Summer in the City of Roses Read online

  Also by the author

  All of Us with Wings

  Copyright © 2021 by Michelle Ruiz Keil

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Soho Teen

  an imprint of Soho Press, Inc.

  227 W 17th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Keil, Michelle Ruiz, author.

  Title: Summer in the city of roses / Michelle Ruiz Keil.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020052760

  ISBN 978-1-64129-171-2

  eISBN 978-1-64129-172-9

  Subjects: CYAC: 1. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Social action—Fiction. 4. Musicians—Fiction. 5. Punk rock

  music—Fiction. | Portland (Or.)—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.K41513 Sum 2021| DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020052760

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  Rose illustration: © elenavlas/Shutterstock

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Luciana & Angelika

  ACT I

  Whoever drinks from me will become a tiger

  1

  The First

  Acquaintance

  with a Part

  It’s the middle of summer, but of course there’s rain. Clouds race past, covering and uncovering the moon. Iph’s high heels squish with water, insult to the blistered injuries that are her feet. Her mother’s cashmere sweater, already two sizes too small, is now a second skin. She stops at a wide, busy street that might be familiar if she’d remembered her glasses. But those, along with her purse, are far away, sitting innocent and hopeful on the white tablecloth in the hotel banquet room.

  A guy across the street beams a glance her way and walks backward a few steps so he can keep on looking. She concedes a point to Dad. Earlier tonight, when she swanned into the living room in her white movie-star dress, he nodded approval at the first impression—glamorous but appropriate—followed by a jaw-drop of horror when his eyes reached her chest. Iph turned without a word and got the sweater out of her mother’s closet—oversized and beachy on gamine Mom, not-quite-button-uppable on Iph. Although Mom has trained Dad against the sexism of policing his daughter’s clothes, Dad insists on a basic truth: Men are malákes. Disgusting. A wolf whistle follows her around the corner, bringing the point home.

  Iph turns away from the busy street—Burnside, she thinks, squinting at the blurry sign—and walks back the way she came. A car drives by a little too slow. More men, more eyes. This never happens in Forest Lake. She isn’t scared . . . but maybe she should be? “The trick to bad neighborhoods,” Dad once told her, “is to act like you belong.” She was twelve or thirteen then, brought along to pick up a load of salvaged building materials from a part of the city people called Felony Flats. Staring out the rain-spattered window of his truck at the small houses with their peeling front porches and dandelion gardens, Iph wondered what exactly made a neighborhood bad.

  An older woman wearing a blanket instead of a raincoat shuffles past on the other side of the street. A car whizzes by, blasting the Beatles. “Yellow Submarine” to go with the weather—a childhood road-trip favorite. Iph would give anything to be in that silver Volvo now, sharing a pillow with Orr in the back.

  She stops. She can’t think about her brother. Can’t stand here crying in the rain with no coat.

  She takes a deep breath and starts walking again. Each step cuts like her gold heels are the cursed shoes of a punished girl in a fairy tale. She passes an alley. The same creepy car that slowed down before is turning in. A group of kids, some who look younger than her, are leaning against the wall, smoking. Iph hurries by. The scent of wet asphalt and urine wafts toward her on the wind. Iph wills her nose to stop working. So yeah, this neighborhood is probably what her father would call bad. She should go back and face him. Find some way to make him change his mind. But there’s no making Dad do anything, not when he thinks he’s right.

  It’s humiliating how useless she is out in the real world. Like a jewelry-box ballerina waiting to be sprung, she’s dreamed her life away in her pink suburban bedroom, sleeping as much as possible, rewatching her favorite movies, and rereading her favorite books. She always thought she’d be one of those kids who got their driver’s license the day of their sixteenth birthday so she could drive into Portland whenever she wanted. Like Mom, she loved the city. But sixteen came and went without even a learner’s permit.

