Birds of Paradise: A Novel (32 page)

“But honestly, she should leave you alone now,” Bella said. She sat up straight in her chair. Her features were so delicate they were almost miniature—a small nose, lips like cinnamon candies, and mild blue eyes—so she always looked a little prim. “The way she’s chasing you around—she’s just embarrassing herself.”

Felice was relieved to hear someone say this. Hannah’s longing gaze evoked in her a guilty impatience tipped with anger.

Someone came up with the idea of the letter—Felice could no longer remember who. A couple of the girls dictated, and Marisa transcribed it in a flowing hand on scented stationary. It was filled with observations and recommendations about Hannah’s “attitude” and ways she could improve her hair and clothing. It concluded by saying that they, the undersigned, were warning her to stay away from Felice, that they were tired of Hannah and her “weirdness,” and that if she didn’t respect this warning there would be “consequences.” Seven girls signed the letter. And then, in enormous, bold letters at the bottom, Felice’s name. They slipped it into Hannah’s locker on a Friday. Idana Demetrius, a ninth grader who wasn’t even in their group, ran up to Felice and Bella to say she’d seen Hannah reading the letter in social studies. “Her lips were moving,” Idana reported. “She must’ve read it like thirty-five times.”

Over that weekend, Felice began to feel anxious; her sleep was filled with broken, crackling dreams. She woke early on Saturday, looking around the still-dark room, a profound sense of dread snaking through her, un-wellness like static trapped beneath her skin. At breakfast, the egg her mother had poached—to Felice’s usual specifications—seemed to be staring back at her, a glazed eye. She mashed it with her fork, then scraped it all into the garbage. She helped Stanley clear the table and dried dishes while he washed, which was so unusual he frowned at her. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know—I like to dry. No biggie.” She rubbed the towel over a glass, circling the rim, then holding it in such a way that, light-struck, it seemed to brim with some brilliant ectoplasmic fluid. She let out a little cry and almost dropped the glass.

“What is wrong with you?” He didn’t say it meanly. Her skin felt hot. “I don’t know how to do it right,” she said, rubbing again at the glass.

“It’s fine,” he said. “No big deal.” The window was open: it was a windy day; she stared at that light, bouncing white diamonds of it, and tiny bits of shadow like musical notes, and the fronds like splayed-open green blades. They moved, murmuring and waggling, then suddenly went silent and reserved.

Felice felt a little better on Monday. She’d forgiven herself for signing that stupid letter: someone as tough and smart as Hannah would laugh it off. She was almost glad that she’d signed it. Something had to be done, didn’t it? She couldn’t have Hannah moping behind her forever. Stanley dropped Felice off—he’d recently gotten his license and their mother let them use her car while she was working. As Felice walked up the wide stone apron to the main entrance, she noticed Ms. Muñoz, her guidance counselor, waiting just inside the door. She’d never seen Ms. Muñoz outside of the main office. “Felice,” she said, “can you come to my office, please?”

The air seemed to evaporate. She stared at her and almost burst into tears, almost cried, I didn’t write the letter! It wasn’t my idea! She scanned the hallway, bustling with students, waiting for Hannah to appear, her look of justified hatred.

In the office, Ms. Muñoz did not get behind her desk but sat beside Felice on the soft cotton love seat. She looked frightened as she touched Felice’s shoulder, saying, “I understand you were good friends with Hannah Joseph?” Felice didn’t make any reply, she simply waited, frozen. So Ms. Muñoz said, “I’m sorry to have to—to be the bearer of such terrible news, but Hannah passed away over the weekend.”

Felice rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand; her throat felt sore. She wasn’t sure of what she’d just heard.

The counselor’s eyes searched the walls of her office; she knotted a tissue in her hand, touched it to her nose. “It’s terrible. Just awful.”

“Hannah?” Felice echoed. She was still thinking about the letter. “What did you say again?”

“She actually . . . I’m so sorry, Felice, but she did it herself. I mean—she took her own life.” The counselor leaned in so close Felice thought she might be about to kiss her: Felice could see tiny inflamed red veins in her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll hear rumors—the way things get around in schools. I’m so terribly sorry, my dear. I understand you were best friends.”

