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. “That boy’s too ugly for you.”
“Don’t go, Felix,” Berry says. “Why?”
Emerson is already trudging away, head lowered. Felice hesitates, she looks past him, down the beach: tourists mill over the sand, the air sepia-toned: a sense of heat and distance cast over everything. This is the end place — where people go to get erased. “I don’t think there’s any work coming today,” Felice says.
“Good. Thank God.” Berry lets her head droop back against the towel. She closes her eyes and looks so lifeless that Felice just grabs her board and goes after Emerson.
FELICE AND EMERSON walk along the surf. Emerson seems to understand that her presence at his side at this moment is something of a miracle, and he must not say a word against Reynaldo or Berry. Her board gets heavy after a while, so she hands it to him.
They pass topless girls in thongs, men in slacks and lace-up shoes, Jax with his pet iguana and straw hat; old guys covered in silvery flat chest and back hair sitting in lawn chairs with laptops or shouting into cells, trying to be heard above the surf. Just a few boys with dark, Caribbean faces and glassy hair are out in the water. The lifeguards drowse in their wooden shelters. Most people slumber or stare, beached on the sand under slices of umbrella shade — there’s hardly anyone near the waterline — and Felice plods through the wet, compacted sand in a state of relative contentment: it’s been ages since she’s touched the water. Occasionally Emerson will pick up and dispose of an empty coffee cup, broken comb, broken sunglasses — detritus swept in from cruise ships or left behind by sunbathers. Felice is barely able to contain her impatience with this pointless activity — appalled at the grossness of touching a sodden diaper.
They cut up the beach to a food stand. Emerson tells her to get anything — really. By now, her hunger pain has vaporized — as often happens, so she just orders a Diet Coke. Emerson gets her a cheeseburger anyway; he gets himself four burgers and an enormous chocolate shake. They find a place on the sand and this time Felice lets him squeeze partially onto the board, his body damp and hot beside hers. She eats slowly, but she is hungrier than she’d realized, studying the burger after each bite. Usually she subsists on cans of tuna, oranges, chocolate bars, and rum and Cokes. Sometimes she lets herself think about her mother’s crisp little pizzas, the salty pretzels, the croissants stuffed with Nutella and a thin layer of marzipan. After the burger, Emerson peels the orange Felice took from the Green House, pushes his thumbs into the center, and they split it. It’s shriveled but still sweet. She sips the diet soda but it burns the roots of her teeth, under her gums. She hasn’t seen a dentist since she left her parents’ home and sometimes she feels sharp spikes inside her molars. She tosses the soda and starts drinking Emerson’s milkshake.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“What?” she asks crossly, frowning at two dimply, middle-aged women strolling past in bikinis.
Emerson eats another burger in a few bites, like a cookie. Then he gazes back at the stand. “I should be in the gym right now.”
“Hell, don’t let me stop you.” Instantly defensive. Why does she care? The burger sits in her stomach: she feels drugged and groggy and wipes a line of sweat from her hairline.
“I didn’t mean anything about you — I like being here. I don’t want to be anywhere else. Like, at all.”
“I know,” she says moodily. After a few more sips of milkshake, she starts to feel better. Felice squints at the water, which shimmers in bands of deep turquoise and cerulean. “It’s pretty nice here,” she offers.
“Oh. Well,” Emerson says. “I wasn’t thinking about the place, really.”
She slides a look at him, then stares at her feet in the sand.