Read Online Birds of Paradise: A Novel by Diana Abu-Jaber - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diana Abu-Jaber
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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?”
He brushes his hand over his head several times before looking up. “I’m pretty good at working, and, like, saving up. I bounce and mix drinks at a couple clubs.” He interlaces his fingers, straightening and closing, studying them. Everything about him so intent and serious. Like one of the old Jewish men set up on their folding chairs on their apartment balconies. Felice can see the ghost of his eighty-year-old self on his face—pouches and worry lines. She feels, weirdly, drawn to this, to his funny soberness. Every other kid she knows would’ve spent that money, dropped it on drugs, a new board, some shitty, stupid thing. She brushes elbows with wealth every week in the clubs; she even, on occasion, has picked up better gigs—like the swimsuit special for Australian Elle or the Nordstrom spring junior catalog—that paid $2,000 for a day’s work. But she currently has $7.50 in her pocket and she’s never so much as opened a checking account. Nine hundred seems like a staggering amount, especially for someone like Emerson—just a street kid—to have actually saved up.
A rose flush rises under his skin. He flashes another tentative look at her—smiling and not-smiling. Then he pulls something out of his side pocket, some striated shells, some shaped like little turbans. He puts them in Felice’s hand: miniature lightning whelk, sand dollar, and a ruffled conch. She admires them a moment, feels a smile come to her lips, then she drops them on the sand. “So?”
Emerson looks at the shells. “There’s this guy, Yann Hanran—he’s one of the really, really big-time strongmen? I met him at the Dixie Gym. He said he’d train me. I mean, he’s a real coach—not just some, you know . . . Like, just a really excellent guy. His gym is out in Portland.”
Felice’s stomach tightens: all this sincerity and weirdness. Her feelings oscillate toward and away from Emerson. “You’re going to move to California to go to a gym?” She nips at the side of a nail, wishing for a cigarette.
“Not California— Oregon .”
“So what, whatever, it’s retarded. You’re not going to Oregon —there’s nothing even out there.”
“Why not?” Emerson bounces a little on his haunches, shaking the skateboard. “Why not, why not?” It’s a bit of the frenetic energy she remembers from seeing him with the other shaved boys at the Green House. She inches away, calves flexing, ready to spring to her feet. “We can move wherever we want to,” he says. “ Why not? Seriously. Let’s go see stuff.”
His shirt is wilting, collapsing like a tissue onto his skin. Sweat
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?”
He brushes his hand over his head several times before looking up. “I’m pretty good at working, and, like, saving up. I bounce and mix drinks at a couple clubs.” He interlaces his fingers, straightening and closing, studying them. Everything about him so intent and serious. Like one of the old Jewish men set up on their folding chairs on their apartment balconies. Felice can see the ghost of his eighty-year-old self on his face—pouches and worry lines. She feels, weirdly, drawn to this, to his funny soberness. Every other kid she knows would’ve spent that money, dropped it on drugs, a new board, some shitty, stupid thing. She brushes elbows with wealth every week in the clubs; she even, on occasion, has picked up better gigs—like the swimsuit special for Australian Elle or the Nordstrom spring junior catalog—that paid $2,000 for a day’s work. But she currently has $7.50 in her pocket and she’s never so much as opened a checking account. Nine hundred seems like a staggering amount, especially for someone like Emerson—just a street kid—to have actually saved up.
A rose flush rises under his skin. He flashes another tentative look at her—smiling and not-smiling. Then he pulls something out of his side pocket, some striated shells, some shaped like little turbans. He puts them in Felice’s hand: miniature lightning whelk, sand dollar, and a ruffled conch. She admires them a moment, feels a smile come to her lips, then she drops them on the sand. “So?”
Emerson looks at the shells. “There’s this guy, Yann Hanran—he’s one of the really, really big-time strongmen? I met him at the Dixie Gym. He said he’d train me. I mean, he’s a real coach—not just some, you know . . . Like, just a really excellent guy. His gym is out in Portland.”
Felice’s stomach tightens: all this sincerity and weirdness. Her feelings oscillate toward and away from Emerson. “You’re going to move to California to go to a gym?” She nips at the side of a nail, wishing for a cigarette.
“Not California— Oregon .”
“So what, whatever, it’s retarded. You’re not going to Oregon —there’s nothing even out there.”
“Why not?” Emerson bounces a little on his haunches, shaking the skateboard. “Why not, why not?” It’s a bit of the frenetic energy she remembers from seeing him with the other shaved boys at the Green House. She inches away, calves flexing, ready to spring to her feet. “We can move wherever we want to,” he says. “ Why not? Seriously. Let’s go see stuff.”
His shirt is wilting, collapsing like a tissue onto his skin. Sweat
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