Imperfect Birds Read Online Free Page B

God’s sake. And, This is the reason I want to move out. And, You are so lame.
    Still, she provided James with great stuff for his writing. She told him about teenage chatter and slang, the dope, and the kids who had been in rehab. She described how they all clustered together to make themselves a village in which a few rare people seemed to have knowledge and power.
    “Oh, baby,” James told her, “it’s always been the same.” His novel took place in the years when Reagan was governor, when his generation was still walking around the Haight with girlfriends and boyfriends, accepting what came along, giving away what they had to share whether it was a burrito, a bouquet, drugs, a dollar—it had all felt so heady, delicious, and right. Then as now, young people liked spectacle, especially musical, but also watching the random bust, as long as it was people you didn’t like. Then as now in the Parkade, talismanic amulets hung from their necks, strange caps kept them warm and said how different they were, especially when it was a hundred degrees out. And how, at the same time, all that mattered was fitting in. There was fitting in, somehow, anywhere, and there was the Abyss.
    The last time Elizabeth and Rosie had gone on a hike together, Elizabeth had brought up the friends-with-benefits business, not for the first time. “Tell me again—help me understand—what’s in it for the girls?”
    At first Rosie said, “I told you. It is so exaggerated, just something the moms are obsessed with. And there’s nothing I can say to help you understand.” Then she allowed that maybe some skeevy girls did it too much, like without even having affection for the guy. Or guys. But mostly, it was just . . . friendly. And it meant that you were desirable.
    “Plus,” Rosie said, “the guys are so grateful.”
    “Well, yeah, I guess ,” said Elizabeth. “But do the guys ever go down on the girls?”
    “Mom! Stop.”
    “But what’s in it for the girl? It’s like the women’s movement never happened.”
    “It’s nice for the girl. It’s like kissing. It makes you feel really close to the guy. I mean, you know, for that night. And it makes the girls feel powerful.”
    Just then a Steller’s jay had squawked rustily from a manzanita branch, bright blue against the maroon wood, and Rosie had cried out in imitation, “Oil can! Oil can!” They both laughed in the sun and let the conversation slide. Elizabeth pointed out a red-tailed hawk on solemn patrol overhead against the blue May sky. There were cactus impersonators on the trail beside them—spiky-looking flowers that were soft and fuzzy if you stopped to touch them, which they did. Rosie cried, “Ouch,” as if the fluffy flowers had thorns, and gripped her fingers in pain, to make her mother laugh. Oh, Rosie. The sun beat down and the air smelled like toast. The rattlesnake grass that covered the hills was dark gold, the color you spray-painted pine cones at Christmas.
    “I’m leaving,” James announced as he caught up to Elizabeth at the foot of the steps. “I want a divorce. You can keep the children. I don’t know how long I am going to live, but I do not choose to spend whatever remains with your passive-aggressive daughter. It’s not like we’re dragging her off to the dentist. We want to spend money on her, and still she blows us off. We have to leave now, Elizabeth, trust me. If we stay, it injures her character. You must not reward brattiness or flake.”
    Elizabeth knew he was right. You want so desperately for your child to be a great kid, just like you, mature, conscious, and cool—you in another body. At the very least, you want your child to have good manners. Maybe that was considered reactionary now, but this was how she had raised Rosie. The worst humans on earth kept you waiting. And James had been in such a good mood when they woke: he had gotten laid, there was toasted brioche for breakfast, roses from the garden on the table. Now he was