Kaliq was eternally grateful that Chanel was Chanel and not Porsha. Porsha would have wanted to dissect his behavior. She would have wanted to make a fuss or have an argument, while Chanel just flicked away the remains of her camisole and helped him off with his shirt. “You didn’t tell me you were all hot and bothered.”
Slightly.
Kaliq grabbed the other pristine white satin suits off their hooks and scattered them at their feet. “Remember when we were in the tub at my house, the summer before ninth grade?” he told her urgently, pressing his lips against her neck.
Chanel blushed again. How could she forget? It had been their third time hooking up. When they were both still counting. Just messing around though, not sex.
“Let’s do the same thing again,” Kaliq practically shouted. “Pretend all these white dresses are the bubbles!”
Whoa. Who ever said boys lack imagination?
“Yes!”
“Oh, yes!”
“Found something you like, dear?” Joan, ever the helpful Bergdorf sales matron, poked her head through the opening in the thick velvet curtain. She stared at the confusion of writhing limbs and white satin on the floor of the dressing room and then quickly withdrew, popping a few blood pressure pills before attending to a new shipment of sweaters. That sort of vulgar behavior was completely unladylike and therefore completely un-Bergdorf’s, but there wasn’t much she could do. Chanel Crenshaw had opened a Bergdorf’s charge account when she was seven and had been a loyal customer ever since. And of course it was nice to see that she was so comfortable in the store.
Kaliq began to cry as soon as it was over. The Viagra had worn off just in time. “I just can’t believe you’re going to be wearing one of these,” he murmured, extracting the skirt to one of the suits from underneath his bare ass.
“Well, I haven’t even tried it on yet.” Chanel let her head fall back, closing her eyes as Kaliq pressed his soggy cheek into her hair. It was sweet and sort of feminine of him to cry after they’d done it, and she suddenly realized she was the stronger, more “masculine” one in their relationship. At least they’d finally had sex. Now they were more authentically a couple.
That’s some couple.
“I already have this yellow Fendi dress I really like, anyway. Maybe I could bleach it or something,” she continued distractedly.
Then Kaliq’s mind began to wander, too, to his final history term paper.
Talk about multitasking!
He was writing about the origins of lacrosse, but would his history teacher, Mr. Knoeder, aka Mr. No Dick, think it was un-PC or whatever to write about an old Native American sport without really dealing with the politics of how the Indians had been treated in colonial times and all that? After all, Kaliq was going to Yale next year to play lacrosse, not to become some kind of lacrosse historian.
Obviously.
He propped himself up on one elbow and tugged a tissue out of his book bag. He’d grown accustomed to carrying tissues.
“Maybe we should have gone to Bendel’s to look for dresses instead of here,” Chanel mused, fingering the buttons on one of the suits.
Nah, their dressing rooms aren’t nearly as big.
15
Why Porsha had never been inside the Madison Avenue Oscar de la Renta boutique before was beyond her. The boutique was modeled after Mr. de la Renta’s home in the Dominican Republic, with imported Dominican coral stone walls, plaster palm trees, and a shoe display set up like a catwalk. The eveningwear was hung in a special lounge furnished with love seats from de la Renta’s furniture collection. Too bad Porsha wasn’t in the market for a black ball gown or she would have tackled Marcus and pulled him down on one of the love seats just to thank him for taking her there.
“Hello, Marthe,” Marcus greeted the amazingly beautiful Amazon-like Latina saleswoman.
At first Porsha’s hackles rose and she started to bare her fangs, but then she quickly realized that being jealous of anyone that impossibly tall, curvy, and gorgeous would be a total waste of time.
“Miss Sinclaire is looking for a gown in white,” Marcus explained, putting his arm around Porsha and totally erasing any jealous or irrational thoughts she’d ever had, or ever would have.
Wow, he is good.
Marthe nodded seriously and led them to a rack of white goddess gowns that would have looked stunning on Marthe, but that Porsha already knew would make her look like a fat runt with no real cleavage to speak of. She was about to protest, but Marcus—bless him—had already figured it out.
