Summer in the City of Roses

by Michelle Ruiz Keil

  “Maybe I used George.” Lorna’s grip tightens. “It’s hard to know how much you like someone when you need a place to sleep.” She looks straight at Iph and takes her hand back.

  “That makes sense,” Iph says. And for once she knows it’s true, not because she has a great imagination, but because she’s been there herself. Is there herself. But honestly, even if she were riding high right now, Iph would still like George. She’s never met anyone she’s liked even half as much.

  “Be careful.” Lorna’s eyes are wide open now and pale as a husky’s. “George is easy to love.”

  “I can see that.”

  Iph can just as easily see how to fall in love with Lorna—just look into her eyes. So big and blue. So much saving to do. Irresistible for a knight like George.

  Lorna looks back at the mirror. Takes out a brush and pulls it through her silky hair, then zips up her purse and stands. Awkward, yet elegant. Like Audrey in Funny Face. Or Jean Seberg in anything.

  “Those boots look better on you than on me,” she says. “Just keep them. I’m gonna take off. I’ve seen this movie a hundred times anyway.”

  4

  Life from

  the Flowers

  People crowd the sidewalk in front of the theater. The line snakes around the corner. It’s seven p.m. and eighty-seven degrees in the shade, but at least the light is softer now that the sun is lower in the sky.

  Even here on busy Hawthorne Street, Orr smells roses from people’s yards and the sunscreen everyone uses on children that is synonymous with summer. Most days, he tries to hold sensory input at bay, taking in a little at a time. Not tonight. He wants every possible detail of popcorn smell and snatches of car-radio music and kids bickering and cawing crows to stay in his memory so he never forgets this feeling of waiting in line for the movies on a summer night with such a beautiful girl.

  When it comes to looking straight at Plum, though, Orr has decided to pace himself. Out here in the gold-lit world, she is bright as a parrot in a yellow dress that makes her dark red hair look almost magenta. These are Mom’s colors in the house, the walls of their living and dining rooms. Here, they are Plum’s alone. She wears white rubber flip-flops, and her toenails have chipped purple polish. Her feet are very nice. She originally intended to leave the house barefoot, but to Orr’s immense relief, when her dad and Jane found out they were going to the movies, they both insisted she wear shoes.

  “Fine.” Plum has a way of saying it that sounds like, You’re an idiot, but I’ll humor you. Iph’s fine is also loaded, but hers is more like, Screw you. Orr wonders if this is a universal teenage girl thing.

  Now, they wait. Jane gave Orr the dollar for the movies, but Plum has money for popcorn and candy, and Orr, as always, is starving. He wonders if they will give him a free cup of water. He feels like he could drink a river. A lake. A sea.

  “Have you seen this yet?” Plum points her fox chin at the marquee. the secret of roan inish.

  “I haven’t,” Orr says. “Have you?”

  “Ten times. It’s the only thing that ever plays at this theater. It’s, like, a thing this summer. I think it’s doing something to the city.”

  “Something good?”

  “Something magical.”

  “You sound like my mom,” Orr says. “She’s witchy, too.”

  “All women are,” Plum says. “But not all of us know it.”

  “What about men?”

  “Men . . . oy.” Plum rolls her eyes. “Men have magic. Look at little boys! But you squish it down young. You know how in physics, pressure changes things? Like, makes carbon into diamonds? Men’s magic is like that. Then they sell the diamonds for something else. That’s what ruins it for you guys, I think. The whole alpha-male status trip.”

  “I’m not like that,” Orr says.

  Plum cocks her head. What kind of animal is she, anyway? A fox, probably. Or a cat. That’s an Iph game, figuring out what kind of animals people are. She learned it for acting, to help her get into character. She decided to play Hermia as a standard poodle for a monologue at school. When she practiced it for Orr, she was suddenly not Iph at all, but a completely different girl. It almost frightened him.

