20
Bree felt like a zombie on Thursday from missing a whole night’s sleep, but she’d gotten the Kiss on the Lips invitations done—calligraphed by hand, with a perfect little heart-shaped pink ink spatter on each one—and now she and Mekhi each had an invitation of their very own. The rest of the invitations were all wrapped up in a plastic Forever 21 bag in her backpack, ready to be hand delivered to Porsha Sinclaire the moment Bree saw her.
She was starving, too, having consumed only a banana and an orange for dinner the night before. She’d even skipped her morning chocolate-chip scone. So, at lunch, Bree wrangled three grilled cheese sandwiches and two yogurts out of the Emma Willard lunch ladies and carried her feast out into the cafeteria, hunting for a seat at a quiet table. While she ate, she had to make up the homework she’d skipped last night.
Bree chose a table in front of the wall of mirrors on the far side of the cafeteria. None of the older girls liked to eat lunch by the mirrors because it made them feel fat, so that table was always empty. Bree put her tray down, and was about to start stuffing her face when she noticed a sign-up sheet taped to the mirror.
Bree lunged for her backpack to find a pen. She scribbled her name at the top of the list―she was the first one to sign up!―and then sat down in front of her heaping tray of food, her heart pounding. Life was full of miracles. It just got better and better.
More miraculous still, Chanel Crenshaw was coming out of the lunch line and making a beeline straight for Bree, carrying her tray. Was she actually going to sit with her? In person?
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
“Hi!” she beamed at Bree and set down her tray. “You’re the girl from the bathroom.”
God, Chanel was beautiful. Her hair was that jet-black silky texture some of the other Willard girls tried to achieve by spending four hours in the hair salon on the top floor of Bergdorf Goodman. But Chanel’s was natural, you could tell.
Bree put down her sandwich and tried to compose her face into a semi-cool expression.
“Hungry?” Chanel asked, pointing at Bree’s tray.
Bree nodded, speechless in the presence of such greatness.
“I can’t eat again 'til dinner,” Chanel sighed, resting her beautiful head on her arms. “I ate six cookies this morning. I’m such a pig.”
Bree poked at her grilled cheese. She couldn’t believe she’d gotten three sandwiches. Chanel probably thought she was a disgusting pig herself. And she couldn’t believe they were talking. Like friends. Just hanging out.
“Did I just see you sign up to help with my movie?” Chanel asked.
Bree nodded eagerly. “Yes.”
“Well, you’re the only one so far.” Chanel sighed, facing the wall of mirrors. She didn’t have to worry about feeling fat when she ate; she didn’t have any fat. She raised her eyebrows at Bree. “So, what can you do?”
“Well, I’m pretty artistic. I did the school hymnals, you know, in calligraphy? And I’ve got some photographs in Rancor this year, and a short story,” she explained.
Rancor was Emma Willard’s student-run arts magazine. Yasmine Richards was the editor.
“Oh!” Bree exclaimed, suddenly remembering the invitations. She reached into her backpack and pulled out the Forever 21 bag. “And I just finished the invitations for that big party next week that everyone’s going to,” she gushed, eager to impress.
Chanel lifted her head. “What party?”
Bree opened the bag and sorted through the stack of thick, cream-colored envelopes. “You know, the one Porsha Sinclaire's running?” She came to an envelope with Chanel’s name printed on it in ornate gold calligraphy. The pink ink spatter heart on this one was particularly well executed. She handed the envelope to Chanel. “The guest list Porsha gave me still had your boarding school address. I was going to slip it into your locker or something,” she said, blushing. “But now that you’re here…”
Chanel frowned down at the envelope in her hand. “Thanks.”
You sound like a stalker, Bree scolded herself. Slip it into her locker? You didn’t have to say that!
Chanel ripped open the envelope and read the invitation inside, her eyes dark, her forehead creased.
Oh, God. She thinks it’s ugly! Bree panicked, all the while taking mental notes on how to act as mysterious, poised, and cool as Chanel was acting at that very moment.
