Upper East Side #9

by Ashley Valentine

  “Hey.” Yasmine was in no mood to take crap from some bimbo stranger. “Next time watch where you’re going.”

  “Yas?” Mr. rollerblader-who’d-fallen-on-his-ass demanded, struggling to sit up.

  Yasmine’s eyelids flapped up and down in disbelief. Was she seeing things?

  There, splayed out on the asphalt under the oaks, in the middle of Central Park, wearing rollerblades, dorky athletic shorts, and a clingy white spandex tee, plus wristbands, kneepads, and elbow pads, with a flushed face and messy sweaty hair, was Mekhi. Her Mekhi.

  “Mekhi?” she gasped with so much horror and confusion in her voice that Edgar actually stopped blubbering and stood up.

  “Hi.” Mekhi grinned sheepishly. The bimbo in the skimpy jog bra extended her hand and helped him to his feet. He swiveled unsteadily on his blades. “Hey Yasmine...what’s up?”

  “What’s up is she’s not paying attention to these little animals running around,” the girl started, tugging her shorts so high she was in grave danger of causing some severe camel toe. “And I’m really trying to be very Zen about this, but—”

  “Who are you?” Yasmine demanded.

  “Who are you?” the girl retorted bitchily.

  “I’m his girlfriend,” Yasmine replied.

  Lycra Butt recoiled a little.

  “Wait,” Yasmine insisted. “What are you doing?” She studied Mekhi critically. His outfit was so completely ridiculous she could barely look at him. She turned back to the girl. “You must be the reason I never see Mekhi around the house anymore.”

  “You guys live together?”

  The words from Mekhi’s poem flooded into Yasmine’s head:

  Pure love. Pure lust. Trust trust.

  Buddha was no Jesus. Neither am I.

  I’m just a guy.

  “Who are these kids, anyway?” Mekhi wondered aloud.

  “We’re her friends,” snapped one of the twins,—Yasmine still couldn’t tell them apart—sticking his tongue out at Mekhi.

  “Your friends?” Mekhi repeated.

  “Right,” Yasmine snapped. “Kind of like she’s your friend, right, Mekhi?”

  A church bell rang down on Fifth Avenue. The sound was so pure and so totally inappropriate for the moment, it made Yasmine want to scream.

  “Yasmine?” The other twin tugged on her hand. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Not now,” Yasmine responded sternly.

  “I’m confused,” Mekhi stuttered. “Why aren’t you on set right now?”

  “I was fired. Not that you’d care.”

  “Let’s just pause before we say anything we’re going to regret,” interrupted Short Shorts. Pigeons were picking at the sticky remains of the twins’ ice creams. If only one of them would peck the slut in the ass.

  “Yasmine?” the same twin whined. “I really don’t—” But before he could finish his sentence, he vomited chewed-up ice cream sandwich all over Mekhi’s acid green Nike rollerblades.

  So that’s the definition of bad karma.

  33

  Kaliq’s legs felt a little shaky, the way they did when Coach caught him goofing off at practice and sentenced him to run laps as punishment. It had been a long day of ferrying new fence posts from the driveway, where they lay piled up higher than he stood, to various points around the yard. He lurched into the house, arms aching and knees wobbling.

  Weak in the knees—and not even because of a girl.

  On his way to his bedroom he stopped in the bright, white-and-steel kitchen and rummaged in the refrigerator. Regina, his parents’ maid/caretaker/chef, kept the place well stocked but Kaliq pushed aside the terrine of homemade paté and the heirloom-tomato-and-orzo salad to grab a bottle of Lorina orangeade. It had always been his favorite when he was a kid, but for some reason they only ever had it when they were out in East Hampton, so he associated the light, fizzy taste with the carefree summers of his childhood, when he’d hosted outrageous skinny-dipping pool parties and cleaned out his parents’ wine cellar.

  Those were the days, he thought to himself as he made his way into his bedroom. There’d been nothing to worry about except whether it would be sunny enough to spend the afternoon at the beach, or if he was high enough, or if he’d ever manage to hook up with Porsha.

  These days life was so much more complicated. Even though it was summer vacation, Kaliq was stressed out about a bunch of stuff: what Tawny’s townie buddies would do to him if he ever ran into them without Tawny, what he would say to Porsha when he saw her at Yale, whether what Jaylen had told him about her was true.