Felice blinked, her eyes felt hard and scratched. Nothing would come into focus. There was a sere gray light around Ms. Muñoz’s face that blended into the walls of the office. “Hannah isn’t in school?”

“Oh, darling. She’s gone. She died, my dear. Saturday morning—that’s when they found her.”

Felice took a slow breath. “I think it’s—it’s a mistake. See, there was this really dumb letter? I don’t know. We all signed it. But I’m sure Hannah probably got really upset about it—that’s just how she is. The rest of this is—somebody got the story wrong. I’m sure she’s fine—I promise you.”

“Felice,” she said in an awful, melting voice, “I’m so sorry. It
doesn’t
make sense, I know. And I know how hard it is—to try to take in something like this. Someone so young. It will take you some time to process it. You have to give yourself time.”

“It’s not hard. It’s just a mistake.”

“No, dear. The police were here and I spoke with her parents. I know it’s a shock. It is for all of us.”

“Then how did she do it?” Felice asked, now challenging.

Ms. Muñoz seemed to pull up into herself. “That really doesn’t—I don’t think you need to hear about that right now.”

“But wait, just tell me, so I can explain this. ’Cause I’m pretty sure I can tell there’s a big mistake here. You just have to tell me how.” Felice couldn’t stop chattering—she felt as if she were caught in a spell of talking—as if she could talk through this situation and make things right. “Please, please,” she begged.

“No, Felice . . .”

“Then I’ll just find out from one of the other kids.”

Ms. Muñoz shook her head. Then, for a long, elastic moment, she stared at the wall, her eyes turning glassy. Finally she murmured, “She used a belt, actually.”

“A
belt
?” Felice felt the urge to giggle.

“Her mother—that poor woman—she found her.”

Things were starting to come into focus again. The gray light bled into the corners and clear, straight lines began to emerge, underlining everything with white rays. Felice put the V of her thumb and forefinger to her brow bone. She could feel sharp twinges there. “But that’s not how her brother did it.” She was confused, her voice weak.

“Oh. Oh no.” Ms. Munoz pressed her chest. “Oh God, I didn’t know about that. They’re supposed to tell us. Oh my God. That poor family, my God.”

Ms. Muñoz wanted to call Avis, to have her come pick up her daughter. But Felice managed to convince the counselor that her mother would be out all day, making deliveries. Recalling something she might have heard on TV, Felice said, “I’d rather be here, with my friends—it will help take my mind off of things.”

Her counselor nodded and gave her a note she could hand to her teachers at any point, that would allow her to go to the nurse’s office. For the rest of the day, Felice kept feeling as if the ground had turned spongy or that her legs were too long or the walls too far away. She sat silently through classes, registering nothing, the teachers’ masked, benevolent presences at the front of the room. Her friends surrounded her, just as sympathetic as Ms. Muñoz has been. They kissed her and stroked her hair and behaved as if Felice and Hannah had stayed fast friends till the end. No one mentioned the letter.

After final bell, Felice told Coco, Bella, and Yeni that she wanted to be by herself for a while. They gazed at her, their eyes round, and made her promise to call and check in. But Felice knew they’d start to forget about Hannah after they’d gone to the mall, had dinner, and watched TV. Walking through the echoing corridor, Felice was drawn back to the music room. She pulled open the heavy double doors, peering in as if she expected to catch some phantom of Hannah and Mr. Rendell together on the couch. She entered, staring at the vacant room and the couch in disbelief; shaking waves passed through her. She thought of the letter: its ragged edge torn from a spiral-bound notebook, handwritten in green ballpoint, decorated with daisy petals, the words:
disgusting, pig, stay away 4-ever,
the list of signatures, the last one—growing larger in her imagination—set off with flourishes:
Felice Muir
.

Ms. Muñoz hadn’t mentioned if there was a suicide note. Perhaps Hannah had responded to the letter. Maybe someone—her poor mother—would find the letter with Felice’s prominent name at the bottom. And maybe the police would come to arrest her for murder. Was that murder? Or maybe Hannah had folded the letter and put it in her pocket. And no one had ever found it and they would bury her with it forever.

That was the most horrifying possibility of all.

