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

apparently doesn’t mind breaking into a trot if she pushes it. “So like do you have a last name?” She doesn’t look at him when she asks, because nearly everything she says seems to make him smile, which seems like a sign of weakness or supplication. Instead she just stares down the pink sidewalk, the nostalgic white beach apartments on one side, an eternity of SUVs on the other.
    “Officially or what?” He smiles and she looks away, glaring. “Lindemann, I guess. I don’t really use it so much. It’s not like my stage name or anything.”
    “Uh-huh,” she says, rolling her eyes. Everyone in the whole world is in a band or trying to start one up. “So, fine, what is your stage name?” She sighs.
    He speeds up, jogs backwards in front of Felice. “I’m just thinking something—just—shorter? Easier for announcers to say. Like, Lind. You know, like, Emerson Lind? And it doesn’t sound so achtung that way, you know, so I’ll be back .” He lowers his voice into a Schwarzenegger impression. Then, in the same round, guttural accent, he says, “Yah, der he is, ladies und gentlemen, Emerson Lindemann.”
    Felice can’t help a burst of laughter. “What are you even talking about? What announcers?”
    For a second, Emerson keeps smiling but doesn’t say anything, a red mottling appears in his skin (she feels sorry for him, he’s such a transparent, white-guy color). “I forgot I didn’t tell you yet.” He falls back to keep pace beside her. “I always feel like all of us from the House already know about each other.” He doesn’t seem to be willing to look at her now; instead he’s fixed on the sidewalk. He smiles again, more intensely, and Felice realizes that at least some of the smiling is nerves and she softens toward him a bit. “I-I’m in training,” he says in a lowered voice. “I’m going to enter strongman competitions.”
    “You what now?”
    “They’re these big contests—of strength. It’s always on TV—like a sporting event. You can make a lot of money if you get known. Caber toss, stone put? Started with the Scots. The Highland games?”
    Felice slants a frowning glance at him.
    “These days there’s usually a truck pull and a tire flip.”
    Now, with her board rumbling easily along the cement, Felice gives him a long, frank look. “Are you kidding? You mean, like, those guys who drag around tree trunks and junk? That stuff?”
    They pass two girls and a Pomeranian jittering like a windup toy. “I’m not saying I’m gonna walk right out there and pick up trophies. I know I don’t have the muscle mass yet. But I’m close. Training hard, almost every day. I jog and walk the boardwalk twice a day.”
    “And I thought you’d followed me here,” she says, joking yet privately disappointed.
    “They let me into the Gold’s on Fourteenth. Herman and Ileana—they’re trainers there. They’ve been helping me out. They say I’ve got natural explosive power. We’re keeping it totally pure—no juicing, no additives. I’m working out three, four hours a day—arms, back, grip strength, everything. The manager said if I pick up a trophy at the regionals this spring he’ll sponsor me. He says I could go national.”
    Felice closes her eyes, just enjoying hearing about the future. It’s not like the kind of dreaming all those waste products at the House or the yuppie losers out on Cocowalk are always doing—fame and money—everyone hanging around at Mansion or Nikki Beach or Crobar, like dancing and shit was going to transform them into Paris or Lindsay or Britney. Famous girls were always hanging around, wearing their fedoras, giggling in a knot of stoned celebutante friends, kids waving cell cameras at them, so you felt like you really were one of them already. Except the truly famous girls stuck to the clubs’ VIP lounges and woke up in their suites at the Delano, and the beach kids woke up back on the sand or even worse places than that.
    Felice quits kicking, lets