Upper East Side #1

by Ashley Valentine

  “Why can’t you ask?” Mekhi said. He shoved his hands in his corduroys and leaned against a wooden hat rack.

  “Please?” she whined.

  “Fine.”

  Mekhi strode over to a haggard-looking woman with frosted blond hair. She looked like she’d been working in department stores her entire life, only taking one vacation a year in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Mekhi imagined her chain-smoking Virginia Slims down on the boardwalk, worrying about how the girls back at the store were managing without her.

  “Can I help you, young man?” the woman asked him. Her name tag said “Maureen.”

  Mekhi smiled. “Hello. Do you think you could help my sister find a nice dress? She’s over there.” He pointed at Bree, who was studying the price tag of a red silk wraparound with ruffles on the sleeves. Bree had taken off her jacket and was wearing a white T-shirt. Mekhi could not deny it—her boobs were really huge.

  “Yes, of course,” Maureen said, striding purposefully toward Bree.

  Mekhi stayed where he was, glancing around the room and feeling completely out of place. Behind him, he heard a familiar voice. “I look like a nun, Mom, I swear. It’s just completely wrong.”

  “Oh, Chanel,” another voice said. “I think it’s darling. What if you just unbutton the collar a bit. There. See? It’s very Jackie O.”

  Mekhi spun around. A tall, middle-aged woman with Chanel’s golden beige coloring was standing half in, half out of a curtained dressing room. The curtain was slightly parted, and Mekhi could just see a bit of Chanel’s hair, her collarbone, and her bare feet with her toenails painted a dark red. His face burned and he bolted for the elevator.

  “Hey Mekhi, where’re you going?” Bree called over to him. Her arms were already piled high with dresses, and Maureen was flicking efficiently through the racks, while giving her all sorts of good advice about support bras and the latest figure enhancing underwear. Bree had never been happier.

  “Gonna check out the men’s stuff,” Mekhi mumbled, glancing nervously toward the side of the room where he’d spotted Chanel.

  “Okay,” Bree said gaily. “I’ll meet you down there in forty five minutes. And if I need your help, I’ll call you on your cell.”

  Mekhi nodded and leapt onto the elevator as soon as it opened. Down in the men’s department, he ambled over to a counter and spritzed his hands with Gucci cologne, wrinkling his nose at the strong Italian male scent. He looked around the intimidating, woody room for a bathroom where he could wash it off. Instead, he found a mannequin in full evening dress and beside it, a rack full of tuxes. Mekhi fingered the rich material of the jackets and looked at the labels. Maison Margiela, Tom Ford, Armani.

  He imagined stepping out of a limo wearing his Armani tux with Chanel on his arm. They’d stroll down the red carpet leading into the party, music thumping all around them, and people would turn and say, “Oh,” in hushed voices. Chanel would press her perfect mouth to Mekhi’s ear. “I love you,” she’d whisper. Then Mekhi would stop and kiss her and pick her up and carry her back to the limo. Screw the party. They had better things to do.

  “Can I help you, sir?” A salesman asked.

  Mekhi turned abruptly. “No. I—” He hesitated and looked at his watch. Bree was going to take forever upstairs, and why shouldn’t he? As long as he was there. He picked up the Armani tux and held it out to the sales guy. “Can I try this one on in my size?” he asked.

  The cologne must have gone to his head.

  The salesman taught Mekhi how to tie a perfect bow tie before leaving him alone in the dressing room to admire his reflection. He looked older and cleaner and super sharp. Amazing how a tuxedo could instantly turn you into James Bond. Mekhi posed in front of the mirror, pretending to whip out a gun and fire at foreign double agents.

  Bree and Maureen had completely scoured the racks, and Maureen had filled a dressing room with dozens of possibilities in assorted sizes. The problem with Bree was she was only a size two, but her chest was a size eight at least. Maureen thought they’d have to compromise and go for a six, letting it out in the bust and taking it in everywhere else.

  The first few dresses were a disaster. Bree nearly busted the zipper of one trying to unsnag it from her bra. And the next one didn’t even make it over her boobs. The third one was completely obscene. The fourth one fit, sort of, except it was bright orange and had a ridiculous ruffle running across it, like someone had slashed it with a knife. Bree poked her head out of the curtain to look for Maureen.