“What about one of those suits?” he asked, walking over to finger an exquisite white satin suit. The skirt was paired with a fitted white satin jacket that sported the most perfect white leather belt around the waist, fastened with a nifty white leather bow.
“You have the perfect figure for his suits,” Marthe declared in a wonderful, thick accent. She strode over to the rack and selected three of the suits for Porsha to try on. “And you are a size four, I am sure.”
“Maybe she is even a size two,” a deep male voice chimed in from behind them.
Porsha whirled around, her heart already aflutter at being mistaken for a size two, and nearly choked on her own saliva when she saw who it was. Standing just a few feet away from her was Oscar de la Renta himself, wearing a perfectly tailored gray suit, a starched white shirt, and a pink tie, his handsome bald head looking like it had been oiled with olive oil, his gray-black eyebrows smoldering. Porsha had seen him hundreds of times in the pages of fashion magazines and in the society columns but never in person. And for an old man, he was supremely sexy.
“Ah, Mr. de la Renta,” Marthe greeted her boss with a warm smile. “Miss Sinclaire will wear your suits well, no?”
Mr. de la Renta looked Porsha up and down and then flashed her an appreciative smile. “Very well,” he agreed. He turned to Marcus. “I missed your mother in Milan.”
“Hello, Uncle Oscar.” Marcus smiled broadly, stepped forward, and embraced the designer, hugging him affectionately. Porsha nearly threw up all over the beautiful floor.
Uncle Oscar!?
Marcus chuckled and then touched her arm. “He’s not really my uncle, but he may as well be. My mother won’t wear anything but the clothes Uncle Oscar makes for her.”
Who could blame her?
For once, Porsha was speechless. She felt exactly like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz when she wakes up after the Kansas cyclone and finds herself in Munchkinland, confronted by Glinda, the beautiful good witch. Except that Porsha wasn’t nearly as fat as Judy Garland. She was a size two!
“This way, Miss Sinclaire,” Marthe instructed, leading the way to a large green-curtained dressing room. She hung up four suits on the hooks inside—two in size four and two in size two.
“Don’t worry, I’ll fit her, Marthe,” Mr. de la Renta called after them. “Let me just find my measuring tape.”
Porsha was convinced she was dreaming, so whatever Mr. de la Renta said was fine with her. Marthe helped her into a size two skirt, which fit her like a dream, but as soon as she slipped her arms into the sleeves of the size two jacket, it was clear that the shoulders were going to be too tight. Marthe swapped it for the four, fastened the bow on the narrow leather belt, and then threw open the curtain.
Ta-da!
Porsha put her hands on her hips and strutted out of the dressing room like a runway model, swishing the pleated skirt from side to side, a huge grin plastered to her face. Why hadn’t she thought of wearing a suit like this before? Not that there were many suits like this one. It was elegant and tarty at the same time—totally chic, but most of all, unique.
“Blimey,” Marcus breathed. “You’re stunning.”
And so are you! Porsha almost blurted out. Not only was Lord Marcus breathtakingly handsome and royal, he was bosom buddies with the most amazing fashion designer in the universe.
Mr. de la Renta frowned and shook out his measuring tape. “The waist is all wrong,” he fretted, tugging on
Porsha’s jacket. “And the bodice is too high.” He undid the belt and unfastened the buttons on the jacket, yanking it roughly away from Porsha’s arms. “You may keep the skirt, darling. But please, may I make you a jacket that fits?”
May he?
Porsha wished Chanel or one of her other classmates would walk by and see her standing in the middle of the Oscar de la Renta boutique wearing only her shell pink bra and one of “Uncle Oscar’s” gorgeous pleated skirts, getting fitted for her graduation outfit by Oscar de la Renta himself. She glanced at Marcus, who grinned back at her and then silently placed his right hand over his heart, his green-hazel eyes shining with adoration.
Whoa.
Porsha had to force herself not to pee in her pants. She was so happy, she wasn’t sure if she could stand it.
“Hold still,” Mr. de la Renta instructed as he lifted her arms and slipped his measuring tape around her 34Bs. Maybe it was the fact that she was surrounded by beautiful men and beautiful clothes, but Porsha had the most ridiculous urge to lick his shiny, sexy bald head. She giggled, wobbling a little in her bare feet as he slid the measuring tape down to measure her hips. “Hold still!”