  Once, years ago, Iph heard Mom talking on the phone to her best friend. “If I’d have known how white it was in Oregon,” she said, “I would’ve made Theo transfer to NYU and raised the kids in Brooklyn.”

  City-girl Mom made the best of it. Portland was still mostly white, but more liberal and diverse than Forest Lake. She’d taken Iph and Orr into Portland weekly since they were little—for Orr’s cello lessons and Iph’s theater camps, trips to museums and plays and record stores and summertime Shakespeare in the Park. Most often, they go to Powell’s, the enormous bookstore downtown that covers an entire city block. The streets around Iph look a little like those.

  But really, all the streets in downtown Portland look like this—art deco apartment buildings crowded next to the sooty turn-of-the-century low-rises Dad calls brickies; parking lots next to Gothic churches; nondescript midcentury offices and newish high-rises, shiny with rain-washed glass. In Portland—or everywhere, really—Iph has been content to let Mom do the driving, the thinking, the deciding. They all have. And now, after two weeks without her, their family is broken, and Iph can’t imagine a fix.

  She stops at an intersection and squints at the sign. The streetlight is out, so it’s only a blur. Something hot is oozing from her heel. Her fingertips come back bloody. Blood has always made Iph feel faint. Sometimes, she actually does faint. She looks for somewhere to wipe her hand.

  On the corner is a box with the free weekly paper. She rips the cover page in half and does her best with the blood. Doesn’t see a trash can and settles for folding the sullied paper and sending it down the storm drain—a lesser form of littering, she hopes. She breathes through the pain in her feet. She needs a break. A plan. She leans against the nearest wall. The stucco snags Mom’s sweater. What a waste. And for nothing. The whole outfit, the whole evening, was a con.

  Iph cringes at her three-hours-ago self, proudly walking into that hotel on Dad’s arm. When the band began “Fly Me to the Moon,” he even asked her to dance. They waltzed easily, him singing the words so only she could hear them. When she was little, they’d bonded over Ol’ Blue Eyes, which is what Dad calls Frank Sinatra. He twirled her and dropped her into a dip, a routine from their father-daughter dance in middle school. His co-workers smiled, and Iph remembered what it was like when she and Dad were close.

  “Sweetie,” he said as the song ended, “I need to talk to you about something.”

  2

  Sensing

  the Hunter’s

  Footstep

  Orr sees stars. Thinks about the phrase, He saw stars. Words for a cartoon head injury, a cast-iron pan to the head. He gags—a sudden rancidness. The scent of an unwashed pan. The way the kitchen smells when Dad’s away and Mom leaves the dishes in the sink all week. But this isn’t kitchen grease. Or a dream. It’s the smell of the men pulling him from his bed.

  A sack covers his head. His arms ache where hands grip him, lift him. The upstairs hall tilts by in the shadow world outside
the thin black fabric. Orr remembers to scream. He flails, knocking into a chair, the countertop. He reaches out to the bumpy plaster wall of the entryway and claws at the worn spot next to the phone, but the men yank him away.

  The alarm beeps its familiar goodbye as the front door slams shut. Orr quiets. Listens. The night is cool and smells like rain. He is strapped into a vehicle. Like Agent Scully on The X-Files, he is being abducted.

  His sockless feet are clammy in his shoes, tied too tight by his kidnappers. His breathing is shallow. A meltdown builds. He reaches inside for the ghost in him, the thing Mom calls tu alma—his soul—but the ghost is gone, hiding or fled.

  With his index finger he traces the map line of the West Coast on his leg, from British Columbia to Baja California. Questions form: Where am I? Where are they taking me? And why?

  He breathes a little deeper. Wiggles his toes, tells them it’s okay. Waits for the world to settle.

  He is in a large car, possibly a van. The cracked vinyl seat is a fanged menace under the worn flannel of his too-short pajama pants. Summer rain hisses under the tires. The radio switches on, a sports station blaring. Orr reaches for music—his battered Klengel, Volume 1 with its old-world yellow cover and pages of punishing drills he’s grown to love. He recalls every detail of the slick round stickers his teacher placed on the fingerboard when he was a beginner. He remembers the deep cramping of new muscle in his wrist and hand. His right elbow crooks around an invisible bow. His legs shape the cello’s curves until he can almost feel its purr.

