Upper East Side #8

by Ashley Valentine

  Wonder why.

  When Porsha reached their pew, Eleanor leapt to her feet and blew her a kiss, snapping away with her phone while tears oozed down her overly rouged cheeks. “We’re so proud of you,” she gushed in a voice that was definitely louder than a whisper.

  Farther down the aisle Mrs. Crenshaw caught Porsha’s eye and beamed at her proudly, as if Porsha were her own daughter. Porsha shrugged her shoulders apologetically, although she was pretty sure Chanel’s mom hadn’t quite realized that Chanel was missing. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw. Even Cairo, Chanel’s fine older brother whom Porsha had almost lost her virginity to over spring break, was there.

  Porsha had never met Yasmine’s parents, but Yasmine had described them to her pretty well, and she didn’t see any gray-haired, inappropriately dressed hippies in the audience. She decided to keep her eyes on the long ponytail of the girl in front of her in line, who happened to be Rain Hoffstetter, whom she happened to kind of hate. All Porsha had to do was make her speech, which she’d memorized so thoroughly she could recite it in her sleep, and then get her diploma. Then she was going to have the best graduation party anyone had ever been to, have sex with Marcus, take a carriage ride in Central Park, and then he’d ask her to marry him…

  Her eyes misted over dreamily and she stepped on the back of Rain’s puffy white dress, nearly knocking her over.

  Focus, focus!

  One by one the girls filed in and seated themselves in the first three rows of pews. Thirty-four seniors in total, not counting the missing two. Mrs. McLean stood at the pulpit, waiting to address the outgoing class and their families. Porsha would give her speech directly afterwards, and then the guest speaker, “Auntie Lynn,” some old lady who’d basically founded the Girl Scouts or something, was supposed to talk. Auntie Lynn was already leaning on her metal walker in the front row, wearing a poo-brown pantsuit and hearing aids in both ears, looking sleepy and bored. After she spoke—or keeled over and died, whichever came first—Mrs. McLean would hand out the diplomas.

  Mrs. Weeds crashed through the last few chords of “Pomp and Circumstance.” “Let us pray,” Mrs. McLean directed somberly and bowed her head. The headmistress had become deeply religious after her husband, Randall, had died in a deep-sea fishing accident in the Florida Keys. At least, that was the story the girls told, along with the one about Mrs. McLean’s girlfriend, Vonda, who lived in Mrs. McLean’s country house up in Woodstock, New York, and drove a tractor. Mrs. McLean had the words Ride me, Vonda tattooed on her inner thigh. There was even a rumor that Vonda used to be Randall, but none of the girls knew for sure.

  “I heard Chanel and Kaliq eloped. That’s why she’s not here,” Rain whispered to Lauren. “She’s wearing her graduation dress as a wedding dress. Remember how we saw her trying on that veil in Vera Wang?” she added knowingly.

  “And I heard Yasmine is pregnant,” Laura replied. “She’s up in Vermont with her parents, dealing. I guess she’ll probably still get her diploma anyway.”

  Porsha tried unsuccessfully not to listen, but of course she was dying to know where Chanel and Yasmine were herself. Had Yasmine gone off somewhere with Tahj? Or Mekhi? Had Chanel and Kaliq really eloped? It was such a crazy day and such a crazy time in their lives, she wasn’t sure what to believe.

  “And now, I’m delighted to introduce Porsha Sinclaire, our senior class speaker,” Mrs. McLean announced. With a bob of her head, she stepped away from the podium to make way for Porsha. Porsha stood up, smoothed out her swishy, pleated white satin skirt, and climbed daintily over the pointy white-shoe-clad feet of her classmates, growing steadily more and more enraged as she overheard snatches of their whispers and mutterings.

  “Chanel is so not going to Yale next year.”

  “Yasmine is in L.A. Didn’t you hear? She’s making a movie with Terrance Howard.”

  Porsha mounted the steps to the podium—a vision of perfection with her Oscar-tailored satin suit, her smooth and shiny dark bob, her long-lashed bright eyes, her glittering coral-colored mouth, and her exquisite white shoes. She cleared her throat, trying to tear everyone’s attention away from the subject of the two missing girls.

  “Thank you,” she began. “First, I’d like to congratulate my class. We made it!” she cried with exaggerated glee. But none of her fucking classmates were even looking at her.

  Who cares? Who cares? Who cares? She was graduating today, she had an amazing new boyfriend who just happened to be an English lord, and in the fall she was off to Yale. That was all that mattered, she told herself as she continued her speech. And that she looked seriously sexy in her sleek Oscar de la Renta suit while all the other girls looked like Little Bo Beep in their frilly white dresses.

  “Now here we are, college bound, and we’re all still friends,” Porsha declared determinedly.

  Sure they are.

  26

  St. Jude’s didn’t bother renting out a church or lining their boys up in size order. They just held a small solemn ceremony in the school’s rooftop gym, wished the boys well, and then sent them on their way. The usually cavernous-looking gym seemed smaller now, filled as it was with folding chairs, mothers in Fendi jackets and over-the-knee linen skirts, and dads in Brooks Brothers flannel suits.

  Kaliq had been waiting for this day forever, and to mark the occasion, he and his buddies had gotten good and high at Charlie’s house beforehand. Then they’d put on their burgundy school ties and their navy blue school jackets with the dorky brass buttons that they’d never ever have to wear again, and walked over.

  He glanced over his shoulder at his parents, seated stiffly across the aisle and six rows back. Captain Braxton met his gaze and waved the graduation program angrily in front of him, stabbing at the list of graduates with his index finger, his eyebrows knitted together in outrage.

