When Kaliq and Chanel took their places at the table, Jaylen smirked at them knowingly. How was it? his face seemed to say. Chanel wanted to hit him. She ordered another cup of coffee and dumped four teaspoons of sugar in it and stirred and stirred, like she was trying to stir a hole through the cup, the saucer, the table, and the floor, burrowing her way into some old pharaoh’s tomb where she could cry and cry and no one would find her.
Kaliq ordered a Bloody Mary.
“Bottoms up!” Jaylen said cheerfully, banging his glass against Kaliq’s and taking a big gulp.
Porsha was back at the table. She had already devoured her crème brulée and was working on her mother’s. It was full of chicken abortions, but she didn’t care—she was going to throw it all up in a minute anyway.
“Hey Porsha,” Kaliq said softly, causing her to drop her spoon with a clatter. He smiled and leaned across the table. “That looks good,” he said. “Can I have a bite?”
Porsha’s hand fluttered nervously to her heart. Sexy Kaliq. Her Kaliq. God, she still wanted him—so, so much. But she wasn’t going to give up that easily. She had her pride.
Regaining her composure, she reached for her Bloody Mary and downed the entire drink in one big swallow. “You can have the rest,” she belched and pushed her chair back, and stood up. “Excuse me.”
Then she clacked away in her heels to stick her finger down her throat in the ladies’ room.
Some lady.
26
“Ugly, ugly, ugly,” Chanel remarked, wadding her new black dress into a ball and tossing it onto her bed.
A gorgeous Givenchy dress? Come on, how ugly could it be?
Each day that week, Chanel had dressed in her maroon uniform, gone to school, come home, watched some TV, eaten dinner, watched some more TV, and gone to sleep. She even did some homework. She spoke to no one except her parents and her teachers and maybe a passing greeting to the girls at school. She was beginning to feel only half-there, like the shadow of her former self, a girl people had known once, but couldn’t quite remember anymore. And for the first time in her entire life, she felt ugly and awkward. Her eyes and hair looked dull to her, and her beautiful smile and cool demeanor had been roped off until further notice.
Now it was Friday, the night of the Kiss on the Lips party. And the question she couldn’t answer: to go or not to go? It used to be, before fancy parties like this, Chanel and her friends would spend half the night getting dressed together—swilling gin and tonics, twerking in their underwear, trying on crazy outfits. But tonight Chanel rummaged through her closet alone.
There was the pair of jeans with the rip in the leg where she’d snagged them on a barbed-wire fence. There was the white satin dress she’d worn to the Christmas dance in ninth grade. Her brother’s old leather jacket. Her moldy tennis shoes that should have been thrown out two years ago. And what was this? A red wool sweater—Kaliq’s. Chanel held it to her face and smelled it. It smelled like her, not him.
Toward the back of the closet was a black velvet flapper dress that Chanel had bought with Porsha at a vintage store. It was a dress to wear while drinking and dancing and lounging around decoratively in a huge house full of people having a good time. It reminded Chanel of the good-time gal she’d been when she bought the dress—her old self, the girl she’d been up until two weeks ago. She let her robe drop to the floor and slipped the dress on over her head. Maybe it would give her back some of her power.
Barefoot, she padded into her parents’ dressing room, where they were getting ready for their own black-tie affair. “What do you think?” Chanel asked, doing a little twirl in front of them.
“Oh, Chanel, you’re not wearing that. Tell me you’re not,” her mother exclaimed, fastening a long rope of pearls around her neck.
“What’s wrong with it?” Chanel asked.
“It’s an old ratty thing,” Mrs. Crenshaw told her. “It’s just the sort of dress my grandmother was buried in.”
“What’s wrong with one of those outfits you bought with your mother last weekend?” Mr. Crenshaw suggested. “Didn’t you buy anything to wear to the party?”
“Of course she did,” Mrs. Crenshaw said. “She bought a lovely black dress.”
“That makes me look like a fat nun,” Chanel said grumpily. She put her hands on her hips and posed in front of her mother’s full-length mirror. “I like this dress. It’s got character.”
