, too—a ripe, bright yellow that feels the way an oven-fresh lemon bar both tingles and is sweet on your tongue after a glass of ice-cold water.
He settles in now to call Iph’s ghost, a process he and Iph call tuning, where you think of the other person while checking your body one part at a time. All summer, they’d been using this to try and contact one another in dreams, and so far had come up with similar imagery seven nights out of twenty, according to Orr’s detailed notes. Maybe the missing ingredient had been necessity. Orr needs his sister. Needs her to know he is safe.
He rolls to his back. The window is bluing, almost his favorite shade but not quite.
Hello, feet. If Iph were here, how would you feel?
“Scared,” his feet say. “Scared of her gross clammy toes.”
Hi, knees. How do you feel when your sister is with you?
“Soft,” say his knees. “Less achy.”
Hands, remember how you feel when Iph is beside you watching a movie?
“Worried,” say his hands. “She’ll steal the popcorn if we aren’t careful.”
Nose, what do you smell when Iph is around?
This one is easy—vanilla, sugar, amber. “You are what you eat,” Mindy always said to get Orr to eat more of her baking. Iph needed no encouragement to eat sweet or spicy things.
He checks in with his neck. His ears and eyes.
At his scalp, he has to stop and start over again.
His missing hair is still so hard to integrate. What does his head even feel like? He has no idea. It’s like they cut his whole head off with his hair.
His heart is pounding, and his head feels hot.
Hot! That’s how his head feels. Like a ball of fire.
That’s what he imagines it looks like now—a burned meadow, the only thing left an inch of charred grass.
He feels like crying again. From sadness, but also relief. Like a Nirvana song.
Somehow, he got away from Meadowbrook and found these kind girls.
The moon rises in the window, smaller here—the window and the moon—than at home. Mom is under the moon. Dad, too. Fucking Dad. And Iph.
Orr’s eyes are heavy.
He is so tired.
He sleeps and dreams.
Iph, flying through the evening sky in unfamiliar boots.
Iph, laughing. A boy in a yellow sweater holds her hand.
A tiger in miniature.
Anger, a phrase. Tiger-footed rage.
A dangling pay phone.
A crucified man.
Tarot cards falling from the trees like rain.
Iph, flying higher,
A crow winging past
The tops of trees,
Dollhouses golden with bedtime.
Tiny cats out to prowl the blue twilight.
Iph flies higher and higher.
Then she jumps!
16
Attempts
in Operettas
The pillow tastes like mothballs, but Iph keeps it shoved against her mouth because she can’t stop laughing. Scout whines, nosing around to find her face.
“I have to smoke,” George says. “Because drinking.”
“Don’t leave me!” Iph giggles. “You have to stay with me, George.” Gin is her drink. The perfect alcohol. She sees now why Mom told her she wouldn’t like it. Reverse psychology, because Iph more than likes this buzz. She is crushed out on it. On everything. Even herself. And, of course, George. Dapper, beautiful George with those crow-black eyes and perfect rose macaron mouth.
“Iph! I’ll be right back. I don’t want to give you asthma.” George, impressively, stands up straight.
“You’re a good drinker,” Iph says, and they both laugh again, stuffing pillows into their faces, George kneeling. When did that happen? Wait—now George is up again, so easy. Standing, pulling Iph up.
“Come with me then.” They are face to face, but the kiss doesn’t happen.
George looks down and away.
“You’re thinking about the lost girl, right?” She should be bummed, but the gin takes away the sting.
“Yes,” George says, grabbing the big flashlight.
Iph stops herself short of rolling her eyes and stomping her foot. It’s not George’s fault for being in love. “Ugh,” she says. “Fine. Let’s go down to the garage. You can tell me all about her.”
Downstairs, the cement floor is cool under Iph’s feet. She plops into a rusty lawn chair with a faded floral cushion. “So, what’s her name?”
George settles onto the tire swing and lights the cigarette, careful to blow the smoke away from Iph. “Lorna.”