She squeezed her eyes shut and did her best not to move, truly believing that when she opened them again, she’d find she’d died and gone to heaven.
16
“Is this too brown?” Bree Hargrove asked her sometimes best friend, Elise Wells. She flicked a tiny makeup brush over the ridge of her adorable button nose a few times. “I’m trying to reduce the size of my nose.”
Like there isn’t another part of her body that actually needs reducing?
“What nose?” Elise demanded. “You barely even have a nose.” Elise had a small nose too, but it was pugged, which was almost worse than having a big honker, because she was tall and was forever concerned that people were staring up at her nose hairs and boogers.
Nose hairs and boogers, oh my!
It was last-period study hall and Bree had taken over the kindergarten bathroom, which was always free in the afternoons because the kindergartners went home at two. The stalls were narrower than those in the rest of the bathrooms in the school, and the toilets were only eighteen inches off the ground, with bright pink Hello Kitty toilet seats. Even the sinks were lower, with pink plastic Hello Kitty step stools in front of them and clear pink soap dispensers. All the Hello Kitty paraphernalia had been donated by a parent from Tokyo who happened to own Hello Kitty.
“Have you ever heard of a school called Bridgeport Academy?” Bree asked, blotting wine-colored blush onto her lips and then smearing them with Vaseline—another tip she’d learned on TV from some model/actress.
Elise shook her head. “Is it another boarding school?” She never said it out loud, but Elise hated the idea of Bree going off to boarding school and leaving her friendless and alone in Emma Willard's tenth grade. Who else would order takeout egg rolls with her and have them delivered right to the blue doors? Who else would tell her—gently—that her shirt would look better untucked?
“Well, I just heard they have this great new art program. Like, they have a real gallery that’s open to the public and the students curate the shows and everything. It sounds really cool. Of course, applications were due in, like, December, but I was thinking maybe I could send them some of my artwork…” Bree zipped up her makeup bag, watching herself in one of the small square over-the-sink mirrors as she talked. The model/actress was right. Her nose did look smaller. If only her hair weren’t so darned curly and unmanageable. “This is my last chance. If I don’t get in there, I’m going to have to go to public school.”
Heaven forbid!
“I just wish I hadn’t burned all those paintings…” she added wistfully and rubbed her lips together one last time.
Back when she’d been in love with Kaliq, Bree had painted his portrait in the style of each of her favorite painters: Matisse, Picasso, Chagall, Monet, Warhol, Pollock. The paintings had been vivid and full of emotion, as if she’d been trying to invoke love itself right there on the canvas. But when Kaliq had broken her heart, she’d set fire to them in a metal trash can out on the sidewalk in front of her building, burning every last one.
Elise bared her teeth at the mirror, trying to dig out the remains of the orange she’d eaten for lunch with her jagged, unpainted pinky nail. “Yeah, but would you really want to send a boarding school a whole bunch of paintings of some boy you don’t even talk to anymore?” she asked reasonably.
Well, at least they’d know I was capable of having a boyfriend, Bree retorted silently, suddenly irked by the preppiness of Elise’s collared blouse and the way her breath always smelled like yesterday’s egg rolls. Besides, Bridgeport sounded like the kind of school that was always evolving; not a party school per se, but a school that wasn’t afraid to try something new or take a risk on someone.
Like her, for instance?
Elise stopped picking her teeth and reached for Bree’s makeup bag, opening it without asking permission and unscrewing a tube of shimmering lilac-colored lipstick. She puckered her wide mouth and began generously smearing lipstick all over it.
When Bree really thought about it, she had taken a risk on Elise. First she had been friendless, and now she had a friend, whether she liked it or not.
“You’re right,” Bree mused, retrieving her makeup bag and spilling it into one of the small low sinks. “I should send Bridgeport something new anyway. Something I haven’t tried before.” She sorted through the assortment of eyeliners, shadows, and glosses, looking for her favorite eye shadow palette in its mint green plastic case. “Would you mind if I painted your portrait with this?” she asked her friend, holding up the palette and feeling suddenly inspired. She’d do Elise in eye shadow, her dad in red wine, and Mekhi in…instant coffee. It was innovative and meaningful, and way better than sending Bridgeport a tear sheet of her jog bra modeling debut or her first appearance on Page Six.