If only she could have heard the livid thoughts in Chanel’s head, railing against Porsha. She didn’t want me to come to the party. She didn’t even tell me there was a party. How selfish. How mean.
“Bree? What are you doing?”
Both Bree and Chanel turned to look. Porsha stood just a few feet away, her milky chocolate face angry-looking.
“Bree? I'm speaking to you,” Porsha intoned angrily. “Can I talk to you for a moment? In private.”
It was terrifying to disobey Porsha Sinclaire, but Bree stayed frozen in her spot. She held up the Forever 21 bag. “I have the invitations,” she told Porsha quietly. “See? They’re all done.” She pointed at Chanel’s. “I think they turned out great.”
Porsha came over and snatched away the flimsy bag. “I hope you’re not handing them out to just anyone,” she snapped.
Bree’s face flushed. The cafeteria was even quieter than it had been before.
“Chanel was on the list,” Bree said defensively.
Porsha smirked. It was all she could do to restrain herself from wrapping the dinky plastic bag around Bree's perky little face and suffocating her, but then the party invitations would get creased and that would never do.
“Bree corrected my address,” Chanel said coldly.
“I can see that,” Porsha replied.
“It sounds like a great party,” Chanel enthused fakely.
“It’s a really good cause,” Porsha answered fakely back. She glared down at little Bree, who seemed so thrilled to be caught in the middle of their conversation. If only I had a pole, Porsha thought. A long, sharp pole. I could ram it right through Bree's rib cage and then right through Chanel’s too. Right into the wall, where I’d let them hang, like warning flags: Don’t mess with Porsha Sinclaire, or you’ll wind up stuck on a pole, hanging from the wall.
“Guess I better get a new dress,” Chanel observed, rising to her feet. She was taller than Porsha, and she was wearing her favorite boots. She could probably stomp Porsha to death if she stomped long enough.
“Me too!” Bree clapped her hands together, grinning giddily up at Chanel. “Porsha let me make an invitation for myself.”
“You’re lucky,” Chanel said, reaching for Bree’s fork.
“Really lucky,” Porsha agreed, stuffing the invitations into her red Birkin totebag. She’d wanted to strangle little Bree to pay her back for intervening, but the invitations had to be stamped and mailed, and she was running out of time. She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at Chanel and attempted a smile. “See you tomorrow night?”
Chanel stabbed the fork into one of Bree’s grilled cheese sandwiches and attempted to smile back. “I can hardly wait.”
Tension like this might call for something sharper than a fork.
21
The Star Lounge in the Tribeca Star Hotel was big and swanky, filled with comfy armchairs and ottomans and circular banquettes, so that the guests could feel like they were having their own private party at each table. One wall was lit with dozens of black candles, flickering in the dimly lit room, and a DJ was playing mellow lounge beats on a turntable. It was only eight o'clock, but the bar was already jammed with people, all dressed in the hottest fashions and sipping the newest cocktail concoctions.
Porsha didn’t care what time it was or what she was wearing or what she drank—she just needed a drink. She was sitting in the armchair right near the bar, but the stupid bitch of a cocktail waitress was ignoring her, probably because she hadn't bothered dressing up. She had worn her faded Levi jeans and a boring black sweater because she was only meeting Chanel for a qui
ck drink before she went home to prepare for her night of wild sex with Kaliq. And she wasn’t going to dress up for that, either. Porsha had decided to meet Kaliq at the door naked.
Her body grew hot just thinking about it, and she looked around the room self-consciously. She felt like a loser sitting all by herself without even a drink. Where was Chanel, anyway? She didn’t have all goddamned night. She still had to straighten her hair and pick the right glasses for the wine. If Chanel doesn’t show up within five minutes, I’m leaving, she told herself sulkily.
“Ooh. Look at her,” Porsha heard a woman whisper to her friend. “Isn’t she something?”