  The radio drones on and on. Baseball. Orr knows more than he cares to about the game. For Dad’s sake, he’s tried to love it. The announcer’s voice is deep and comforting. The rhythm of thwack, cheer, talk surprisingly helps Orr think. Details coalesce. The silent house, the men. The way he never heard them enter. The alarm’s familiar sequence of beeps, because . . . because . . .

  They knew the code.

  They knew.

  Orr narrows his eyes in the solitude of the hood. Fucking Dad. That’s what Iph would say. This whole ordeal is because of Dad and that awful brochure.

  The van stops. Orr is unsure how much time has passed.

  “Okay, kid,” a voice says, and the sack is pulled from Orr’s head.

  The waxing moon is bright as a bare light bulb in the star-exploded sky. Crickets chirp. Frogs harmonize in the deep forest hush. The gravel parking lot is a stark landing pad in a tree-circled compound. Orr nods. This has been a long time coming.

  Finally, here he is: a prisoner at the Fascist Reeducation Facility for Inadequate Specimens, also known as the Meadowbrook Rehabilitation Center for Boys.

  Boot camp.

  He’s heard of it, of course. A place for kids who do drugs or kids who fight—kids with something they need to change. What is Orr supposed to change? He doesn’t get into fights. Has no interest in drugs. He’s quiet, but silence is part of him, heads to the tails of his music.

  The driver closes the van. Another man guides Orr toward a building that looks like some sort of lodge. A third walks ahead. This one is taller than the others, with a back like a bull’s. One second, Orr is fine. Then he’s not. He sees now that his calm in the van was only his mind’s clever ruse to protect himself and fool the men. Sound boils in the tar pit of his stomach, but Orr won’t let it out. It’s an experiment, an untested suggestion from his therapist: Contain the meltdown without dissociating. Talk to it. Make it your friend.

  The lodge looms closer. The mountain silently watches. Orr morphs the meltdown into a tactical step. Sound transmutes to animal knowing. He feigns a slip, a twisted ankle. The man releases his arm and bends down.

  After that, Orr doesn’t think. He just runs.

  3

  Fundamentals

  of Art Material

  A pay phone beckons at the corner. Iph keeps thinking about last winter—her and Dad finding Mom crying at the kitchen table, the acceptance letter from the residency in one hand, a pack of contraband cigarettes in the other.

  “Theo,” Mom said, handing him the letter, “it’s three full months.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Dad said, pulling Mom up and wrapping her in a hug.

  “It’s just the summer,” Iph said.

  And she believed it then. She would take care of Orr. Dad would take care of her. But she hasn’t. And Dad certainly hasn’t. And now what? Call Mom and tell her that Orr, who’s never lasted the night at a sleepover, is in a militaristic boot camp for wayward boys? Iph is at the phone, hand on the receiver. She picks it up. The streetlight goes dark overhead. A sign?

  Something warm touches her ankle. A soft breath. A dry little tongue.

  “Scout!”

  The small, stocky dog pulls away and sits at attention, looking up. Iph follows the yellow gaze to a mohawked boy on a beat-up ten-speed. No, not a boy. Or . . . maybe not?

  “I’m George.” A boy’s name, but not a boy’s voice. “This is Scout.” The miniature brindle pit wags its stubby tail. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

  As if in league with the pair, the sky clears and the moon appears. Iph shakes her head. Is that . . . a bow and arrow slung over George’s shoulder?

  George pulls an index card from a back pocket and reads. “Are you in need of medical attention?”

  Iph looks down and shakes her head. Her feet are bad, but Band-Aids will fix them.

  “Are you being pursued?”

