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

“Hi? Felice?”
    “Felix,” she says automatically, annoyed. “Oh.” It’s one of the skinheads from the House—Emerson. She swallows her breath and steps back. “Hi.” Her voice sounds like an eight-year-old’s.
    Emerson’s hair is so pale and close-cropped she can make out his scalp in the sunlight, prickling with sweat. The color in his face is high and pink, as if he’d been running. His mouth is small, possibly cold, but he’s so strong and healthy that he emits a natural attractiveness. She’s a bit afraid of him. On more than one occasion, she’s noticed his translucent eyes following her across the room: perhaps why she said his name to Axe. He places his hand on top of his head, then removes it. She remembers now—when he first appeared at the House, the other shaved boys made fun of his measured pace and demeanor. They sat around in the living room once, flicking cigarette butts at Emerson in improvised torment, until he burst up from his place on the carpet, upending the mahogany coffee table crammed with half-emptied beer bottles, crashing the whole foaming mess to the floor. He grabbed one of them—a vicious boy named Damon—and knocked his head against the floor so it made a hollow thump. For a while, the boy laid there without moving, eyes open, staring. Emerson tossed a cigarette butt at him and walked out. The next day the boy had an egg-sized lump on the side of his head. They treated Emerson differently after that.
    Now Emerson stands in front of her, an obstacle, pink and glistening, his sheen of hair sparkles, and his gray T-shirt with the faded rock band is sweated onto his big chest. “I thought that was you,” he says.
    Felice grips her skateboard and glances back toward the children in the surf. “Yeah, hey,” she says. “Who told you my old name?”
    “I like Felice.” He smiles and his lower lip droops in a soft, unguarded way. “All those kids at the Green House—they know something about everyone.”
    Felice snorts. “More like nothing about everyone.”
    “Well, I just heard something about you and me.”
    “Oh yeah?” Something trembles in the small of her back as if the temperature just dropped. She stares at him, determined not to look away. “Like what?”
    He slides his hands into his pockets and his big, loose shorts slip. “Like, we’re getting it on, supposedly. Like, that’s according to you .”
    “Someone told you that?” She widens her eyes; a pulse leaps in her temple.
    “Axe and Dink.”
    “What did you say?”
    He turns to gaze at the little kids and huffs a laugh. “I guess I said it was true.”
    Instead of feeling grateful, though, Felice is irritated: the way he’s standing there, those see-through eyes floating over her, like they really are together. “Fine. Whatever. I hate all those guys, I’m not going back there.” She doesn’t care what he thinks, hoping only to avoid the humiliation of explaining herself.
    “What? Who you talking about?”
    “The fucking Gross House. It’s disgusting. I can’t believe I ever stayed there.”
    Emerson runs his hand over the brush of his hair. He swipes back and forth, color climbing into his face. “It’s nice—I think. It’s decent. You can hang. There’s cool people. People bring beer and food.”
    “It’s gross,” she snaps. “Everyone steals everything—they’re all so annoying. And loud and stupid. And it’s fucking hot . Like a fucking jungle swamp.”
    He chuckles, letting his hand fall off his head. “I know.”
    “And the toilet —”
    “I know.”
    Felice drops her board to the pavement and rests one foot on it. “Hey man, I gotta be going now. I got stuff to get to.”
    “Like what?” Emerson studies her face with interest.
    “Like, I don’t know.” She almost says: Like, I got to go meet my mother and beg her for money. “I gotta see if I can scrounge work.” Also true. She pushes off on a slow spin, but he follows on foot. “Where do you