  Next door, Chanel and her mother were just heading out of their dressing room to the cashier’s desk.

  “Chanel!” she called, without thinking twice.

  Chanel turned around and Bree blushed. She couldn’t believe she was talking to Chanel Crenshaw while wearing a bright orange dress with a stupid ruffle on it.

  “Hey Bree,” Chanel said, beaming sweetly down at her. She walked over and kissed her on both cheeks.

  Bree sucked in her breath and gripped the curtain to steady herself. Chanel Crenshaw had just kissed her!

  “Wow, crazy dress.” She leaned in to whisper in Bree’s ear. “You’re lucky you don’t have your mom with you. I got suckered into buying the ugliest dress in the store.” Chanel held the dress up. It was long and black and completely gorgeous.

  Bree didn’t know what to say. She wished she were the kind of girl who could complain about shopping with her mother. She wished she were the kind of girl who could complain about a beautiful dress being ugly. But she wasn’t.

  “Is everything all right, dear?” Maureen asked, striding over and handing Bree a strapless bra contraption to try on with her dresses.

  Bree took the bra and glanced at Chanel, her cheeks burning. “I’d better keep trying this stuff on,” she said. “See you Monday.” She let the curtain fall closed, but Maureen pulled it open a few inches.

  “That looks nice,” Maureen said, nodding approvingly at the orange dress. “It suits you.”

  Bree grimaced. “Does it come in black?”

  “But you’re too young for black,” Maureen said, frowning.

  Bree frowned back and handed the pile of reject dresses to Maureen, closing the curtain firmly in her face. “Thanks for your help,” she called. She yanked the orange dress over her head and whipped off her bra, reaching for a black stretch-satin dress she had picked out herself. Braless, she pulled the dress on over her head and felt it ooze all over her. When she looked up, little Bree Hargrove had vanished from the dressing room and in her place was a dangerous, slutty sex goddess.

  Throw in a pair of kitten heels, a thong, and some MAC lipstick, and she had it going on. No girl was ever too young to wear black.

  25

  Late Sunday morning the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art were crawling with people. Tourists mostly, and locals who had come for a brief visit so they could brag about it to their friends and sound cultured.

  Inside, brunch was being served in the Egyptian wing for all the museum’s board members and their families. The Egyptian wing was a superb setting for nighttime parties—glittering gold and exotic, with the moonlight shining dramatically through its modern glass walls. But it was all wrong for brunch. Smoked salmon and eggs and mummified Egyptian Pharaohs really don’t mix. Plus, the morning sun was shining so brightly through the slanting glass walls, it made even the slightest hangover feel ten times worse.

  Who invented brunch anyway? The only decent place to be on Sunday mornings was in bed.

  The room was filled with large round tables and freshly scrubbed Upper-East-Siders. Eleanor Sinclaire, Cyrus Campbell, the Crenshaws, the Harrisons, the Braxtons, and their children were there, all seated around one table. Porsha was sitting between Cyrus and her mother, looking grumpy.

  Kaliq had been intermittently high, drunk, or passed out since Friday, and looked woozy and rumpled, as if he’d just woken up. Chanel was wearing some of the new clothes she’d bought shopping with her mother the day before, and she had a new
haircut, with soft layers framing her face. She looked even more beautiful than ever, but nervous and jumpy after drinking six cups of coffee. Only Jaylen seemed at ease, happily sipping his Bloody Mary.

  Cyrus sliced his salmon-and-leek omelet in half and plunked it on a pumpernickel bagel. “I’ve been craving eggs,” he said, biting into it hungrily. “You know when your body tells you you need something?” he said, to no one in particular. “Mine’s shouting, ‘Eggs, eggs, eggs’”

  And mine’s shouting, “Shut the fuck up,” Porsha thought. She pushed her plate toward him. “Here, have mine. I hate eggs.”

  Cyrus pushed her plate back. “No, you’re growing. You need that more than I do.”

  “That’s right, Porsha,” her mother agreed. “Eat your eggs. They’re good for you. They'll keep you strong for tennis.”

  “I hear eggs make your hair shiny,” Misty Harrison added.