  She shakes her head again. Dad didn’t follow her when she stormed out. Why didn’t he follow her?

  “Are you a victim of trafficking or domestic violence?”

  Does lying count as violence? How about betrayal? If so, maybe she’s as guilty as Dad. Iph shakes her head. “No, I’m fine.”

  Scout whines and quivers for attention. Iph bends down in a weird sideways twist, constrained by her dress, to stroke the dog’s brindle fur. “So soft!” she says. “She’s adorable!”

  Scout vibrates with happiness.

  “And knows it,” George says.

  Close enough now to defeat her nearsighted astigmatism, Iph takes George in: bear-brown mohawk, bright black eyes. Well-shaped ears with five earrings in the right lobe and three in the left. A silver septum ring in a small, slender nose. Crisp white shirt, ankle-cuffed jeans, and oxblood Oxfords. A sort of dandy archer with an adorable mini pit-bull sidekick. They look like they belong in a story that starts with, Once upon a time . . .

  “Thank you,” Iph says to Scout, who’s licking her ankle above the worst of the blisters. “I’m feeling much better now.”

  The dog offers her paw. Iph takes it and laughs.

  “Are you sure there isn’t something we can do?” George’s skin is pale olive with hints of gold. Iph wonders but would never ask. She hates the question herself—the inevitable What are you? Maybe George is like her—a little of this, a little of that.

  Iph stands, wobbly in her demon shoes. “I was at a work thing with my dad. We had a fight and I ran out. I left my glasses there. I’m lost without them.”

  It’s an oversimplification of the ugly truth. In reality, Iph had a tantrum and ran away instead of staying to fight for her brother.

  “Do you feel . . . safe going home?” George is being careful, like maybe it’s common to find girls in sensitive situations alone in the city at night. Is that what the bow and arrows are for? Iph flashes back to the alley, the smoking kids. The men in the car.

  “It’s not like that,” she says. “My dad—he did something awful, and I found out about it.”

  George’s eyes widen. Even Scout is at attention.

  “No, I mean, he’s not . . .” Iph can’t find the words for what Dad is or isn’t. Not after tonight. “Look, if anyone needs to worry about their safety at my house right now, it’s probably my dad.”

  “I see,” George says, nodding like of course Iph is a powerful ang
ry goddess whose father should fear her. “Can I help you get home, then?”

  “It’s far,” she says. “Way out in Forest Lake.” The second she says it, she wants to take it back. To most people, Forest Lake means money and white people and Republicans.

  George just nods. “No bus out there this time of night.”

  “My dad’s probably still somewhere around the hotel, looking for me. Could you give me directions back?”

  “Of course,” George says with a formal bow. “I’m at your service.”

  Iph can’t help smiling. “Thank you kindly,” she says. “I’m Iph.”

  “If?” George grins, then furrows, then drops to one knee and begins to recite.

  O, if a virgin,

  And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you

  The Queen of Naples.

  Iph laughs. It’s familiar, but not R and J. Not Two Gentlemen of Verona or Twelfth Night, either. “Ha!” she says, tapping her forehead. “The Tempest!” She should’ve known right away—she stage-managed the play last year. “Ferdinand to Miranda.”

  “Wow!” George grins. “No one ever knows what I’m blathering on about. But seriously, your name is If?”

  “I-P-H. Short for Iphigenia. We’re named after our dad’s side—he’s Greek.”

  “We?”

  “Me and my brother.”

  “Why not your mom’s side?”

  “Good question.” Mom’s side of the family is a no-fly zone—even nosy Orr has learned to back off about Mom and her past.

  “What hotel is it?” George adjusts the bow and arrow so naturally, it’s clearly habitual.

  “The one with the fancy doormen? With the breeches and big hats?”

  “The Heathman,” George says. “It’s not too far.”

  Iph takes a step forward and hisses in pain—standing still for so long had been a mistake. Scout runs to her and whines.

  “Blisters?” George asks.