  Orr sends his sibling tentacles out into the city but feels nothing. Dad says Iph is here, that she’s looking for him. He imagines seeing her in line for the movie. She’d run up to him, jump on him, squeeze him way too tight. He always complained, but really, he liked it. She knew that. But now his body curls away from the image like a poked pill bug. He doesn’t want to see Iph. He doesn’t even want to see Mom. The only person he wants to see right now is Plum.

  5

  Adaptation

  It’s stifling in the apartment. The rule is windows closed till the neighbor’s house goes dark, but it’s too hot to bear. They’ve taken a risk already, coming home so early. They didn’t stay for the movie. George was too upset. Now they have to keep their voices low.

  Iph is lying on the scratchy carpet like a starfish, trying to maximize her surface area to catch any hope of a breeze. George is on the sofa. Scout has ditched them for the cooler kitchen linoleum.

  “Did she tell you about how she disappeared one day?”

  “No,” Iph says.

  “She’s stripping now. Did she tell you that?”

  “You sort of did. At Shiny Dancer.” It had been hypothetical then. The reality of it is hard to connect with the actual girl. “How old is she?”

  “Eighteen as of two weeks ago. She used her stepsister’s ID when she started. They probably didn’t even look at it.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know. In a perfect world, she’d be taken care of by nice adults, but that doesn’t seem like it’s happening. I mean, how does she feel about her job? Does she like it?”

  “Iph. She takes her clothes off in front of creeps for money.”

  Iph feels Mom’s training rise but sets it aside for now. “Did you two fight about it?”

  George groans.

  “I mean, I’m sure she has her reasons. Did she tell you why she first decided to strip?”

  “Why does anyone?” George flops facedown on the sofa. “Kill me now.”

  “You don’t seem to have a problem with Glow’s work,” Iph says, rolling over and stretching up into a cobra pose, trying to relieve what riding on the bike rack has done to her lower back.

  “That’s different. Glow’s older. And I don’t know—she doesn’t seem like she has Lorna’s history. I told you how Lorna and I met. I can’t believe she’d get naked for strangers after that. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not perfect logic, but I bet it makes sense. Everyone has their reasons,” Iph says. “Or maybe you’re right and it’s self-destructive. But George . . . it’s kind of up to her, you know?”

  “I drove her away. She wanted to stay here,” George says into the mossy deep of Nana’s couch cushions. “She kept bringing home weed and Thai food. Kept buying me stuff.”

  “Sounds terrible.”

  “It was terrible,” George says rolling to face the back of the sofa. “I couldn’t accept her ill-gotten gains.”

  Iph sits up and props her back against the sofa. She’s trying not to laugh. George slides off the sofa to sit next to her and is smiling a little, too, because it’s hard to be melodramatic in a hundred-degree apartment.

  Iph shoves George a little with her shoulder. “Ill-gotten gains?” She giggles and George giggles, and it’s suddenly more of a slumber party and less of a funeral, but it’s so hot that even party-girl Scout just thumps her tail from the next room.

  When the laughing is over, they’re sitting cross-legged, face to face like they’re preparing to do the hand-clapping game Iph loved as a little girl. Say, say, oh playmate. Come out and play with me.

  Iph leans in and kisses George—a short press of Iph’s
chapped lips to George’s smooth ones.

  “It’s fine,” Iph whispers, “that you still love Lorna. You can love her and like me at the same time. If that’s what’s happening.”

  George’s eyes glow. “I think that’s what’s happening.”

  Iph leans in again, and the kiss is deeper this time. She’s never done this before, but already she knows she’s good at it. With practice, she’ll be really good. An alternative future spools away from the lonely dorm-room microwave-brownie scenario Iph has been inching toward since high school disappointed her. There is sex in her future if she wants it.

  George—who is also good at this, whether inherently or from practice—seems lost in the kiss. Iph touches the baby hairs on George’s neck with her fingertips. Moves her lips down to those beautiful collarbones. Brushes her eyelashes against George’s cheek. Blows cool air on George’s sweaty forehead. Lightly bites George’s ear. Stops. Looks into George’s eyes. Sees herself there, yes. But Lorna’s there, too.

  “So,” she says. “Tell me more.”

  “About?”

