Free Birds of Paradise: A Novel by Diana Abu-Jaber Page A

goes on, doggedly keeping up with her. “Portland is full of skateboarders. And all sorts of special trails and like parks—places where they hang out.”
    “Big deal,” she mutters, watching her language as they pass three old ladies in skirted swimsuits. “This is just for getting around,” she says, though she is still on foot, carrying the board. “Not a lifestyle or some crap like that.” Still, as they push through the hot sand—higher on the beach now, dodging garbage and beer cans—too much for Emerson to collect—she finds she likes the idea of a land of skateboarders and parks full of trails. “What else is there?” she asks irritably.
    “All kinds of stuff! Like—like everyone there loves good coffee—”
    She snorts. “Yay—a bunch of Starbucks yups.”
    “No, no—better coffee than Starbucks—cooler.” His blunt hands circle in the air. “Like—European—or something?”
    “Uck.”
    “And special beer-making places. There’s a store there that just sells cupcakes—that’s all! And nice bakeries, and gardens and—and the people are super-super friendly. They’ve got statues of rabbits and beavers downtown!”
    “Awesome,” she drones. She grew up in the greatest bakery in the world: nothing can impress her. “Sounds like South Beach, practically.” Though it doesn’t, really. Especially not the people and the statues. Felice and Emerson walk in silence. The faint give of the sand feels good under Felice’s feet as the sun’s shifted and sand has cooled a bit. They walk out onto one of the boardwalk benches and sit side by side listening to the white rumble of the surf. Enormous container ships ease past on the horizon; overhead, a yellow plane tows a banner: 2Nite At Nile!
    Emerson looks at her once, quickly, a glance full of a furtive hope that Felice tries to ignore. He takes a deep breath. “There’s a river that goes through the city, and lots of nice bridges, and a mountain—Mount something. And the farmers—they come into the city and sell, like, flowers and carrots and eggs and—all kinds of farm stuff. I just really really like the idea of it all. The fresh stuff. I don’t know,” he adds a bit hopelessly.
    Normally Felice would be groaning at the corniness, but on the hot beach afternoon, air stale with suntan lotion, she actually feels a twist of longing. “Peaches,” she says, remembering her parents’ table. “Probably plums.”
    Emerson stares at her now. “Felice, listen—listen—if you would—if you’d consider it . . . We could go out there together, you know? I’ve got this money. And I—I wouldn’t expect like—like—anything.” He glares at his knees, his face and neck turning crimson, but he keeps going. (Sort of brave—Felice thinks.) “I—I know you don’t like me in that way . Whatever. I don’t even care. I mean, it would be just so fun—I think it would—to have you there.”
    Felice doesn’t say anything. She just lets the salt spray rise over her legs, its gauzy vapor coating her skin. She’s disoriented by Emerson’s offer, a bit dazzled that this boy, whom she’s never really noticed before, has evidently imagined a whole world around her. She lets her head drop back, arms braced against the bench slats. Is there a time when she gets to hope for things again? Turning eighteen could be the moment you turn into a new person—from a kid to a grownup. Does the grownup have to keep paying for things that the kid did? “I dunno,” she says finally. “How could I?” She squints into the salty ocean sky. “When are you going to go, do you think? Supposedly.”
    “We could go any minute of any day. We can go right now if you want!”
    Felice snorts and bounces her fist off the big, wooden curve of his upper arm.
    THEY WALK BACK to Collins then, which the yups have slowly been abandoning in favor of Lincoln Road. There used to be all sorts of forbidding little overpriced designer stores which, Felice has noticed,