Porsha turned to look. And of course it was Chanel. She was wearing blue suede knee-high boots and a real Balmain minidress with swirls of neon blue, traffic cone orange, and lime green. It was super fantastic. Chanel had pulled her hair into a high, tight ponytail on top of her head, with the ponytail part swooping down toward her perfect chin in an angular black Nike swoosh. Pale blue eye shadow brought out the deepness of her eyes, and her smiling lips wore a creamy shade of light pink. She waved at Porsha from across the room and wove her way through the crowd. Porsha watched the heads turn as she passed, and her stomach churned. She was already sick of Chanel, and she hadn’t even spoken to her yet.
“Hi,” Chanel said, plunking herself down on a square ottoman beside Porsha’s chair.
Immediately, the cocktail waitress appeared.
“Hey Missy,” Chanel greeted her with a warm kiss.
“Hey!” Missy exclaimed, delighted that Chanel remembered her name. “My sister said she saw you a few days back at a party she was working down in Chelsea. Said that’s you in the picture on all those buses. That true?”
Porsha rolled her eyes in disgust. All she wanted was a fucking drink.
“Yeah,” Chanel replied. “Pretty crazy, huh?”
“You are so awesome!” Missy squealed. She glanced at Porsha who was glaring at her. “Anyway, what can I get you girls?”
“Ketel One and tonic,” Porsha told her, looking her straight in the eye, daring her to card them. “Extra limes.”
But Missy would rather lose her job than hassle Chanel Crenshaw for being underage. That was the whole reason for going to hotel bars in the first place: no one ever cards.
“And for you, sweetie?” Missy asked Chanel.
“Oh, I better start with a Cosmo,” Chanel said, and laughed. “I need something pink to go with my dress.”
Missy hurried away to fetch the drinks, eager to tell the bartender that the girl in the Remi brothers’ photo that was all over town was sitting in their bar and they were friends!
“Sorry I’m late,” Chanel told Porsha, looking around. “I thought everyone else would be here with you.”
Porsha shrugged her shoulders and took a long drag on her dwindling cigarette. “I thought we could hang out by ourselves for a while,” she said. “No one really comes out until later, anyway.”
“Okay,” Chanel said. Talking alone was a good start. She smoothed out her dress and dug around in her little red purse for her own pack of cigarettes. Gauloises, from France. She tapped one out and stuck it in her mouth. “Want one?” she offered.
Porsha shook her head no. “You can’t smoke in restaurants in this country, remember?” She rolled her eyes. Chanel was worse than the girls from L’Ecole.
“Oh, I don’t care.” Chanel laughed. She was about to light up with a match when the bartender swooped in with a lighter. “Thanks,” she said, taking a puff.
The bartender winked and swiftly stepped back behind the bar. Porsha wanted to grab his lighter, pour vodka on the floor, and set the whole place on fire, but before she could move Missy brought them their drinks.
“To old times,” Chanel said, clinking her glass against Porsha’s and taking a long sip. She sat back on her stool and sighed with pleasure. “Don’t you just love hotels? They’re so full of secrets.”
Porsha raised her eyebrows at Chanel in silent response, sure that Chanel was about to tell her all the wild and crazy things that had happened to her in hotels while she was in Europe or wherever, as if Porsha cared.
“I mean, don’t you always think about what everyone’s doing in their rooms? Like, they could be watching pornos and eating cheese doodles, or they could be having kinky sex in the bathroom. Or maybe they’re just asleep.”
Sounds like she's speaking from experience.
“Uh-huh,” said Porsha disinterestedly, gulping her drink. She would have to get a little drunk if she were going to make it through the night, especially the naked part. “So what’s this about your picture being all over buses and stuff?” she asked. “I haven’t seen it.”
Chanel giggled and leaned toward Porsha confidentially. “Even if you saw it, you probably wouldn’t recognize me. It has my name on it, but it’s not a picture of my face.”
Porsha frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s art,” Chanel said mysteriously, and giggled again. She took a sip of her drink.
The two girls’ faces were only inches apart, and Porsha could smell the musky essential-oil mixture Chanel had started wearing. “I still don’t get it. Is it something dirty?” Porsha demanded, annoyed.
“Not really,” Chanel answered with a sly smile. “Lots of people have had theirs done too. You know―celebrities.”
“Like who?” Porsha said.
“Like Rihanna, and Drake, and Ariana Grande.”