  Clutching the open bottle, Kaliq collapsed into his soft unmade bed with a groan. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head, but there was one person he couldn’t stop picturing.

  Guess who?

  Suddenly he wished he hadn’t returned the moss green cashmere V-neck Porsha had given him the spring before last when her dad took them skiing in Sun Valley. He’d put it on, close his eyes, and remember simpler times, when he and Porsha were together and all seemed right with the world. Because, except for those times when he’d pissed her off by saying the wrong thing or getting high and flaking out on plans, being with Porsha—however difficult she was—made Kaliq feel complete, like everything was exactly the way it was supposed to be. Now Porsha was going to marry that English guy. Was it really true? Suddenly, Kaliq had to know.

  He sat up, took a swig from the chilly bottle of orangeade and reached for the telephone on his bedside table. He hesitated for a second before dialing those familiar digits.

  “It’s Porsha,” she answered after a couple of rings. She sounded curt and professional, like she hadn’t recognized the number.

  “Hey.” Kaliq turned over onto his stomach and fiddled nervously with the sheets.

  “Kaliq?” she yawned, sounding bored already. “God, I’m sorry. I’m so tired.”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he replied sheepishly. He suddenly couldn’t remember why he had thought calling Porsha would be a good idea.

  “I’m working,” Porsha explained. “It’s been a crazy week.”

  “That’s cool.” Porsha had a job? Wow, things really had changed.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Bailey Winter has really been busting my ass.”

  Kaliq had no idea what she was talking about but decided he should try to be sympathetic. “That’s too bad.”

  “It’s just life in fashion. Where are you, anyway?”

  “East Hampton. My parents’ place. I’m doing some work for my coach down here, helping him with his house.”

  “I wish I could get away,” Porsha replied dreamily. “Just for a minute. But you know what it’s like...”

  “Yeah,” Kaliq agreed. “If you’re working, that’s how it goes.”

  “Did I mention I’m doing wardrobe on that new movie— Breakfast at Fred’s?”

  “Cool,” Kaliq intoned. Why hadn’t she said anything about her engagement? “So, you’re back from London, I guess.”

  “Oh, yes.” Porsha sighed deeply, “I had to get back to New York. I decided this was the best way to build up my résumé before we start Yale, you know, get some real, professional experience under my belt.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” Kaliq agreed, suddenly wishing he’d rolled a joint before making the call. “Especially now that you’re, you know, making plans for the future.”

  “Aren’t you?” asked Porsha. “You’ve got to think about what lies ahead, you know that, Kaliq, right?”

  “Right,” Kaliq agreed, even though he rarely thought farther ahead than whether to get a burrito or pizza for dinner. “So, anyway, I guess I was just calling to say congratulations, you know.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a little summer job with one of the best designers in America.”

  “I was talking about the engagement. I heard everything.”

  “Engagement?” Porsha echoed. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Jaylen told me,” Kaliq admitted, pulling
a pillow over his head.

  “Jaylen told you I was engaged?” Porsha barked. “As usual, he’s got the story all wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” Kaliq pulled the pillow off and sat up.

  “Well, I’m back,” Porsha pointed out. “It just wasn’t working out in London. I couldn’t marry him. I need to think about my future.”

  Like someone had actually proposed? As if.

  “So you’re not getting married? I should set Jaylen straight.”

  Good luck with that.

  “He’s an idiot,” Porsha declared. “Who cares what he thinks? Why would you ever listen to him?”

  Kaliq shrugged, even though Porsha couldn’t see him over the telephone. “I just didn’t know, you know, I hadn’t heard from you or anything. But I’m glad you’re back. I know it was always your dream to be the black Katharine Hepburn, but it’s cool that at least you get to be close to the action.”

  “It’s Audrey Hepburn,” Porsha corrected him. “And I’m not close to the action, I’m an integral part of the action. In a major motion picture like this, wardrobe is critical.”

  “Remember that time we watched that movie and you kept pausing it and making me practice the lines with you?” Kaliq reminisced wistfully. It had been a snow day and school was canceled, so they spent the afternoon cuddling in her bed and watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, only Porsha kept pausing it to recite the lines and trying to convince Kaliq to go along with it. He’d tried, because it was easier to just keep her happy. Now he was in the Hamptons and Porsha was in New York and their relationship was over—even the bedroom was gone, turned into Porsha’s baby sister’s luxurious pastel-colored nursery.

