“So you’re coming to see me in the Les Best show tomorrow, right?” Chanel asked Porsha.
“You have to come,” Tahj chimed in. “I ain’t going to no fashion show by myself.” He’d agreed to go, but he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. Fashion meant fur and animal testing. It was against everything he stood for.
“Your name is on the list,” Chanel added.
Owen looked completely bemused by the whole conversation. Porsha let out an exasperated breath and stood up, turning away from Owen so he couldn’t hear what she said. “Do you guys mind leaving us alone?” she hissed in a low whisper. “We’re talking about Yale, and it’s pretty fucking important.”
Tahj put his arm around Chanel’s slim waist, pulling her away. “Excuse us,” he responded in a patronizing whisper, still looking smug in his retarded Harvard sweatshirt. “We’re headed down to that new club on Harrison, in case you want to catch us later.” They waltzed out of the bar, his dreadlocks bouncing and her silky hair fanned out over her shoulders, both looking so carefree and careless, it was infuriating.
“Sorry,” Porsha apologized, crossing her ankles daintily as she sat down again. “My friends can be pretty self-absorbed sometimes.”
“That’s all right.” Owen stared down into his bourbon, looking pensive as he stirred the ice cubes around in his glass. He looked up again. “Do you mind my asking what you did in your first Yale interview that was so awful you think they’re not going to let you in?”
Porsha took another sip of her wine, and then another. As soon as she explained what had happened, Owen was going to change his mind about her for sure. “I was having a bad day,” she confessed, the words tumbling out of her mouth as she frantically spun her ruby ring around and around on her finger. She didn’t want to go into the gory details of her botched interview, but if Owen was going to help her, he’d best know the truth. “I hadn’t gotten enough sleep. I was tired and nervous and I had to pee really badly. The interviewer said, ‘Tell me about yourself,’ and before I could really think about what I was saying, I told him all about how my dad was gay and my mom was going to marry this gross, fat, red-faced guy with an annoying teenage son with dreadlocks who you just had the pleasure of meeting. I told him my boyfriend, Kaliq, was ignoring me. Then he asked me what books I’d been reading lately and I couldn’t think of the title of a single book. I started to cry, and then, at the end of the interview, I kissed him.” Porsha sighed dramatically, snatched her cocktail napkin off the table, and began to shred it in her lap. “It was only on the cheek, but it was still totally inappropriate. I just wanted him to remember me. You know, you only get a few minutes to make an impression, but I guess I went a little overboard.” She looked up into Owen’s sympathetic eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Owen sipped his drink silently as he considered the information. “I’ll see what I can do,” he responded finally, but his voice sounded detached and skeptical now.
Porsha swallowed. It was pretty obvious he thought she was hopelessly stupid and insane. Oh, God. She was ruined.
Suddenly he broke into a devilish white-toothed grin. “I’m only joking, Porsha. That doesn’t sound so bad. It was probably the most memorable, entertaining interview Jason Anderson III has ever had. Face it, he’s not the most exciting guy in the world, and his job has got to be a little monotonous. I’m sure you were the highlight of the fall interview season.”
“So you don’t think it’s hopeless after all?” Porsha asked in her most tragic Dorothy-needs-your-help voice.
Owen took her small, ruby-ringed hand in his large one. “Not at all.” He cleared his throat. “Has anyone ever told you look you look a bit like Dorothy Dandridge?”
Porsha blushed from the roots of her hair down to her toenail cuticles. Owen seemed to know exactly the right things to say, and he looked so much like Harry, Dorothy's leading man, it made her dizzy. His thick gold wedding ring pressed into the bones on the back of her hand. She frowned down at it. If he was so married, what was he doing holding her hand?
Owen withdrew his hands and shifted in his seat, reading her mind. “Yes, I’m married, but we’re not together anymore.”
Porsha nodded hesitantly. It was really none of her business. Although if Harry—Owen—wanted to ask her out again, she wouldn’t exactly say no.
Ask her out again? Was she forgetting this wasn’t exactly a date?
“So, I’m sure you have to get back to your AP homework and all that.” Owen reached for her hand again as if he couldn’t bear to let her go. “But do you mind if I call you again sometime?”