“Oh,” Porsha said, sounding unimpressed.
Chanel’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.
Porsha lifted her chin and tucked her hair behind her ears. “I don’t know, it’s like you’re willing to do anything just to shock people. Don’t you have any pride?”
Chanel shook her head, still staring at Porsha. “Um, last time I checked it wasn’t illegal to have your picture taken,” she replied quietly. “And things like what? What have I done?” she asked, frantically gnawing on her fingernails.
“Like getting kicked out of boarding school,” Porsha said vaguely.
Chanel snorted. “What’s so bad about that? Tons of people get kicked out every year. They have so many stupid rules, it’s almost impossible not to get kicked out.”
Porsha pressed her lips together, measuring her words carefully. “I don’t mean that, I mean why you got kicked out.” There. She had done it. She had committed herself now. She was going to have to sit and listen to Chanel tell her all about the cults she had joined, and the boys she’d had sex with, and the drugs she had done. Shit.
Don’t believe for a minute that she wasn’t curious, though.
Porsha fiddled with the ruby ring on her finger, turning it round and round. Chanel raised her glass at Missy, asking for another drink.
“Porsha,” Chanel finally said. “The only reason I got kicked out was because I didn’t show up at the beginning of school. I stayed in France. My parents didn’t even know. I was supposed to fly back at the end of August, but I stayed until the third week in September. I was living in this amazing chateau outside of Cannes, and it was like, a constant party. I don’t think I slept a whole night the entire time I was there. There were these two boys, an older brother and a younger one, and I was totally in love with both of them. Actually,” she laughed, “I was even more in love with their father, but he was married.”
The Star Lounge DJ switched vibes and began to play a funky acid jazz song with a cool beat. The lights dimmed and the candles flickered. Chanel jiggled her foot to the music and glanced at Porsha, whose eyes were glazing over. She lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Anyway, of course I partied a lot at school, but so did everyone else. What the school couldn’t deal with was that I didn’t even bother to show up at the beginning of the year. I don’t blame them, I guess. But to tell you the truth, I really didn’t care about going back to school. I was having way too much fun.”
Porsha rolled her eyes again. She honest
ly didn’t care what the truth was. “Did you ever think about the fact that these are like, the most important years of our lives? Like, for getting into college and everything? You can’t just go around doing what you want when you want. You have to think about the future.”
Missy brought them another round. This time Chanel only nodded her thanks. She looked down at the floor, her jagged pinky nail between her teeth. “Yeah, I’m just realizing that now,” she admitted. “I hadn’t thought about it before—how I should have been joining teams and clubs. You know, getting really into the school thing. But that’s why I want you to help me make a movie. Just think how great a team we’d be…” Chanel’s voice trailed off. Like the bitch that she was, Porsha was shaking her head.
“I feel sorry for your parents,” Porsha said quietly. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have parents who are still together. Who still read the paper together on Sunday morning and tuck you in at night. Look at you.” She shook her head again. Even the way Chanel was biting her nails disgusted her. “You don’t deserve them.”
Chanel’s eyes grew big, and her lip began to tremble, but she was determined not to have a tantrum—at least, not yet. Maybe Porsha was just getting her period. That always turned her into a monster. She took a huge gulp of her drink and wiped her mouth with her cocktail. “So, you never told me what you and Kaliq did all summer. Did you ever go up to Maine and see that boat he built?” she asked, trying desperately to change the subject.
Porsha shook her head. The topic of Kaliq was completely off limits. “I had tennis camp. I hated it.”
They drank their drinks in awkward silence.
“And what about this party next week,” Chanel demanded, her irritation suddenly mounting. “The one you didn’t invite me to. What’s it for again?”
Touché, girlfriend. Touché.
Porsha pulled a cigarette out of her pack and stuck it in her mouth. She reached for a match, pausing before she struck it to see if the bartender would leap across the room with a lighter. He didn’t, so she lit the cigarette herself and blew a big cloud of smoke directly into Chanel’s face. So what if Chanel knew about the party? She was bound to find out anyway.
Upper East Side #1 Page 13