OVER THE NEXT
couple of weeks, Felice began to feel stronger again. She started to eat, foraging from the family refrigerator whenever Avis went out. She watched great, drugging amounts of TV. One morning she went into Stanley’s room while he was at school. It was so still and solemn, the walls painted a clean ivory, the floor bare wood, a cotton sheet on the bed, a curved wooden desk that must have come from their grandmother. A bookcase filled with importance: Chekhov, Merton, Marx,
The Writings of Augustine
. And cookbooks—the
Moosewood,
the
Greens,
the
Chez Panisse Cookbook
. Stacked on a nightstand beside the bed were notebooks, clipboards, and pages of drawings and diagrams: his business plans for a variety of shops—bakeries, a deli, a fruit and juice stand. Mainly, there were ideas for an organic food market. Attached to one of the clipboards, under a big silver fastener, were curling pages inscribed in ink:
Stanley’s Manifesto
. Felice slipped it out from the pile and sat on the side of the bed studying the document. Stanley had worked on this statement—essentially, a list of goals—for years, adding to it when things occurred to him. Bella, Yeni, and Coco used to roll their eyes when Stanley talked about his manifesto, but Felice was privately proud of him—the idea of a boy making such a document, attempting to think about principles to live by. She’d never wanted to actually read it before, but now she held the clipboard tightly between her fingers, her breath rushing through her head.

To offer clean, healthy food.

To make the food available. Affordable.

To offer the food in a clean, appealing environment.

To get the food only from local, small, independent growers.

Grass-pastured meats. Cageless.

Produce in season only.

Sustainably-grown.

No genetically modified foods.

Heirloom seeds and produce.

No Monsanto, no Dupont, no corporate food.

Hand-crafted.

No factory-processed.

No transfats or high-fructose corn syrup.

The lists went on for pages, on scraps taped to larger sheets, papers clipped or stapled together. Toward the end, she found what she was looking for—his mission statement.

Because all people, rich and poor, young and old, deserve access to and education about clean whole food, we will be teachers, leaders, and activists first, sellers and purveyors second. These are the principles I commit myself to, to live by, always in that order. To make people healthier, happier, and smarter by bringing them better food: to contribute to the restoration of the earth, to making it a better, safer place for all people, but especially for all children on Planet Earth, to live and play in.

Felice stared at the loops of blue ink: they blurred and twinned. She thought she was holding the one thing that could save her. Instructions for getting better. She pulled out a new sheet of paper and began writing, very carefully:
This is Felice’s Manifesto
.

I have to find a way to make up, if I can, for the terrible thing I did to Hannah Joseph (Hanan Yusef). I confess that I killed her. I was horrible to her and I signed the horrible letter that made her do it. I have to try to make up for it. That means

I have to be judged.

I have to make sacrifices whenever I can. Big and small.

I have to be punished. It has to be the worst punishment there is. I have to go away and to leave everything and everybody.

I have to try to become a completely different person from who I was when I signed The Letter.

If there is a way to help someone in bad trouble, I have to do it.

If something awful is going to happen to me, I will let it happen, until the Judging is over. Whenever that turns out to be. Murderers get the death penalty, so maybe that will happen to me.

Signed: Felice Avis Muir

When Felice left—each time she ran away—she took almost nothing with her. The first attempt, a week later, was mostly an experiment. The police brought her home: she apologized to her parents, she went back to school; she pretended to be her old self, as best she could. But she kept her manifesto folded into a rectangle in her backpack. It took six attempts over the next year, but one day she left home for good: she made it stick.

HER HANDS SWEEP
over her body, checking that she’s still alive and unhurt. The feeling of relief comes in a burst, revives her, cascading through her system—her lungs ache with a ripping influx of air. She turns toward the surf, but there’s another explosion—air shredding open, just inches past her shoulder; her hair lifted and singed.

Her magical grace broken, Felice stumbles and stumbles, clumsy and shaking. She can’t get purchase on the sand. A hand seizes her ankle, the fingers digging in, and she flashes on the way Bethany went down on the sidewalk, how Felice knew she wouldn’t get back up again. “Fuck, you stupid, fucking . . .” the man trails off, sounding almost rueful, as if sorry that this is the way things have to be. As he drags her upright, her hand touches the dimple in the sand, the nub of bullet.