Upper East Side #1

by Ashley Valentine

  It wasn’t difficult to see who the real goddess was. Venus looked like a lumpy pile of marble compared to Chanel. Kaliq staggered over to the fountain and got in with her, and soon they were tearing the rest of each other’s clothes off. It was August, after all. The only way to tolerate the city in August is to get naked.

  Kaliq was worried about the neighbors and the security cameras trained on his parents’ house at all times, front and back, so he led Chanel inside and up to his parents’ bedroom.

  The rest is history.

  They both had sex for the first time. It was awkward and painful and exciting and fun, and so sweet they forgot to be embarrassed. It was exactly the way you’d want your first time to be, and they had no regrets. Afterwards, they turned on the television, which was tuned to the History Channel, a documentary about the Red Sea. Chanel and Kaliq lay in bed, holding each other and looking up at the clouds through the skylight overhead, while they listened to the narrator of the program talk about Moses parting the Red Sea.

  Chanel thought that was hilarious.

  “You parted my Red Sea!” she howled, wrestling Kaliq against the pillows.

  Kaliq laughed and rolled her up in the sheet like a mummy. “And now I will leave you here as a sacrifice to the Holy Land!” he said in a deep, horror movie voice.

  And he did leave her, for a little while. He got up and ordered a huge feast of Chinese food and bad white wine, and they lay in bed and ate and drank, and he parted her Red Sea once again before the sky grew dark and the stars twinkled in the skylight.

  A week later, Chanel went away to boarding school at Hanover Academy, while Kaliq and Porsha stayed behind in New York. Ever since, Chanel had spent every vacation away—the Austrian Alps at Christmas, Dominican Republic for Easter, the summer traveling in Europe. This was the first time she’d been back, the first time she and Kaliq had seen each other since the parting of the Red Sea.

  “Porsha doesn’t know, does she?” Chanel asked Kaliq quietly.

  Porsha who? Kaliq thought, with a momentary case of amnesia. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “If you haven’t told her, she doesn’t know.”

  But Jaylen Harrison knew, which was almost worse. Kaliq had blurted the information out at a party only two nights ago in a drunken fit of complete stupidity. They’d been doing shots, and Jaylen had asked, “So, Kaliq. What was your all time best fuck? That is, if you’ve done it all yet.”

  “Well, I did it with Chanel Crenshaw,” Kaliq had bragged, like an idiot.

  And Jaylen wasn’t going to keep it a secret for long. It was way too juicy and way too useful. Jaylen didn’t need to read that book How to Win Friends and Influence People. He fucking wrote it. Although he wasn’t doing so well in the friends department.

  Chanel didn’t seem to notice Kaliq’s uncomfortable silence. She sighed, bowing her head to rest it on his shoulder. She no longer smelled like Gucci’s Cristalle like she always used to. She smelled like honey and sandalwood and lilies—her own essential-oil mixture. The scent was very Chanel, utterly irresistible, but if anyone else tried to wear it, it would probably smell like dog poo.

  "Oh Kaliq," she sighed, wishing this bittersweet moment would never end. "I missed you like crazy. I wish you could’ve seen the stuff I pulled. I was so bad.”

  “What do you mean? What did you do that was so bad?” Kaliq asked, with a mixture of dread and anticipation. For a brief second he imagined her hosting orgies in her dorm room at Hanover Academy and having affairs with older men in hotel rooms in Paris. He wished he could’ve visited her in Europe this summer. He’d always wanted to have sex in a hotel.

  “And I’ve been such a horrible friend, too,” Chanel went on. “I’ve barely even talked to Porsha since I left. And so much has happened. I can already tell she’s mad. She hasn’t even said hello.”

  “She’s not mad,” Kaliq said. “Maybe she’s just feeling shy.”

  Chanel flashed him a look. “Right,” she said mockingly. “Porsha’s feeling shy. Since when has Porsha ever been shy?”

  “Well, she’s not mad,” Kaliq insisted.

  Chanel shrugged. “Well, anyway, I’m so psyched to be back. We’ll do all the things we used to do. Me and Porsha will cut class and meet you on the roof of the Met, and then we’ll run down to that old movie theater by the Plaza Hotel and see some weird film until cocktail hour starts. And then we’ll get drunk and pass out and eat a huge breakfast in the morning. And you and Porsha will stay together forever and I’ll be the maid of honor at your wedding. We'll live happily ever after, just like in the movies.”