Her mother sighed disapprovingly. “Well, what’s Porsha wearing?” she asked.
Chanel stared at her mother and blinked. Under normal circumstances she would have known exactly what Porsha was wearing, down to her underwear. And Porsha would have insisted on going shoe shopping together, because if you bought a new dress, you had to have a pair of new shoes. Porsha loved shoes.
“Porsha told everyone to wear vintage,” she lied.
Her mother was about to respond when Chanel heard her phone ring in her bedroom. Was it Kaliq calling to apologize? Porsha? She raced down the hall in her bare feet, scrambling to pick it up. “Hello?” she said breathlessly.
“Yo, bitch. Sorry I haven’t called in a while.”
Chanel took a deep breath and sat down on her bed. It was Cairo, her brother.
“Hey,” she said.
“Saw you in the paper last Sunday. You are crazy, aren’t you?” Cairo laughed. “What did Mom say?”
“Nothing. It’s like I can do whatever I want now. Everyone thinks I’m like, ruined or something,” Chanel said, fumbling for the right words.
“That’s not true. Hey, what’s up? You sound sad.”
“Yeah.” Chanel's lower lip started to tremble. It wasn’t a tantrum brewing this time, but actual tears. “I sort of am.”
“How come? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. There’s this party I’m supposed to go to that everyone’s going to. You know how it is,” she began.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Cairo said gently.
Chanel propped her pillows against the headboard of her bed and wriggled under her comforter. She rested her head against the pillows and closed her eyes. “It’s just that no one’s talking to me anymore. I don’t even know why, but ever since I’ve been back it’s been like I have Ebola or something,” she explained. The tears began to fall from underneath her closed lids.
“What about Porsha and Kaliq? Those guys must be talking to you,” Cairo said. “They’re your best friends.”
“Not anymore,” Chanel said quietly. Tears were streaming freely down her face now. She picked up a pillow and dabbed it against her cheeks to ebb the flow.
“Well, you know what I say?” Cairo responded.
Chanel swallowed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “What?”
“Fuck 'em. Really. You don’t need them. You’re like, the coolest chick in the Western Hemisphere. Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em,” he said.
“Yeah,” Chanel replied dubiously. “But they’re my friends.”
“Not anymore. You just said so yourself. You can get new friends. I’m serious,” Cairo said. “You can’t let assholes turn you into an asshole. You just have to say fuck 'em.”
It was a perfect Cairoism. Chanel laughed, wiped her runny nose on a pillow, and threw it across the room. “Okay,” she said, sitting up. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right. That’s why I’m so hard to get a hold of. There’s a huge demand for people like me.”
“I miss you,” Chanel told him, chewing on her pinky nail.
“I miss you too,” Cairo said.
“Chanel? We’re leaving!” she heard her mother call from out in the hall.
“Okay, I better go,” she said. “Love you.”
“Bye.”
Chanel clicked off. On the end of her bed was the invitation to the Kiss on the Lips party that Bree had made for her. She snatched it up and tossed it in her wastepaper basket.
Cairo was right. She didn’t have to go to some stupid benefit just because ev
eryone else was going. They didn’t even want her there. Fuck 'em. She was free to do what she pleased. Besides, if she went to the party she and Porsha would just act petty towards each other again, and she was sort of tired of that game. Enough was enough. It was time to move on.
Chanel carried the phone over to her desk and shuffled through a pile of papers until she found the Emma Willard student directory, which had arrived in the mail on Monday. She read through the names. She wasn’t the only one skipping the party. She could find someone else to hang out with.
27
“Yo,” Yasmine said, picking up the phone. She was getting ready to go out with her sister and she was wearing a black bra, black jeans, and her Doc Martens. She didn’t have any clean black shirts left, and her sister was trying to convince her to wear a red one.
“Hi. Is this Yasmine Richards?” a girl’s voice said on the other end of the phone.