Porsha hoped she looked exactly like Dorothy at this very moment. Yes, Owen was nearly her father’s age, a lawyer, a man, but she had never felt so strongly attracted to anyone in her life. Why fight it? It was her second semester of senior year. She’d worked hard throughout high school and was hopefully getting into Yale soon. Yes, seeing an older man was crazy and irresponsible, but it was about time she had a little fun.
“Sure.” She smiled and cocked her neatly plucked right eyebrow theatrically. “I’d like that.”
16
“Has everyone heard about the snowstorm? We’re supposed to get four feet by midnight!” Jackie Davis, Kaliq’s teen group facilitator at the Breakaway Rehabilitation Center, rubbed her hands together as if the idea of being snowed in with all these rich derelicts was her idea of a rocking good time.
After Kaliq had gotten busted in the park, his father and Saul Burns, the family lawyer, had come to fetch him at the precinct. Kaliq’s father, a stern, silver-haired navy captain who handled emergencies with crisp, efficient formality, had paid the fine of three thousand dollars and cosigned an agreement that Kaliq would immediately attend a drug rehabilitation program for a minimum of ten hours per week. That meant Kaliq was going to have to ride the train out to Greenwich, Connecticut, five days a week for counseling and group therapy.
“Just think of it as a job, son,” Saul Burns had tried to reassure him. “An after-school job.”
Captain Braxton hadn’t said anything. It was pretty clear that Kaliq had disappointed him beyond words. Luckily Kaliq’s mother had been in Monte Carlo visiting her twice-divorced sister. When Kaliq had relayed the sordid tale over the phone she’d shrieked and wept, smoked five cigarettes in rapid succession, and then broken her champagne glass. She was always a little dramatic. After all, she was French.
“All right. Let’s start out by going around the circle,” Jackie instructed in a sunny voice, as if this were the first day of nursery school. “Tell us your name and explain why you’re here. Keep it short, please.” She nodded at Kaliq to start, since he was sitting directly to her right.
Kaliq shifted uncomfortably in his chair. All the furniture at the posh Greenwich, Connecticut, rehab clinic was twentieth-century modern, to match the minimalist beige and white décor. The floor was cream-colored Italian marble, crisp white linen curtains covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the staff wore beige linen uniforms.
Rehab and college were actually very similar as far as status is concerned. There were the select few, which were filled with celebrities and the children of the very rich, and then there were the rest of them, which were filled with regular people. Getting into the best ones is highly competitive, but once you’re in, you’re in.
Kaliq may be in trouble, but his parents weren't about to send him to the rehab equivalent of community college.
“Okay. My name’s Kaliq Braxton,” he mumbled. He kicked at the legs of his chair and cleared his throat. “I got busted a few days ago buying weed in Central Park. That’s why I’m here.”
“Thank you, Kaliq,” Jackie interrupted. She smiled a frosty, brown-lipsticked smile and made a note on the pad in her clipboard. “We prefer it here at Breakaway if you call the substance in question by its true name. In your case, marijuana. If you can use its name consistently, you are making one more step toward your freedom from it.” She smiled at Kaliq once
more. “Would you like to try again?”
Kaliq glanced self-consciously at the other losers in the group. There were seven of them altogether, three guys and four girls, all staring at the floor, worrying about what they were going to say and looking just as uncomfortable as he felt.
“I’m Kaliq,” he repeated mechanically. “A narc caught me buying marijuana in the park. That’s why I’m here.” Across the circle a girl with luxurious hair that hung down almost to her waist, bloodred lips, and skin the color of sand gazed at him soulfully, like she was coked-up or something.
“Better,” Jackie said. “Next.” She nodded at the Japanese girl sitting next to Kaliq.
“My name is Hannah Koto and I took Ecstasy before school two weeks ago and got caught because I laid down on the floor to feel the rug in my trig class.”
Everybody laughed except for Jackie. “Thank you, Hannah, that was fine. Next.”
Kaliq tuned the next two people out, kind of digging on the way sand-girl was jiggling her foot, like she was keeping time to her own private concert. She was wearing light blue suede boots that looked like they’d never been worn outside.