  Porsha shook her head. “I don’t eat chicken abortions,” she said stubbornly. “They make me gag.”

  Jaylen reached across the table. “I’ll eat them, if you don’t want them.”

  “Oh, now, Jaylen,” Mrs. Harrison clucked. “Don’t be a pig.”

  “She said she didn’t want them,” he said. “Right, Porsh?”

  Porsha handed her plate over, careful not to look at Chanel or Kaliq, sitting on either side of Jaylen. But Chanel was busy cutting her omelet into little squares like Scrabble pieces. She had even began building tall towers of them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kaliq was watching Chanel. He was also watching Jaylen’s hands. Each time they slid underneath the tablecloth and out of view, Kaliq imagined them all over her legs.

  “Anyone see the Styles section of the Times today?” Cyrus asked, looking around the table.

  Chanel’s head shot up. Her picture with the Remi brothers. She’d forgotten all about it. She knew her parents and teachers probably wouldn't be thrilled to see her double-fisting martinis on a school day. She pursed her lips and slunk down in her chair, waiting for an inquisition from her parents and everyone else at the table.

  But it never came. It was part of their social code not to dwell on things that embarrassed them.

  “Pass me the cream, Kaliq darling?” Porsha’s mother said, while smiling at Chanel.

  And that was that.

  Kaliq’s mother cleared her throat. “How is the Kiss on the Lips party going, Porsha? Are you girls all ready?” she asked, swigging her cocktail.

  “Yes, we’re all set,” Porsha answered politely. “We finally got the invitations cleared up. And Kate Spade is sending over the gift bags after school on Thursday.”

  “I remember all the parties I used to organize,” Mrs. Crenshaw said, with a dreamy expression. “But the thing we always used to worry about most was would the boys show up.” She smiled at Kaliq and Jaylen. “We don’t have to worry about that with you two, do we?”

  “I’m all over it,” Jaylen said, scarfing Porsha’s omelet.

  “I’ll be there,” Kaliq added. He glanced at Porsha, who was staring at him now. Kaliq was wearing that same green cashmere sweater she had given him in Sun Valley. The one with the gold heart.

  “Excuse me,” Porsha said. Then she stood up abruptly and left the table.

  Kaliq followed her. “Porsha!” he called, weaving his way around the other tables, ignoring his friend Jeremy, who was waving to him from across the room. “Wait up.”

  Without turning around, Porsha began walking even faster, her heels clacking on the white marble floor. They reached the hallway to the restrooms.

  “Come on, Porsh. I’m sorry, alright? Can we please talk?” Kaliq called.

  She reached the door to the women’s room and turned around, pushing it halfway open with her rear end. “Just leave me the fuck alone, okay?” she said sharply, and went inside.

  Kaliq stood outside the door for a moment with his hands in his pockets, thinking. That morning, when he’d put on the green sweater Porsha had given him, he’d found a little gold heart sewn into the sleeve. He’d never noticed it before, but it was obvious she had put it there. For the first time ever, he realized that she really meant it when she’d said she loved him.

  It was pretty intense. And pretty flattering. And it kind of made him want her again. It wasn’t just any girl who’d sew a gold heart into your clothes. Or greet you naked at the door.

  He had that right.

  Chanel had to pee desperately, but she couldn’t face being in the bathroom at the same time as Porsha. After Porsha and Kaliq had been gone for five minutes though, she couldn’t hold it any longer. She stood up and headed for the ladies’ room.

  Familiar faces gazed up at Chanel as she passed their tables. A waitress offered her a glass of champagne but Chanel shook her head and hurried down the marble hall to the bathrooms. Quick, heavy footsteps smacked on the floor behind her, and she turned around. It was Cyrus.

  “Tell Porsha to hurry if she wants dessert, will you?” he told her.

  Chanel nodded and pushed open the door to the ladies’ room. Porsha was washing her hands. She looked up, staring daggers at Chanel’s reflection in the mirror over the sink.

  “Cyrus says to hurry if you want dessert,” Chanel said abruptly, walking into a stall, and banging the door shut. She pulled down her underwear and tried to pee, but she couldn’t, not with Porsha in the room.