“Yes. Who’s this?” Yasmine asked, standing in front of her bedroom mirror and holding the red shirt up to her chest. She hadn’t worn any color but black in two years. Why should she start now?
“It’s Chanel.”
Yasmine stopped looking at herself and threw the shirt on her bed. “Oh,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Well,” Chanel started. “I totally understand why you wanted to cast Marjorie. You know, for your film? But you seem to really know what you’re doing, and I really need the extracurricular or Ms. Glos is going to kill me. So I thought I’d try to make my own movie.”
“Uh huh,” Yasmine replied, trying to figure out why Chanel Crenshaw of all people would be calling her up on a Friday night. Didn’t she have a ball to go to or something?
“So anyway, I was wondering if maybe you could help me. You know, like show me how to use the camera, and whatever. I mean, I really don’t know what I’m doing.” Chanel sighed. “I don’t know, maybe making a film is a dumb idea. It’s probably a lot harder than I think.”
“It’s not dumb,” Yasmine said, feeling kind of sorry for her despite herself. “I can show you some of the basic stuff.”
“Really?” she asked. She sounded thrilled. “I could bring it over now. Tonight. If that’s okay.”
“Sounds good.” Yasmine frowned down at the roll of flab above her waistband. She sucked her stomach in. “Although I’m going out pretty soon.”
“Okay.” Chanel paused. She didn’t seem very eager to hang up the phone.
“Hey, isn’t tonight that big party at Barney's or whatever the fuck they call that place?” Yasmine asked. “Aren’t you going?”
“Nah,” Chanel responded. “I wasn’t invited.”
Yasmine nodded, processing this information. Chanel Crenshaw wasn’t invited? Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.
“Well, do you want to come out with us tonight?” Yasmine offered before she could stop herself. “Me and my sister are going to a bar here in Williamsburg. Her band is playing. It’s sort of a headbanging slam-fest type thing. People always get hurt or arrested or trampled to death.”
“I’d love to!” Chanel said.
Yasmine gave her the address of The Five and Dime—the bar her sister was playing in—and hung up the phone. Life was so strange. One day you could be picking your nose and eating donuts, and the next day you could be hanging out with Chanel Crenshaw. Yasmine picked up the red shirt, pulled it on over her head, and looked in the mirror. She looked like a tulip. A tulip with a stubbly black head.
“Mekhi will like it,” her sister Ruby told her, standing in the doorway. She handed Yasmine a tube of dark red lipstick. Vamp.
“Well, Mekhi’s not coming out tonight,” Yasmine replied, smirking at her sister. She dabbed on the lipstick and rubbed her lips together. “He has to take his little sister to some fancy party.” She checked herself out in the mirror once more. The lipstick made her big hazel eyes look even bigger, and the shirt was kind of cool, in a loud, look-at-me way. She stuck out her chest and smiled invitingly at her reflection. Maybe I’ll get lucky, she thought. “I have a friend coming to meet us,” she informed her older sister.
“Boy or girl?” Ruby asked, turning around to check out her butt in the mirror.
“Girl.”
“Name?”
“Chanel Crenshaw,” Yasmine mumbled.
“The girl whose picture is all over town?” Ruby asked, clearly delighted.
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“Well, I bet she’s pretty cool,” Ruby said, spraying hairspray into her thick black bangs.
“Maybe,” Yasmine replied. “I guess we’ll find out.”
28
“What pretty flowers,” gushed Ashley Perry, a junior at Emma Willard. She kissed Porsha on both cheeks. “And what a cute dress!”
“Thanks,” Porsha said, looking down at the green satin sheath she was wearing. She had gotten her period that morning, but she had to wear extremely flimsy underwear with her dress. It made her nervous.
A waiter walked past with a tray of champagne. Porsha whisked a flute off his tray and downed it in a matter of seconds. It was her third so far.
“I love your shoes,” Porsha told her. Ashley was wearing black, high-heeled sandals that laced all the way up to her knees. They went perfectly with her short, black tutu dress and her super high ponytail. She looked like a ballerina on acid.