“In real life, is she strawberry blonde? With pale-blue eyes?” In George’s painting, her hair is lavender and her eyes are gold.
“How did you know?”
“I don’t know,” Iph says. “It’s how I imagine her. Delicate-looking, like in your painting, but tough in person. A little bit of a mean girl? But not all the way through.”
George stops swaying around on the tire swing and shines the flashlight beam at the painting of Lorna with lavender hair and gold earrings and the Gustav Klimt–like suggestion of a halo. “Wow. Yeah, that’s Lorna. You’re exactly right.” George sucks on the filter hard, blows the smoke out in a quick hot puff. Iph likes the smell. It reminds her of Mom.
“Hmmm,” Iph says. She has a big crush on George, of course, but the gin seems to leave little room for being maudlin about it. “Let’s have another gin and tonic, darling,” Iph says in her best flapper voice. “But first, tell me the sad part.”
“Oof.” George mimes taking a hit to the gut and falls to the floor. When Iph offers a hand up, she’s pulled down instead. The concrete is stained, but relatively clean. Deliciously cool.
“Well,” George says, lying back, eyes closed. “It’s all sad, if you want to know. I heard something on the street one night. It was Lorna. Someone was attacking her.”
“Is that when you used your bow?”
“Yeah,” George says. “I was too late. The damage was already done.”
“Whoa,” Iph says. “I’m so sorry. That’s horrible.”
“Yeah.”
“So you rescued her and fell in love?”
“Something like that,” George says.
They’re quiet. A dog barks somewhere in the neighborhood. Scout’s hackles rise.
“Leave it,” George says.
They lie still, their hands a few inches apart. Iph can feel the heat coming off George’s skin. She inches her pinkie closer. She pulls it back.
“C’mon,” she says. On her feet she sways a little and holds out her hands to pull George up. Static sparks between them, the result of some explainable phenomenon that Dad has tried to teach her about on many occasions to absolutely no avail.
George’s hand snaps away. “Whoa!” Then, with much heart clutching, “My drops of tears I’ll turn to sparks of fire.”
Stop it. Stop being so adorable, Iph thinks. Her brow furrows. Sparks of fire . . . What play is that from? She sticks her tongue out at George.
“Queen Katherine,” George says. “Henry the Eighth. Duh.”
“Who knows that play? Who even reads the histories?” Iph’s consonants are mushy, authentically drunk-sounding, some
thing that is surprisingly hard to act. She turns on her mental tape recorder and hopes for the best. “How did you learn all this Shakespeare, anyway?”
“Shakespeare in the Shelter, milady. They had it at Outside In. Anyone could do it. You didn’t have to live there,” George adds quickly.
“Is that how you know Josh?”
“Yep,” George says. “And Cait. She was a volunteer.”
Cait. Lorna. George is way out of Iph’s league.
Upstairs is still sweltering, the godlike effect of the gin is wearing off, and Iph feels like crap about Lorna and Cait and all the girls with leading roles. More gin doesn’t help, partly because the bag of ice they put in the kitchen sink has melted away, and warm gin and tonic isn’t nearly as nice as cold. But also, Iph is basically a monster, because Orr is gone and needs to be found, but all she seems to care about is George’s stable of exes. Then again, maybe sitting in her personal lovelorn drama is easier than contemplating the spectacular fall of her own once-perfect family.
Lovelorn. Love Lorna.
Oh well. This is familiar, at least.
“You’re tripping,” George says, tapping Iph’s forehead. “I see you in there.”
Iph’s eyes narrow. “Um, no. You see girls like Cait. And Lorna. And whatever other Sassy magazine models you hang around with.”
George groans and leans forward in the plaid recliner, head in hands—the same pose Dad assumes at the start of a fight with Mom. This new alternate reality has such odd moments of symmetry to life at home. Same shapes, same sadness.
