Read Online Birds of Paradise: A Novel by Diana Abu-Jaber - Free Book Online

leaving the glistening droppings. Four girls come down the walkway as far as the line of sand, then stop. They are groomed and painted, hair ironed to surgical linearity, brows waxed clean. Not especially pretty, just beautifully kept. College girls, Felice thinks scornfully. She gazes after them.
    Emerson refuses the joint, saying that he’s in training—he has to keep his mind clear—and Reynaldo starts to mock him again for being Mr. Muscle, but Berry and Felice both tell him to shut up. The pot tastes rancid and she doesn’t like the burn on the back of her throat. “No more.” She waves it away.
    “Oh, bullshit, darling,” Reynaldo says. “That’ll be the day.” He turns away from her and takes another drag. Reynaldo’s neck and shoulders have a silky drape, his skin—like Berry’s—is tanned almond-dark and even in this light it’s hard to discern the coils of a mahogany-colored serpent that spirals over the upper quadrant of his chest, down the bicep, to the crook of an elbow. He and Berry have posed for Tattoo and Skin Art magazines, done party ads for local clubs, and worked as party-fillers. Felice thinks they’ve hired themselves out for other purposes at these events (they’re always broke, cadging drugs and drinks), but if she doesn’t ask, she doesn’t have to know. “Little Miss Innocent,” the outdoor kids call her. Berry smiles at her again, her mouth long, angular, and dimpled. “They’re doing go-sees for V.S. today over on Washington. You wanna go?”
    “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.