“I can’t wait for the gift bags,” Lauren Salmon squealed. “Kate Spade, right?”
“I heard they even put a glow-in-the-dark condom in them,” Rain Hoffstetter giggled. “Isn’t that cool?”
“Not that you’ll be using it or anything,” Porsha commented.
“How do you know?” Rain huffed.
“Porsha?” she heard someone say in a tremulous voice.
Porsha turned around to see little Bree Hargrove standing behind her, looking like a human Wonderbra in her black satin dress.
“Oh, hello,” Porsha said coolly. “Thanks again for doing those invitations. They really came out great.”
“Thanks for letting me do them,” Bree said. Her eyes darted around the huge room, which was throbbing with people and music and smoke. Black three-foot-high candles in tall glass beakers, trimmed with peacock feathers and fragrant white orchids, flickered everywhere. Bree had never been to anything this cool in her life. “God, I don’t know anyone here,” she said nervously.
“You don’t?” Porsha wondered if Bree thought she was going to talk to her all night.
“No. My brother Mekhi was supposed to come with me, but he didn’t really want to, so I just let him drop me off. Actually, I do know one person.”
“Oh,” said Porsha. “And who is that?”
“Chanel Crenshaw,” Bree chirped. “We're making a movie together. Have you seen her?”
Just then, a waitress brandished a platter of sushi under Porsha's nose. Porsha grabbed a chunky tuna roll and shoved it into her mouth. “Chanel's not coming,” she said, chewing hungrily.
Bree snagged two flutes of champagne from a waiter’s tray. She frowned as she handed one to Porsha. "Why not? I didn't think she’d miss the party.” She paused to take a tiny sip of champagne. Porsha looked sort of angry for some reason. Maybe she should stop talking before something bad happened.
Porsha tilted her head back, and poured the champagne down her throat. The sickly sweet fizziness of it didn’t exactly jive with the raw fish and seaweed she’d just eaten. And the worshipful way Bree talked about Chanel was making her nauseous. She burped queasily. “I’ll be right back,” she said, practically running for the powder room.
Bree polished off her champagne. Another waiter walked by with more full glasses, and she grabbed two. She’d drunk a little wine at home with her dad, but she’d never had champagne before. It tasted wonderful.
She carried the glasses over to the bottom step of a marble staircase and sat down. The party was so crowded, and although she recognized a lot of faces, there was no one she’d actually feel comfortable going up and talking to. But Chanel would be
there soon, she had to be.
Bree continued to drink, taking in the sparkling room and congratulating herself for making it there. This was exactly what she’d always wanted! She could even see everything from her spot on the marble staircase, including the door. She just wished her dress wasn’t so tight. It was starting to make her feel nauseous.
Two pigskin-loafered feet suddenly appeared beside her on the step.
“Well, hello,” a deep voice said, hovering above her.
Bree looked up. Her eyes settled on Jaylen Harrison's handsome butterscotch face and she sucked in her breath. He was one of the best looking boys she’d ever seen, and he was looking right at her.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Jaylen said, staring at Bree’s chest.
“To who?” Bree asked, frowning.
Jaylen just laughed and held out his hand. Porsha had sent him over there to talk to some chick, and he’d been skeptical. But not anymore. The cleavage on her! It was definitely his lucky night.
“I’m Jaylen. Would you like to dance?”
Bree hesitated and glanced at the door. Still no Chanel. Then she shifted her gaze back to Jaylen. She couldn’t believe a dashing and self-assured boy like him would want to dance with her. But she wasn’t wearing a sexy black dress just to sit on the steps all night. She stood up, feeling a little wobbly after all that champagne.
“Sure, let’s dance,” she slurred, falling against Jaylen’s muscular chest.
He slipped his arm around her waist and squeezed her tight. “Good girl,” he said, like he was talking to a dog.
Bree stumbled and swayed against Jaylen as they danced. This boy was so handsome, so debonair. The music was amazing. The party was amazing. This would definitely go down as one of the most memorable nights of her life.
Upper East Side #1 Page 17
