Diana Abu-Jaber - Birds of Paradise

“Like I’ve got the boobs for that.” Felice crosses her arms.

“Shut up. Like you never heard of airbrush,” Reynaldo says.

They seem to live on virtually nothing, yet Berry and Reynaldo are the most pretty and stylish of all the outdoor kids. Keep your little ear to the big ground, Reynaldo always tells her. They’re the ones Felice has admired, the ones she likes to be near. After Felice ran away, she tried to look older, more like a model. Like she belonged there. Out on the beach or in the clubs, it was all models and tourists. The kids who looked scared, their skinny shoulders tucked up, eyes searching, they were the ones who ended up with “boyfriends,” older guys who always needed money. At first Felice wore makeup and was careful with her hair and clothing. But she quickly realized that the outdoor kids saw prettiness as a kind of weakness — just the opposite of the way it was in school. In the rougher places like the Green House, her prettiness seemed excessive: she noticed kids watching her like she had cash spilling out of her pockets. They called her “Face” or “Girlface,” and stole her skateboard and clothes; one night some older girls pushed her down in a church parking lot, pulling her hair and tearing at her clothes until Felice screamed, swung back with all her might, kicking and shoving, slapping one girl across the eye and cheekbone, knocking the other one to the ground, breaking her nose.

Reynaldo and Berry showed her how to use her looks without attracting too much attention. The trick was to wear stovepipe jeans and T-shirts, nothing fancy or frilly, no jewelry, high heels, or purses. Black was best. “It’s the West Coast thing.” Berry showed off a chunky pair of black platforms. “It’s Seattle.”

Now Emerson sits with his feet gathered up, arms around his knees; neither he nor Reynaldo has anything to say to each other. After a few minutes, Emerson stands, whacks the sand off the back of his shorts and his palms. “I better get a move on.”

Who says that? Felice thinks — he sounds like a dad.

Reynaldo says something over his shoulder to Berry, possibly, “Nasty redneck.” Berry laughs, her mild, musical chuckle, her eyes filmed. Felice glances at Berry and there’s a bad moment where she wonders — as she has lately — if Berry and Reynaldo are all that wonderful. She gets to her feet.

“Where you going, Kitty?” Reynaldo asks, shielding his eyes with the flat of his palm. “That boy’s too ugly for you.”

“Don’t go, Felix,” Berry says. “Why?”

Emerson is already trudging away, head lowered. Felice hesitates, she looks past him, down the beach: tourists mill over the sand, the air sepia-toned: a sense of heat and distance cast over everything. This is the end place — where people go to get erased. “I don’t think there’s any work coming today,” Felice says.

“Good. Thank God.” Berry lets her head droop back against the towel. She closes her eyes and looks so lifeless that Felice just grabs her board and goes after Emerson.

FELICE AND EMERSON walk along the surf. Emerson seems to understand that her presence at his side at this moment is something of a miracle, and he must not say a word against Reynaldo or Berry. Her board gets heavy after a while, so she hands it to him.

They pass topless girls in thongs, men in slacks and lace-up shoes, Jax with his pet iguana and straw hat; old guys covered in silvery flat chest and back hair sitting in lawn chairs with laptops or shouting into cells, trying to be heard above the surf. Just a few boys with dark, Caribbean faces and glassy hair are out in the water. The lifeguards drowse in their wooden shelters. Most people slumber or stare, beached on the sand under slices of umbrella shade — there’s hardly anyone near the waterline — and Felice plods through the wet, compacted sand in a state of relative contentment: it’s been ages since she’s touched the water. Occasionally Emerson will pick up and dispose of an empty coffee cup, broken comb, broken sunglasses — detritus swept in from cruise ships or left behind by sunbathers. Felice is barely able to contain her impatience with this pointless activity — appalled at the grossness of touching a sodden diaper.

They cut up the beach to a food stand. Emerson tells her to get anything — really. By now, her hunger pain has vaporized — as often happens, so she just orders a Diet Coke. Emerson gets her a cheeseburger anyway; he gets himself four burgers and an enormous chocolate shake. They find a place on the sand and this time Felice lets him squeeze partially onto the board, his body damp and hot beside hers. She eats slowly, but she is hungrier than she’d realized, studying the burger after each bite. Usually she subsists on cans of tuna, oranges, chocolate bars, and rum and Cokes. Sometimes she lets herself think about her mother’s crisp little pizzas, the salty pretzels, the croissants stuffed with Nutella and a thin layer of marzipan. After the burger, Emerson peels the orange Felice took from the Green House, pushes his thumbs into the center, and they split it. It’s shriveled but still sweet. She sips the diet soda but it burns the roots of her teeth, under her gums. She hasn’t seen a dentist since she left her parents’ home and sometimes she feels sharp spikes inside her molars. She tosses the soda and starts drinking Emerson’s milkshake.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“What?” she asks crossly, frowning at two dimply, middle-aged women strolling past in bikinis.

Emerson eats another burger in a few bites, like a cookie. Then he gazes back at the stand. “I should be in the gym right now.”

“Hell, don’t let me stop you.” Instantly defensive. Why does she care? The burger sits in her stomach: she feels drugged and groggy and wipes a line of sweat from her hairline.

“I didn’t mean anything about you — I like being here. I don’t want to be anywhere else. Like, at all.”

“I know,” she says moodily. After a few more sips of milkshake, she starts to feel better. Felice squints at the water, which shimmers in bands of deep turquoise and cerulean. “It’s pretty nice here,” she offers.

“Oh. Well,” Emerson says. “I wasn’t thinking about the place, really.”

She slides a look at him, then stares at her feet in the sand.

He looks out at the water with her a moment. Without moving his eyes, he says, “I could take care of you, if you wanted.”

It feels like the blood in her veins speeds up. “What’re you talking about?” She tries to laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stays trained on the water, his face studious — something about him reminds her, oddly, of her brother. He isn’t turning out to be anything like the person she’d assumed he was. “I’m not trying to offend you or anything or say you aren’t doing great yourself. I’m just saying…” He shrugs.

“What?”

“Well, like—” He permits himself a half-glance in her direction. “What do you want to do with yourself, I mean.”

“I dunno. Be a model.” She can’t look at him as she says this.

“A model? Fuck.” He keeps staring at the water. “You’re too pretty. You’re beautiful.” He lowers his voice reverentially. “But mostly you’re too smart. Way too smart. If you want to do something like that — I don’t know — be an actress.”

Felice is silent, studying her wadded-up wrapper. He doesn’t know about the punishment. Emerson goes to get them more burgers, and when he comes back he’s animated with a new plan. “Listen, Felice,” he says quickly, “I’ve got some money saved up — nine hundred dollars—”

Her spine straightens. “What?”

He smiles.

“Well, what the fuck?” she says quietly. “Where’d you get all that money?”