  Iph laughs at the look on George’s face. “About Lorna. You’re thinking about her, right?”

  “You’re a little scary with your mind reading.”

  Iph smiles. Everything feels . . . fine.

  She reaches out for Orr wherever he is in the city. Safe thrums back to her.

  Nothing is how it’s supposed to be, but everything is all right.

  6

  Over the Pool

  Movies are often overwhelming for Orr. The Secret of Roan Inish is no exception. There are moments he needs to cover his ears—not because the soundtrack is loud, but because the emotions are so intense. The selkie woman is too lovely, the tiny child in the cradle boat too brave, too alone. The wistful sister longing for her lost baby brother nearly undoes him. It’s all too close to home.

  And then there’s Plum in the seat next to him. Orr is grateful for her contained energy. She seems to expect nothing of him. The first time he put his head down and covered his ears, he felt her noticing. After that, she seemed to get that some parts were a little too much and handed him the tub of popcorn or moved a little to let him know it was safe to emerge. Now that the movie is over, she waits with him till most of the people are out of the theater, almost as if she knows that’s the way he likes to do things.

  Should he have held Plum’s hand during the movie? Should he hold it now? But she is walking in front of him, hands in the pockets of her sundress, hair swishing back and forth behind her like a goldfish tail. Orr hurries to catch up with her.

  They are mostly quiet on the way home. The night is still warm, but it’s nice after the air-conditioned theater. The scent of night-blooming flowers flavors the air like syrup in an Italian soda. A few blocks from her house, Plum asks, “What was your favorite part?”

  “That the boy didn’t come home easily,” Orr says. “He wouldn’t have in real life. He was scared, but his sister knew how to call him. She understood him even after they’d been apart so long.”

  “Do you miss your sister?” Plum asks, her voice very soft like Orr is the feral little boy in the movie, living with the seals in his cradle of a ship, naked out at sea.

  Orr nods. “Do you miss your mom?”

  Plum says, “I always cry when Jamie goes back to his family. It’s the right ending, I know. But there’s a part of me that’s a little resentful. It’s like the movie version of my favorite book. This girl’s dad dies, and she has to overcome it and keep living. But in the movie, it’s all a mistake. He’s not dead after all. It’s like, give us the real story, you know?”

  They’re quiet for the rest of the walk. When they get back to Plum’s, the house is dark. There’s a note on the refrigerator door from Jane held by the same wizard magnet that’s on Orr’s refrigerator at home, a free gift from a box of herbal tea. Jane’s out grocery shopping with Plum’s dad, the note says. Orr can wait at Plum’s or go back to Penelope.

  “That’s good,” Plum says. “Most days, he doesn’t leave the house.” She must mean her dad. “So, wanna stay and hang out? I’m going to make tea and read. You can join me if you want.”

  “I’m tired,” Orr says. He knows it’s from the movie.

  “I’ll make you a map.” She draws a diagram of how to get back to Penelope on the back of an envelope that reads Environment Oregon.

  Orr prowls the living room, restless and ready to be alone. Plum’s house is messy at first glance, full of books and newspapers and empty beer and soda bottles and board games and musical instruments, but clean underneath. Like the Furies’ house is now that Orr has moved in.

  On the front porch, Plum says goodbye. She does this with a hug and then a funny thing—a head press, her forehead to his. How had she known his head was hot and a little achy? Plum has powers, like Iph.

  He finger-traces the map and the digits of Plum’s phone number, written on the other side of the envelope, then puts it in the pocket of Allison’s basketball shorts. He knows the way. He starts to run, and when he starts, he doesn’t want to stop. He flies past Penelope, blocks and blocks. He smells green. He is so fast. His body makes wind that cools his face. Ahead, massive trees touch the black velvet sky where the brightest stars are visible—such a different sky from the one at home, where even a few miles from the city the light pollution is so much less.

  Orr remembers his hair, the way his ponytail flowed out behind him when he ran. He is so light now without it. So much faster. How can a good thing come from such a violation? This night would never have happened without Meadowbrook. Orr thinks about the dark theater hour spent shoulder-to-shoulder with Plum and the way fairy tales are sometimes true.