  Chanel couldn’t believe herself. How many times in the past had she and Porsha gone to the bathroom together, talking and laughing while they peed? Too many times to count. And now Chanel felt so uptight in Porsha’s presence she couldn’t go? It was a total mindfuck.

  There was a quiet, awkward pause. Don’t you just hate awkward pauses?

  Then Chanel finally heard Porsha storming out the bathroom. The door swung shut and she relaxed and started to pee.

  Cyrus caught Kaliq in the men’s room. “You and Porsha have a fight?” he asked. He unzipped his pants and stood at the urinal.

  Lucky Kaliq.

  He shrugged as he washed his hands. “Kind of.”

  “Let me guess, it was about sex, right?” Cyrus asked.

  Kaliq blushed and pulled a paper towel out of the dispenser. “Well, sort of...” he said. He really didn’t want to get into it.

  Cyrus flushed the urinal and joined Kaliq at the sinks. He washed his hands and began fussing with his tie, which was bright pink with yellow lions’ heads on it.

  Very Versace, and very tacky.

  “The only thing couples really fight about is sex and money,” Cyrus observed.

  Kaliq just stood there with his hands in his pockets.

  “That’s all right, kid. I’m not going to give you a lecture or anything. This is my future stepdaughter we’re talking about. I’m sure as hell not going to tell you how to get into her pants.”

  Cyrus chuckled to himself and left the bathroom, leaving Kaliq to stare after him. He wondered if Porsha knew Cyrus was planning on marrying her mother.

  Kaliq turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. He studied himself in the mirror. He’d been up late last night with his boys, playing stupid drinking games to Catwoman. Every time they saw Halle Berry's nipples, they had to drink. He’d tried to drown his thoughts of Porsha and Chanel in as much liquor as he could swallow, and now he was paying for it. His caramel face was pale, there were brownish-purple circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow. He looked like shit. As soon as this damned brunch was over, he was heading into the park for a smoke in the sun. The perfect cure-all.

  But first he’d have to flirt with Porsha a little bit.

  If she would let him.

  Instead of going back to her table when she left the ladies’ room, Porsha wound her way across the room, looking for Alexis and Imani’s table.

  “Porsha! Over here!” Alexis called, patting the empty chair next to her. Their parents and friends were working the room, socializing, so the girls had the table to themselves.

  “Here,” I
mani said, handing Porsha a glass full of champagne and orange juice.

  “Thanks,” Porsha replied, taking an impatient sip.

  “Jeremy Scott just came over and tried to get us to come to the park with him,” Alexis said. She giggled. “He’s kind of cute, you know, in a weird kind of way.”

  Imani turned to Porsha, rolling her eyes. “Isn’t this boring? How’s your table?”

  “Don’t ask,” Porsha said. “Guess who I’m sitting with?”

  The other two girls sniggered; they didn’t have to guess.

  “Have you seen that billboard of her?” Imani asked Porsha.

  Porsha nodded and rolled her eyes.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m over the whole thing. I mean, isn’t it enough that we have to see that picture of her every time we use public transportation?” Imani went on.

  “What’s it supposed to be, anyway?” Alexis asked. “Her belly button?”

  Porsha still had no idea. “Who cares?”

  “She has no shame,” Imani ventured. “I actually feel kind of sorry for her.”

  “Me too,” Alexis agreed.

  “Well, don’t,” Porsha said fiercely.

  Kaliq pushed open the men’s room door at exactly the same time that Chanel pushed open the ladies’. Together, they walked down the hallway back to the table.

  “Kaliq,” she said, smoothing her new suede skirt over her legs. “Can you please explain why you’re not talking to me?”

  “I’m not not talking to you,” he said. “See, I’m talking to you right now.”

  “Barely,” Chanel replied. “What happened? What’s wrong? Did Porsha say something to you about me?”

  Instinctively, Kaliq reached into his jacket pocket and fingered the flask of whiskey that was hidden there. He looked down at the marble floor, avoiding Chanel’s beautiful sad eyes. “We should get back,” he said, speeding up.

  “Fine,” Chanel answered, trailing after him slowly. She had that sour salty taste in the back of her throat again, the taste of tears. She’d been holding them back for too many days now, and she could feel a tidal wave coming on. All of a sudden she would start sobbing, and she wouldn’t be able to stop.