  Kaliq frowned.

  “Don’t make that face,” Chanel said, laughing. “That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

  Kaliq shrugged. “No, I guess it sounds okay,” he said hesitantly, although he clearly didn’t believe it.

  “What sounds okay?” a surly voice demanded.

  Startled, Kaliq and Chanel tore their eyes away from each other. It was Jaylen, and with him were Alexis, Imani, and, last but not least, Porsha, looking very shy indeed.

  Jaylen clapped Kaliq on the back. “Sorry, man,” he said. “But you can’t keep Chanel to yourself all night.”

  Kaliq snorted and tipped back his glass. Only ice was left.

  Chanel looked at Porsha. Or at least, she tried to. Porsha was making a big deal of pulling up her black stockings, working them inch by inch from her ankles up to her knees, and up around her tennis-muscled thighs. So Chanel gave up and kissed first Alexis, then Imani, and then she made her way to Porsha.

  There was only a limited amount of time Porsha could spend pulling up her tights before it got ridiculous. When Chanel was only inches away from her, she looked up and pretended to be surprised.

  “Hey Porsh!” Chanel said excitedly. She put her hands on the shorter girl’s shoulders and bent down to kiss both of her cheeks. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call you before I came back. I wanted to. But things have been so crazy. I have so much to tell you!”

  Jaylen, Alexis, and Imani all nudged each other and stared at Porsha. It was pretty obvious she had lied. She didn’t know anything about Chanel coming back.

  Porsha’s face heated up.

  Busted.

  Esther had just put a sizzling pot of cod cheek foundue on the side table. Sharp, long-handled fondue forks ringed the table. Porsha could grab one, stab Chanel through her annoyingly swanlike neck until the fork came out the other side, grab Kaliq, and whisk him away to the Pierre Hotel, where they could finally have sex without interruption.

  Kaliq noticed the tension, but he thought it was for an entirely different reason. Had Jaylen told Porsha already? Was he busted? Kaliq couldn’t tell. Porsha wasn’t even looking at him. It was a chilly moment. Not the kind of moment you’d expect to have with your oldest, closest friends.

  Chanel’s eyes darted from one face to another. Clearly she had said something wrong, and she quickly guessed what it was. I’m so clueless, she scolded herself.

  “I mean, I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night. I literally just got back from Connecticut. My parents have been hiding me there until they figured out what to do with me. I have been so bored.”

  Nice save.

  She waited for Porsha to smile gratefully for covering for her, but all Porsha did was glance at Alexis and Imani to see if they’d noticed the slip. Porsha was acting strange, and Chanel fought down a rising panic. Maybe Kaliq was wrong, maybe Porsha really was mad at her. Chanel had missed out on so much. The divorce, for instance. Poor Porsha.

  “It must really suck without your dad around,” Chanel said. “But your mom looks so good, and Cyrus is kind of sweet, once you get used to him.” She giggled.

  But Porsha still wasn’t smiling. “Maybe,” she said, staring out the window at the hot dog stand. She imagined stuffing about fifty of them, complete with buns and sauerkraut and ketchup and relish, down Chanel's lovely throat. “I guess I’m still not used to him.”

  All six of them were si
lent for a long, tense moment. What they needed was one more good, stiff drink.

  Kaliq rattled the ice cubes in his glass. “Who wants another?” he offered. “I’ll make them.”

  Chanel held out her glass. “Thanks, Kaliq,” she said. “I’m so fucking thirsty. They locked the damned booze cabinet up in Conneticut. Can you believe it?”

  Porsha remained silent but shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “When you're around, Chanel, everyone has to prepare for the worst.”

  “If I have another drink, I’ll be hungover at school tomorrow,” Alexis said.

  Imani laughed. “You’re always hungover at school,” she said. She handed Kaliq her glass. “Here, I’ll split mine with Alexis.”

  “Let me give you a hand,” Jaylen offered.