  “I’ve decided that as a long-term career goal, working in fashion, behind the scenes, makes a lot more sense,” Porsha explained.

  “Yeah,” Kaliq agreed. “Chanel’s the one who’s really cut out to be a movie star anyway.”

  Ouch.

  Porsha paused for a moment. “I should really get going, Kaliq. I’ve got to run some samples uptown to the set.”

  “Okay.” Kaliq was disappointed. “That sounds important.”

  “It is important. Have fun at the beach.” Porsha hung up.

  Kaliq pressed end and dropped the receiver onto the floor, then turned over and stared at the ceiling. Have fun? Suddenly, the Hamptons didn’t seem fun at all. His whole summer stretched before him and he felt lonely and isolated. He missed the city, he missed his friends, he missed Porsha.

  And no island babe could ever make him forget that.

  34

  Slamming the heavy door behind her, Yasmine stormed into the foyer of the Hargrove homestead, dropping her battered knapsack onto the creaky parquet floor and upsetting a stack of old newspapers in the process.

  “Damn!” She knelt and restacked the newspapers as tidily as she could, but the apartment was always in such a state of disarray it hardly seemed to matter.

  “What’s that?” a booming voice called out. “Who’s there?”

  Yasmine stood and looked around guiltily. She was so exhausted from her afternoon with the tireless twins, so humiliated and pissed off from her run-in with Mekhi and his rollerblading slut, so furious about getting fired by the psychotic Ken Mogul, that she had forgotten that she wasn’t at home: she couldn’t just stomp around, slamming doors. She was technically a guest.

  “What’s all this racket?” Rufus Hargrove shuffled into the dimly lit foyer, clutching a sheaf of loose-leaf papers to his chest. His thick tangle of curly gray shoulder-length hair was tied up in a green twist-tie, there were peanut shells in his salt-and-pepper beard, and his glasses had slid all the way down his broad nose. He was wearing a tattered pair of beige cargo shorts with several pens and highlighters sticking out of one of the pockets, a way-too-tight wine-stained polo that Yasmine recognized as one of Mekhi’s discarded school shirts, and a pink plastic apron embellished with daisies.

  “I’m so sorry,” Yasmine apologized. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “What day is this?” Rufus demanded, staring at her intently without any hint of recognition.

  She wondered if she should remind him who she was. “Sunday.”

  “Sunday, yes, Sunday.” Rufus nodded, tearing off his rimless reading glasses and tucking them into one of his many pockets. “So, are you home late or early? Should I scold you or something?”

  Yasmine laughed, relieved that he seemed to know exactly who she was. “Don’t worry. I can assure you I’ve been behaving.”

  “Come in, then,” he urged, turning and retreating to the steamy and disorderly kitchen. “I’ve been working on dinner, and I need a fresh palate to sample what I’ve come up with.”

  As if she hasn’t had a rough enough day already.

  Yasmine stationed herself on one of the rickety, uneven chairs at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of murky tap water and watching Rufus busy himself at the stove. Whatever he was cooking it was very fragrant and it made her stomach growl noisily. The only thing she’d eaten that day was her hastily scarfed ice cream sandwich. After the whole scene in the park she just hadn’t been in the mood for lunch.

  “Taste this,” Rufus commanded, handing Yasmine a wooden spoon.

  She blew on the steaming mound of couscous and sampled it. “Really good.”

  “It’s a tagine,” Rufus informed her. “Paul Bowles’s recipe. I totally forgot I had it. Where’s Mekhi? He loves Paul Bowles. He’d get a kick out of this, I just know it. I replaced the saffron with vermouth!”

  “Mekhi? I’m not really sure,” Yasmine admitted. She fiddled uncomfortably with the faded white place mat, which was embroidered with little lavender flowers. It seemed so out of place in that moldy, disorganized kitchen.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Rufus asked, energetically stirring the bubbling pot.