Suddenly it was her turn. “My name is Gianna Spark. Everyone calls me Gia. I guess I’m here because I wasn’t very nice to my father before he croaked, so I have to wait until I turn eighteen before I can live my life the way I want to.”
The rest of the group tittered nervously. Jackie frowned. “Can you name the substance you were found abusing, Gianna?”
“Cocaine,” Gia answered, letting a curtain of dark hair fall over her face. “I sold my favorite show horse to buy fifty grams. It was in the papers and everything. New York Post, Thursday, February—”
“Thank you,” Jackie interrupted. “Next group member please.”
Still jiggling her foot, Gia glanced up through her hair and met Kaliq’s intrigued gaze with a mischievous bloodred smile.
“Bitch,” she mouthed, obviously referring to Jackie.
Kaliq grinned back and nodded his chin ever so slightly. Saul Burns had told him to treat rehab like an after-school job. Now he had a reason to work hard at it.
17
“You’re friends with that Chanel chick, right?” Sonny Webster, a lanky boy asked Jaylen Harrison as they sat in the second row, waiting for the Les Best show to begin on Friday night. Sonny was the son of Vivienne Webster, a British lingerie designer whose hip-hugging boy shorts were all the rage at the moment. Sonny and Jaylen had met in a bar last night and were already fast friends. They were even wearing matching moccasins—dark brown with neon green rubber soles. Very gay urban yachtsman, and extremely impractical for the unprecedented amount of snow that had been predicted for that evening.
Jaylen nodded. “She’s appearing naked. That’s what I heard, anyway.” He rubbed his newly toned stomach. “I can’t wait,” he added halfheartedly.
“See Jaylen talking to whatshisname, Vivienne Webster’s totally gay son?” Alexis Sullivan whispered to Imani Edwards. “I swear Jaylen’s into guys now.” She and Imani had made it to the front row, just as they’d set out to do. Not because of their completely unnecessary little volunteer effort hanging up NO LOITERING signs around Bryant Park but because Imani’s father, Arthur Edwards, was a very famous actor who’d complained that his daughter and her friend deserved to be in the front row this year because he’d already spent a fortune on Les Best’s entire spring-summer collection.
“What’s with that blonde hair? Sure, they sort of match his stretchy pastel shirts, but since when was he so...outré?” Imani whispered back.
“I also heard he was seen on Monday night dancing at a new guest-list-only club in Greenwich Village called Bubble, a very boys-only kind of scene, if you know what I mean. Could it be that since he’s already hit on every female in the city, he’s moved on to the males?”
“I think maybe he’s bi,” Imani whispered back. “He’s still wearing that gold monogrammed pinky ring.”
“Yeah,” noted Alexis. “Like that’s not totally gay.”
The huge white tent in Bryant Park was packed with fashion magazine editors, photographers, actresses, and socialites. Pop music pounded out of the speakers. Kim Kardashian sat in the front row on her cell phone arguing with her publicist and defending her decision to come to Les Best’s show instead of Jedediah Angel’s, which was happening downtown at exactly the same time.
“Look, there’s Flow from 45!” Sonny squealed. “He’s such a god. And there’s Kim Kardashian. My mom just got a huge order from her.”
As Jaylen gazed around the room, looking for more celebs and trying to be seen himself, he spotted Porsha about ten seats down in the third row. He blew her a kiss and she smirked back.
“Why are we here again?” Porsha yawned to Tahj. Even though she was completely annoyed with Chanel these days, she’d decided to come to the show to see if any of Les Best’s autumn collection suited her new image. Now that she was packed into the hot, crowded tent with its overly loud music and overwhelming perfume stench, she honestly couldn’t give two fucks about the clothes or that Chanel was the star of the show. It was all Chanel needed to prove that she really was the center of the universe.