  But before the boys could get started on refills, Mrs. Crenshaw joined them, touching her daughter’s arm. “Eleanor would like us all to sit down. She made an extra place next to Porsha for you, so you two girls can catch up.”

  Chanel cast an anxious glance at Porsha, but Porsha had already turned away and was headed for the table, sitting down next to her eleven-year-old brother, Brice, who had been at his place for over an hour, reading Rolling Stone magazine. Brice was one of those people who refused to listen to an iPod or even CDs, insisting that real vinyl records were the only way to go. Porsha worried her brother was turning into a loser.

  Chanel steeled herself and pulled up a chair in the space next to Porsha.

  “Porsh, I’m sorry I’ve been such a complete bitch,” she said, removing her linen napkin from its silver ring and spreading it out on her lap. “Your parents splitting up must have really sucked.”

  Porsha shrugged and grabbed a fresh sourdough roll from a basket on the table. She tore the roll in half and stuffed one half into her mouth. The other guests were still making their way toward the table and figuring out where to sit. Porsha knew it was rude to eat before everyone was seated, but if her mouth was full, she couldn’t talk, and she really didn’t feel like talking.

  “I wish I’d been here,” Chanel said, watching Porsha smear the other half of her roll with a thick slab of French butter. “But I had a crazy year. I have the most insane stories to tell you.”

  Porsha nodded and chewed her roll slowly, like a cow chewing its cud. Chanel waited for Porsha to ask her what kind of stories, but Porsha didn’t say anything, she just kept on chewing. She didn’t want to hear about all the fabulous things Chanel had done while she was away and Porsha had been stuck at home, watching her parents fight over antique chairs that nobody sat on, teacups nobody used, and ugly, expensive paintings.

  Chanel had wanted to tell Porsha about Charles, the only Rastafarian at Hanover Academy, who’d asked her to elope with him to Jamaica. About Nicholas, the French college guy who never wore underwear and who’d chased her train in a tiny Fiat all the way from Paris to Milan. About smoking hash in Amsterdam and sleeping in a park with a group of drunk prostitutes because she forgot where she was staying. She wanted to tell Porsha how much it sucked to find out that Hanover Academy wouldn’t take her back senior year simply because she’d blown off the first few weeks of school. She wanted to tell her how scared she was to go back to Emma Willard tomorrow because she hadn’t exactly been studying very hard in the last year and she felt so completely out of touch.

  But Porsha wasn’t interested. She grabbed another roll and took a big bite.

  “Wine, miss?” Esther asked, standing at Chanel’s left with the bottle.

  “Yes, thank you,” Chanel said. She watched the Côte du Rhone spill into her glass and thought of the Red Sea once more. Maybe Porsha does know, she thought. Was that what this was all about? Was that why she was acting so weird? She glanced at Kaliq, four chairs down on the right, but he was deep in conversation with her father. Talking about sailboats, no doubt.

  “So, you and Kaliq are still together?” Chanel asked, taking a risk. “I bet you guys wind up married.”

  Porsha gulped her wine, her little ruby ring rattling against the glass. She reached for the butter, slapping another great big wad on her roll.

  “Hello? Porsha? Aren't you going to talk to me?” Chanel asked, nudging her friend’s arm in desperation. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Porsha slurred. It was less an answer to Chanel’s question than a vague, general statement made to fill a blank space while she was tending to her roll. “I’m fine.”

  Esther brought out the duck and the acorn squash soufflé, and the table was filled with the sound of clanking plates and silver and murmurs of “delicious.” Porsha heaped her plate high with food and attacked it as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. She didn’t care if she made herself sick, as long as she didn’t have to talk to Chanel.

  “Whoa.” Chanel watched Porsha stuff her face. “You must be hungry.”

  Porsha nodded and shoveled a forkful of chard into her mouth. She washed it down with a gulp of wine. “I’m starving,” she said.

  “So, Chanel,” Cyrus called down from the head of the table. “Tell me about France. Your mother says you were in the South of France this summer. Is it true the French girls don’t wear tops on the beach?”

  “Yes, it’s true.” Chanel raised one eyebrow playfully. “But it’s not just the French girls. I never wore a top down there, either. How else could I get a decent tan?”