Are she and George fighting now? Iph used to think her temper was an essential part of her character, like hating watermelon or loving books, but lately she sees it as a habit, exhausting and so stupid. She can almost grasp this other, better version of herself that keeps her temper and does the right thing, but almost doesn’t count. She’s always apologizing. Another familiar thing. What’s one more?
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Please ignore me. I don’t care about your girlfriends. I’m upset about my brother.”
“Dude, no. It’s me. I’m toxic. For real. Like . . . contagious.” George is bright red. Takes the bottle and swigs. “Girls totally love me. I’m not being conceited. They’ve always loved me. You know that nursery rhyme? Well, it’s basically my life.”
Nursery rhyme? Iph scrunches her face. She sees her Mother Goose book like it’s right in front of her. What’s that damn rhyme? She needs to lie down. Nana’s green shag carpet is dusty and smells a little like feet. Her own feet still hurt, so she puts them up on the sofa. The breeze wafts in, jasmine and mock orange. “You have to tell me. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Don’t make me say it,” George says, plopping down on the sofa with the bottle of gin, knees an inch from Iph’s feet. “And don’t you say it, either. I hate that thing.”
“Tell me,” Iph says. “It’s killing me. It’s on the tip of my brain.”
George laughs. “Your brain has no tip. You mean your tongue.”
The word tongue shuts them both up for a second. And then Iph has it. Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie. Kissed the girls and made them cry. She sits up slowly.
“Oh my god. I mean . . . wow. It’s like destiny. Like, did your name make you a Lothario? Or is there some inherent quality from birth that causes a parent to name their kid George? A quality that, later in life, manifests in rampant, dramatic love affairs?”
“Whoa. Way to get it on the nose.” George sits up and passes the gin to Iph.
“I know,” Iph says. “I’m very good with summation.” And she is. She feels good again. She’s a seer, Mom says. A noticer. And lately, there are moments when she almost sees herself. As a woman, she may well be appreciated. A pretty face, a body that looks like it can make babies or fill out a fifties wiggle dress the way the Goddess intended. Womanly stuff. But now, it’s girlishness that’s wanted. The girls who look like kids the longest—waifish, like runway models—are always considered prettiest. All that was over for Iph by sixth grade. She’s had a woman’s body since she was twelve. It’s what she’s got. Who she is. For now, being smart will do. “At least I have my brain, right?”
“Shut up,” George says. “I mean, my god, Iph. Look at yourself. Total Gina Lollobrigida.”
“Sorry, but I know my movie stars, and she was totally skinny—just had big boobs. Plus, she’s Italian, which I’m not. But whatever!”
“To be honest, I don’t really know what Gina Lollobrigida looks like. Just, you know, voluptuous. And hot. I like the name. It rolls off the tongue.”
That word again.
“Anyway,” George says, “what I meant to say is, you look like a fifties screen siren. Especially in that white dress you were wearing.”
“Whatever.” Iph lies back again.
“Are you mad?”
“I don’t think so. But you never know. Either I flip out right away or it happens a few days later. Ask me Wednesday.”
“Don’t be mad. You have star power, that’s all I meant.”
“George. I’m not fishing for compliments. But I don’t really believe you. I go to this school with a big theater department. They’re famous for it. I know I’m as good as some of the girls who get leads, but I can barely get cast as a maid or somebody’s mother. I don’t look like an ingenue. I don’t fit into the costumes.”
“Can’t they, like, sew?”
“I sew! I could make it myself, if that’s the issue. When I finally asked my drama teacher, do you know what he said? ‘It’s the way of world, dear. Some of us aren’t leading ladies.’ I get it. I’m supposed to, like, be a good sport and not be jealous and accept the things I can’t change—but I don’t. I can’t! I hate it.”
“Your drama teacher is an ass,” George says. “But I get the jealousy. For me, it’s more an envy. I wish I had certain things, you know? Like what you and Cait have. I know money can’t buy love or anything, but I’ve always wished I had it.”