Porsha already had the lowdown on Fashion Week: expect to freeze your ass off while trying to hail a cab. Expect to wait an hour for a show to start only to be told that the show is running another hour late. Expect to see lots of Botoxed, fake-tanned, anorexic girls trying not to notice that they all wore the same thing to the same show, and lots of gay men wearing more perfume than the girls. Expect to find out that those ugly-ass cargo pants with tapered legs are back in style again. Expect to be envious of the pouty-lipped, giraffe-legged models who actually look good in them. Expect to be annoyed by heavily made-up, fur-wearing women who bring their little Louis Vuitton collar–wearing dogs to the show in matching Louis Vuitton handbags. Expect to be dying for the after-party to start so you can smoke. Expect the after-parties to be truly mind-blowing. Expect not to remember what happened the morning after.
Porsha didn’t need to hang out with gorgeous models and camp fashion designers, anyway. She was going to Yale, the premier institution of higher learning in the entire world, and she was going to be asked out very soon by a classy older man. She felt extremely accomplished for someone so young. The noise and glitz of Fashion Week seemed less alluring now that her own life was so...stimulating. Plus they were seated in the third row, which was a major insult when she’d always been seated in the first or second row at every other show she’d ever been to.
“I’m honestly not sure why I’m here,” Tahj answered grumpily. He unzipped the bright green Les Best golfing jacket Chanel had given him and then zipped it up again. The jacket was made of stiff cotton canvas that made a loud, swishy sound when he moved. It was way too flashy for his taste, but he’d kept it on because Chanel had insisted that he couldn’t come to a fashion show and sit in the third row without wearing an article of the designer’s clothing. Tahj liked the buzzy vibe of the fashion show. It was like being at a concert. But it was just so bogus that they were all gathered there to look at... clothes.
Outside the snow had been falling steadily on the brightly lit city for over two hours. Porsha could just imagine how insane it was going to be to find a cab home later that night, with everyone totally underdressed, totally buzzed, and all thinking they deserved the next available ride. She kicked the back of Zoe Saldana's chair with her black patent leather flats and yawned for the fiftieth time. While her mouth was still stretched open in full yawn, the lights suddenly dimmed and the music stopped. The show was about to begin.
The collection being shown was for next fall, and the theme was Little Red Riding Hood. The stage was decorated like a fairy tale forest, with dark brown velvet tree trunks and low branches covered in glittering emerald green silk leaves. Fluttery flute music began to play, and suddenly Chanel skipped onstage wearing her gray pleated Willard uniform skirt, red suede over-the-knee boots, and a l
ittle red wool minicape tied at the neck. Under the cape she was wearing her own white baby tee with I LOVE TAHJ emblazoned in black across the chest. Her long silky hair was done in pigtails, and her face was free of makeup, except for her lips, which were painted a bright, thrilling red. Chanel walked the runway with easy confidence, flouncing her pleated uniform skirt, twirling around, and then pausing for the cameras like she’d been doing it for years.
Who is she? A hundred gossip-starved voices murmured at once. And who is Tahj?
Porsha rolled her eyes, even more bored and annoyed now that the show was under way.
“Who’s Tahj?” Sonny whined to Jaylen Harrison.
“The fuck if I know,” Jaylen answered back.
“Is that supposed to be Tahj Sorkin? You know, the television writer?” a bewildered fur-wearing Vogue editor asked her neighbor.
“Whoever he is, he’s one lucky dude,” said a photographer.
“I heard he dumped her. I guess she’s trying to win him back,” Imani snickered to Alexis.
“Well, don’t look now, but I think that’s him, and he looks pissed,” Alexis hissed back. Both girls turned to stare.
Chanel blew Tahj a kiss from the runway, but Tahj was too busy feeling hot and embarrassed about her T-shirt to even notice. He’d thought Chanel would be nervous walking the runway with all those supermodels. He’d thought she’d need his moral support, but it was pretty obvious she was having the time of her life. She probably got a thrill out of hearing everyone in the tent whispering her name. Not him. Sure, he wanted to be famous—a famous music star. Not famous for being the boy on Chanel’s I LOVE TAHJ T-shirt.
He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out his half-empty tin of herbal cigarettes. Before he could even open the tin, a security guard put his hand on his shoulder. “No smoking in the tents, sir.”
UPPER EAST SIDE Page 9