  He runs toward the trees, past a playground, and into a park. He senses water before he’s even close to the big oval pond. The rancid mossy green surely reeks—but tonight the strong smell is enticing. He thinks of Plum floating in the hot tub, surrounded by flowered water. Here, there are no flowers. Only a neon scrim of algae over black water. Still, he kneels at the water’s muddy edge.

  On the center island, the ducks murmur. Surely if he drinks here, he will be sick. The moon is so bright, a few days away from full. There are turtles sleeping on a log in the center of the pond. How does he know that? It’s a smell or maybe a sound, slow amphibian blood. He cocks his head to hear the roosting herons. Crows sleep tucked in high branches in a stand of Douglas firs around the pond. Little fish swim deep below. The water wears moonlight the way Plum wore her Ophelia dress. Orr’s mouth is so dry. His hands are in the water now.

  A sound startles him. A growl. A big lab’s quick bark rebukes his aberrant behavior. The dog strains on the leash held by a small, hurrying woman. Orr smells their fear, both the woman’s and the dog’s.

  Why is he here at the edge of this pond? The gravel cuts into his knees. Without even drinking, he knows how the water will taste—of pleasure and relief.

  But Orr stands and backs away. Listens to the lap of the pond against the shore. Smells pot smoke. Hears voices from the far end of the park. A bat passes under a streetlamp. Orr turns his back to the pond.

  You can have all the water you want at the house, he tells this new, thirsty part of himself. After one final look at the moonlit water, Orr trots back to Penelope.

  7

  His Four

  Black Hooves

  There is a man in the kitchen. He is stinking drunk—another supposed euphemism proven. He makes the entire house rank with beer and pee and gross BO. Orr stands over him, cast-iron skillet poised.

  “Who the hell are you?” The guy has asked this seven or eight times. The emphasis had switched at around the fourth query from “Who the hell are you?” to the way it is now, less belligerent and more bemused. “Dude, let me up, man. I wanna get my stuff.”

  “You don’t live here,” Orr says. His heart is beating so hard. L
ike always, he is thirsty. “Will you stay down while I get a drink?”

  “These chicks are straight-edge, bro. It’s like the Bible Belt up in here.”

  Orr has no idea what the man is talking about. All he wants is a glass of water.

  “We’re not straight-edge, asswipe,” a voice says. “We hide our stuff from you. Our cash, our smokes. Definitely our beer. We lock our bedroom doors.” Mika stands fierce in her tank top and boys’ underwear with dinosaurs on it. She told Orr she shops in the kids’ department where clothes are cheaper—usually the boys’ section, because she prefers the prints. She touches Orr’s elbow, and he sets down the pan. It’s funny how long he was able to hold it without shaking. His bicep is a small hillock of rock—when did that happen?

  The guy shifts like he’s going to stand, but Mika puts up a hand. “Don’t move.” She grabs her camera from the counter and snaps. “For posterity,” she says. “Now get out, or I’m getting Allison.”

  “Jane,” the guy shouts.

  “Shut up!” Mika says. “She’s not here.”

  “Janie!” the guy yells, lumbering to his feet. “JANE.” Mika starts kicking him, but her feet are bare. She gets in a few good ones, but he just laughs. He’s so drunk. Orr has never seen someone this intoxicated in real life. “JANE!”

  Mika gets a dish towel and goes to stuff it in the guy’s mouth as he tries and fails to stand up, singing as he stiff-arms Mika with one hand and snatches the dish towel away with the other. Orr knows the song—“Kung Fu Fighting.” Mika makes a little shriek and pulls back her arm to sock him. Then Jane is there, pulling Mika off and pulling the guy up. Once he’s standing, she shoves him and bursts into tears. Then he’s holding her.

  Orr doesn’t like this one bit. “Jane, who is this guy?” he asks. But Jane isn’t listening.

  “Come on,” Mika says and pulls Orr into the living room. Jane is still crying, and the guy is slurring something.