Iph wants to say she’s not like Cait, but the truth is, she is on the Cait continuum. Goes to a private school. Lives in a big house.
“Is it weird I said that?” George is on the sofa next to her.
“Not at all,” Iph says. “I wish you had money, too. I wish everyone did. But I think we’re alike in one way.”
“What’s that?” George meets her eyes. For a second Iph imagines herself leaning in, but she doesn’t. She leans away, scoots to the edge of the sofa.
“Work,” she says. “We both like a project. Systems. Rules for things. Like here. Most people would have blown it the first week and had a kegger, but you’re good at this. You’re a planner. A hard worker. I am, too. Everyone thinks I’m lazy, but I’m not. There just isn’t anything real for me to do most of the time.”
“Wow,” George says. “I’ve been trying to think how to explain the good parts about living like this. That’s it! It’s real. Not the busywork you’re supposed to waste your life on till the magical day you turn eighteen.”
“Totally. And George? We’re going to be hungover tomorrow, but we need to work anyway. Will you help me find my brother? Be the Ned to my Nancy?”
“I think you mean the Sid to your Nancy. Although I don’t know if Sid Vicious was generally known for getting things done.”
“No, no! Not Nancy Spungen—Nancy Drew!”
“That’s her last name? Like a sponge?”
“My mom knew her,” Iph says. “They worked together in New York.”
“Wow. But wait, what were you saying? Hangover, work, something, something something?”
“George. You’re drunk.” Iph giggles. “I said be the Ned to my Nancy. I’m talking about NANCY DREW, for crying out loud.”
“Um, is Ned the boyfriend?”
“That’s not the point,” Iph says. “I’m saying we need to sleuth. There’s something afoot, my f
riend.”
“Afoot?” George wiggles a foot in the air.
“George! Focus! My brother is hiding out somewhere in this city. We’ve gotta figure it out. I wish I had an apropos Shakespeare passage right now, but I don’t.”
“Is Lothario from Shakespeare?”
“I don’t know,” Iph says. They’re quiet, and then George is laughing again, so hard there are tears.
“What?”
George is gasping and Iph is giggling. Finally, George comes up for air and grabs Iph by the shoulders. “Lothario? Oh my god, woman. Who even says that?”
“If the shoe fits—”
“I’m not wearing shoes.” She sees it now. George does want to kiss her.
“I’m already crying,” Iph says, “about my messed-up family. So it won’t be your fault.”
“It will,” George says.
After a while George gets up and brings them both big glasses of water. It’s late enough that they can drink them on the back steps.
The stars twinkle in a clear sky. It’s going to be hot again tomorrow.
“You said you’re Greek on your dad’s side,” George says. “What else?”
“Are you asking me what I am?”
“Well, when I tried to tell you what reminded me of, you got a little miffed. Which I get because I hate that myself. So yes. I am asking.”
“Greek from my dad, Mexican from my mom. Hot-tempered and anxious from both.”
“I’m Japanese and white on my mom’s side and who-knows-what-because-my-mom-won’t-say on my dad’s.”
Iph downs her water. “How about Scout?”
“Scout,” George says, “is a pound puppy wonder dog.”
At the sound of her name, Scout rallies, whining very quietly to go for a walk.
“Not now, little beast,” George says. “Now it’s time to sleep.”
17
The Boy
Shouted Back
Orr is awake at dawn, starving. The girls’ kitchen is the filthiest space he has ever seen. The weak light through grease-spattered windows turns the dish-piled whitish Formica counters the color of urine. The refrigerator is Chernobyl. An old model from a former era with the bins inside missing. In their place are desiccated carrots, an empty plastic tub labeled mika, and several cans of beer. On the top shelf are two boxes of Chinese takeout smeared radioactive red, a jar of honey mustard, a jar of cocktail olives, and a carton of milk screaming go to hell to the entire world with its sour-death smell.
Summer in the City of Roses Page 9