  Porsha gagged on an enormous bite of soufflé and spat it into her wine. It floated on the surface of the crimson liquid like a soggy dumpling until Esther whisked it away and brought her a clean glass.

  No one noticed. Chanel had the table’s attention, and she kept her audience captive with stories of her travels in Europe right through dessert. Porsha had finished her second plate of duck, followed by a huge bowl full of chocolate-laced pudding, tuning out Chanel’s voice as she spooned it into her mouth. Finally her stomach rebelled, and she shot up suddenly, scraping her chair back and running down the hall to her bedroom, straight into its adjoining bathroom.

  “Porsha?” Chanel called after her. She stood up and hurried off to follow her.

  When Jaylen saw Porsha get up from the table, and then Chanel, he nodded knowingly and nudged Imani with his elbow. “Porsha’s getting the dirt,” he whispered. “Fucking awesome.”

  Kaliq watched the two girls flee the table with a mounting sense of unease. He was pretty sure the only thing girls talked about in the bathroom was sex.

  And mostly, he’d be right.

  Porsha kneeled over the toilet and stuck her middle finger as far down her throat as it would go. Her eyes began to tear and then her stomach convulsed. She’d done this before, many times. It was disgusting and horrible, and she knew she shouldn’t do it, but at least she’d feel better when it was over.

  The door to her bathroom was only half closed, and Chanel could hear her friend retching inside. “Porsh, it’s me,” she said quietly. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” Porsha snapped, wiping her mouth. She stood up and flushed the toilet. Chanel pushed the door open and she turned and glared at her. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “Really.”

  Chanel put the lid down on the toilet seat and sat down. “Oh, don't be such a bitch, Porsha,” she said, exasperated. “What’s the deal? It’s me, remember? We know everything about each other.”

  Porsha reached for her toothbrush and toothpaste. “We used to,” she said and began brushing her teeth furiously. She spat out a wad of green foam. “When was the last time we talked, anyway? Like, the summer before last?”

  Chanel looked down at her scuffed brown leather boots. “I know. I’m sorry. I suck.”

  Porsha rinsed her toothbrush off and stuck it back in the holder. She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Well, you missed a lot,” she said, wiping a smudge of mascara from beneath her eye with the tip of her pinky. “I mean, last year was really...different.” She’d been about to say “hard,” but “hard” made her sound like a victim. Like she’d barely survived
without Chanel around. “Different” was better.

  With a sudden sense of power, Porsha glanced down at Chanel sitting on the toilet.

  “Kaliq and I have become really close, you know. We tell each other everything.”

  Yeah, right.

  The two girls eyed each other warily for a moment. Then Chanel shrugged. “Well don’t worry about me and Kaliq,” she said. “We’re just cool, you know that. And besides, I’m tired of boys.”

  The corners of Porsha’s mouth curled up. Chanel obviously wanted her to ask why, why was she tired of boys? But Porsha wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. She tugged her sweater down and glanced at her reflection one more time. “We're missing the espresso,” she announced, and abruptly left the bathroom.

  Shit, Chanel thought, staying put. It was no use going after Porsha now, while she was obviously in such a crappy mood. Things would be better tomorrow at school. She and Porsha would have one of their famous heart-to-hearts in the lunchroom over lemon yogurts and romaine lettuce. It wasn’t like they could just stop being friends.

  She stood up and examined her eyebrows in the bathroom mirror, using Porsha’s tweezers to pluck a few stray hairs. She pulled a tube of MAC's Gash lipstick from her pocket and smeared another layer on her lips. When she returned to the table, Porsha was eating her second helping of pudding and Kaliq was drawing a small-scale picture of his sailboat for Cyrus on the back of a matchbook. Across the table Jaylen raised his wine glass to clink it with Chanel’s. She had no idea what she was toasting, but she was always up for anything.

  5

  “Chanel? Aren’t you up?” Lillian Crenshaw glided into her daughter’s room and swept back the heavy white curtains cloaking the windows. “You’re going to school today, remember? They’re expecting you.”

  A streak of morning light fell upon Chanel's closed, long-lashed eyelids.

  Her mother ducked under the bed’s white eyelet canopy and tugged back the heavy white quilt. “Chanel, honestly. We don’t want any trouble on your first day.”