  Yasmine hesitated. She was really in the mood to just spill her guts. She hadn’t spoken to Ruby since leaving the apartment in a huff, she hadn’t talked to her parents in ages. She didn’t even care that Rufus was Mekhi’s dad, she just needed to talk to someone.

  “Paradise,” she scoffed. “I don’t think we’re living there anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” Rufus paged through a cookbook, nodding sagely. “Shit! Two teaspoons. Well...six teaspoons isn’t going to kill anyone.”

  “I mean,” explained Yasmine, a lump forming in her throat, “I think we’re broken up.”

  “What happened?” Rufus asked as he rifled through a drawer, clattering the utensils together.

  “I don’t know,” Yasmine lied, suddenly embarrassed. Did he really need to hear all the gory details?

  “You kids.” He shook his head. “Young love.”

  Or young loveless.

  Trying not to lose control, Yasmine continued. “And the thing is, he doesn’t even know what else is going on in my life. I mean, I lost my job today. I got fired by Ken Mogul.” She sighed, her whole body trembling. Hearing the words out loud, even out of her own mouth, made the reality even more harsh.

  “Fired?” Rufus repeated, adding what looked like way too much honey to the couscous pot. “Don’t worry about it. Believe it or not, I once got fired from a job. I was an usher at the Brattle Theater, back when I was a student.” He chuckled. “I got canned for screaming obscenities during a play about Russia, but it’s kind of a long story.”

  “Well, I really appreciate you letting me stay here. I’m sure I’ll figure out another place to go soon,” Yasmine mumbled miserably. “I can call Ruby and maybe she’ll let me crash on the couch. Or maybe I can ask Porsha for help. I mean, I helped her out when she didn’t have any place to go.”

  Miss Sleeps-in-a-new-bed-every-week? Don’t count on it, sister.

  “Hold the phone, dude!” Rufus exclaimed with one of his classic nonsensical outbursts. “Last I checked, this was my apartment, not Mekhi’s. Bree's in Europe, and then she’s off to that schmancy boarding school. Mekhi’s going to Evergreen, of all places,
and I’m gonna be stuck talking to myself and cooking for one. I don’t think so, dude.”

  Yasmine had never been called “dude” before, at least not by someone’s dad. She kind of liked it.

  “I don’t know,” she protested. Finally, someone was being nice to her, and she had no idea how to handle it. “I’m not sure I’d feel right taking advantage of your hospitality like that.”

  “If that’s really how you feel.” Rufus replaced the lid on the cast-iron pot with a bang. “We can work something out. You’re going to be at NYU in the fall, right? Not much income there, and you’ll be studying too hard to work. Maybe you can rent Bree's room for a small fee. As long as you promise to let me cook for you.”

  Yasmine rubbed her stubbly head and blinked up at wild-haired Rufus.

  “Ah! Chili powder!” he yelled, before dumping in several tablespoons.

  Sure, he was a little weird, but he was really nice and she was sure the rent would be more than reasonable. She could make herself scarce until Mekhi left for Evergreen. And maybe it would actually be fun rooming with Rufus. He’d be the wacky dad she’d never had. Actually, she did have one, but it couldn’t hurt to have two.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hargrove.” Yasmine wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I’d love to.”

  “Great. Now grab some bowls and a couple of wineglasses. Dinner's on.”

  Better grab the Pepto while you’re at it.

  35

  Chanel cowered inside her trailer for as long as possible, studying her script for the millionth time, trying to soothe her horrible Monday morning jitters. She sipped her second latte of the morning and thought back to her weekend rehearsals with Porsha.

  “Close your eyes,” ordered Kristina, her thin-as-a-wisp German makeup artist. Kristina wore insanely heavy black eyeliner and Chanel was slightly terrified of her. She felt the soft caress of a brush across her closed eyes. “Okay, open,” Kristina said. “All done.”

  Chanel opened her eyes and sighed. At least she didn’t have any lines in this big scene, just lyrics: that morning they were shooting a direct reference to the scene in the original film when Audrey Hepburn sings “Moon River” on the fire escape. Ken Mogul had decided to recreate the scene in its entirety, so Chanel’s trailer was stationed outside of the dilapidated East Village tenement that was her character’s home in the movie. Chanel downed the last drop of her Starbucks latte and thought about what Porsha had told her the day before. She could almost hear Porsha’s voice inside her head.