Not that Bree wasn’t still a party girl looking for a party school, but Chanel Crenshaw had taught her a very important lesson: Party girls are deeper and smarter than they first appear.
17
Yasmine was sitting on the floor in her living room wearing only the black SUGARDADDY DID HUNGARY T-shirt her sister, Ruby, had sent her from Budapest, a recent stop on her band’s tour, and a pair of somebody’s gray-and-white striped boxers—it was getting hard to keep them straight. She was trying to smoothly splice together Jaylen's horrifying and amusing interview, complete with pet snow monkey, with Alexis and Imani talking about how they’d decided to go to Rollins College in Florida together even though Imani had gotten into Princeton. Jaylen was wearing a tight wifebeater and was rubbing his beefy, unnaturally tan arms with dark tanning oil as he explained how he stayed golden brown all year. His monkey remained curled in his lap, blinking stupidly at the camera with its creepy light blue eyes.
“Normally I lie in the beds like once, maybe twice a week, or I use this amazing bronzing stuff to keep it nice and even all year round. I wonder, though—do you happen to know if there’s a good tanning salon near Fort Lee?”
Um, did he forget he was black?
Imani and Alexis were lying on their backs with their heads pressed together—Alexis's hair sleek and long and Imani's frizzy and short—smiling up at the camera like sisters who looked nothing alike.
“It’s like, how am I going to concentrate in, like, Intro to Law at Princeton, if my best friend in the whole world is down in Florida all by herself?” Imani demanded gaily, her lips so thoroughly glossed they were practically dripping.
“Besides, we’re both going to lose ten pounds this summer on the South Beach Diet so we can look sexy in our matching Prada bikinis, which we get to wear every single day!” Alexis shrieked excitedly, kicking her bare legs so hard, her uniform flipped up, revealing her sensible white cotton underwear.
The crazy thing was that the more Yasmine replayed the interviews, the more she realized she was actually going to miss
these people, freak shows that they were, and she wondered for their sake if there was any way to make them sound more intelligent and less insane.
Probably not. And what would be the fun of that anyway?
As she worked, she couldn’t help feeling distracted by the knowledge that just over the Williamsburg Bridge, the weirdo indie film director, Ken Mogul, was casting his first money making blockbuster venture, Breakfast at Fred’s, which would be filmed at Fred’s restaurant in Barneys department store on 60th and Madison. Months before, Ken Mogul had spotted a piece of Yasmine’s film footage that had accidentally been leaked on the Internet and tried to hire her to work with him. He’d wanted her to quit school and postpone college. Of course, Yasmine had said no. But now Ken Mogul was in New York, making a movie right under her nose. She was supposed to be driving around the country with Tahj this summer anyway, but…
It’s kind of tempting, huh?
Ken Mogul had finally realized no one was ever going to pay much attention to him until he made a big blockbuster movie, and so he was making one. He was also on a mission to discover the next hot young actress, so he was having an open call for his new feature film, Breakfast at Fred’s, at the restaurant of the same name in Barneys this Saturday. The movie was an urban remake of Breakfast at Tiffany’s with an entirely Black teenage cast.
Someone knocked on the front door. “Yeah?” Yasmine called out before getting up to see who it was. Tahj was supposed to come over after music practice and had promised to bring Thai food for dinner and help her study for her math exam. He was due any minute, but he had a key. She got up and peered through the little glass peephole in the door. There was no one there.
Hearing faint footsteps echoing on the stairs, she shifted her gaze and squinted, just making out Mekhi’s skinny shorts-clad ass as it disappeared up the grubby black steps on his way to the roof. She’d forgotten he still had a key, too.
Already Yasmine could feel the adrenaline rush she’d felt the last time Mekhi had come over. Was it being with him that made her feel this way, or was it the notion that Tahj could walk through the door at any moment and catch them? Did it even matter?
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