  Kaliq picked up the program where it had fallen between his tan suede lace-ups and studied it to see if he could figure out what his dad’s problem was. Forty-three boys’ names were printed neatly in two concise columns. The very first name on the list had a tiny asterisk next to it, and at the very bottom of the program, next to a matching tiny asterisk, was the note, Diploma pending. Kaliq squinted, wondering if his thoroughly baked brain was playing tricks on him, but there it was again, an asterisk next to his name—Kaliq William Braxton. *Diploma pending.

  Fuck!

  Father Mark, the ancient former pastor who’d been the St. Jude’s principal since at least 1947, hunkered over the podium set up in the front of the gym, his hands shaking as he began to read out the boys’ names. “Anthony Arthur Avuldsen!” the old principal croaked, impatiently waving the blue folder containing Anthony’s diploma over his head.

  Anthony lumbered over Kaliq’s khaki-clad knees with stoned concentration. Kaliq clapped his friend on his muscular back. “You made it,” he murmured weakly as the now-familiar choky about-to-cry feeling welled up in his throat.

  Of course he was next.

  “Kaliq William Braxton!”

  Kaliq stood up and walked to the front of the gym, keeping his eyes on the black and blue lines duct-taped to the floor for hoops and floor hockey. “Way to go, man,” a bunch of guys whispered sarcastically. Kaliq’s neck burned with shame. There was an asterisk next to his name.

  Father Mark handed him a square navy blue leather folder and shook his hand just like he was supposed to, without any acknowledgment of the asterisk. Kaliq turned around and walked back to his seat, nearly colliding with Coach Michaels, who was blocking the aisle in his frigging windbreaker. He grabbed Kaliq’s shirt sleeve and lunged forward to whisper in his ear. “I’ve got your number, boy,” he wheezed, then patted Kaliq roughly on the shoulder before letting him go.

  “Aw. Isn’t that sweet?” somebody’s mother cooed, mistaking Coach’s threat for a congratulatory embrace.

  Kaliq returned to his seat, breathless and sweaty.

  “Charles Cameron Dern!” Father Mark croaked hoarsely.

  “Bro,” Charl
ie murmured to Kaliq as he stumbled by, “what’s with the little star?”

  Kaliq was too perplexed to cry. He just sat there in high numbness, his father’s furious stare burning holes in his back as his fellow classmates collected their diplomas. The blue leather folder lay closed on his lap. He nudged it open with his thumb just a crack. Just as he’d suspected: The folder was empty.

  Oh, boy.

  Directly behind old Father Mark was the black metal door with the words PHYSICAL EDUCATION DEPARTMENT stenciled on it in white. Kaliq stared at the door, his glittering green eyes blinking in consternation. Did the asterisk have something to do with Coach’s Viagra?

  Finally, he’s catching on!

  27

  “So in conclusion, who needs college—at least, right now? I’ve got my whole life to get educated. Just like John Lennon of the Beatles once wrote, ‘Love is all you need. Love is all you need. Love is all you need.’”

  Mekhi surveyed the audience as he finished his speech, standing behind the wooden podium at the front of the stage. Riverside Prep’s informal graduation ceremony was held in the school auditorium and felt very much like one of the off-kilter plays the drama department put on twice a year. Behind him, Mekhi’s forty-one other classmates were seated on folding chairs, their mouths hanging open in shocked surprise. Even Larry, their desperate-to-be-down-with-the-boys senior homeroom teacher, kept chuckling nervously and glancing down at the thirty rows of faculty, parents, and relatives seated in the seats below them, as if he were wondering if he should explain that Mekhi’s speech was just another one of those goofy senior pranks he and his boyz were always pullin’.

  In the last row of seats, Rufus’s head was bowed, his curly hair tied with the festive orange ribbon that had come tied around the neck of the bottle of champagne he’d bought for them to drink later. Bree was holding his hand. She looked up, meeting Mekhi’s gaze across the rows of heads with her big brown eyes. You asshole, how could you do this to our sweet, well-meaning Dad? her expression seemed to say. In case you didn’t remember, education is everything to him.

  Mekhi remained onstage to receive the E. B. White Writing Award, Riverside Prep’s award for outstanding creative writing achievement. “Congratulations, son.” Their tall young principal, Dr. Nesbitt, handed him the rolled-up piece of parchment paper and shook his hand while a photographer snapped pictures. Dr. Nesbitt was a lower-school dad who’d been acting principal for a year and a half—ever since Mr. Coobie, the previous principal, had gotten ousted after attempting to teach human development to the fifth graders himself instead of hiring a professional.

  The applause was thin and sporadic as Mekhi accepted the award and returned to his seat. It was bound to be after a speech like that. Don’t listen to your teachers? Let love be your teacher and follow your heart? Love is all you need, love is all you need, love is all you need?

  Hello??!

  “And now for the diplomas,” Dr. Nesbitt announced, and the audience shifted eagerly in their seats.

  The names weren't alphabetized, so unfortunately Jaylen Harrison was first. For the occasion, Jaylen had dressed entirely in cream-colored linen, including his shoes, which were made by Prada and even had cream-colored soles. With his sleek blonde hair and handsome butterscotch face, he actually looked pretty sharp, like a Hollywood star from the 1940s. Jaylen tucked the brown-leather-bound diploma case under his arm, pulled a Cuban cigar out of his jacket pocket, and put it between his lips.

  He was about to turn and walk offstage when Dr. Nesbitt snatched the cigar out of his mouth, wiped it on his trousers, and stuck it in his own mouth. “I’m going to need something to chew on to get through all these names,” he quipped into the microphone, and the audience of parents responded with a roar of laughter. Dr. Nesbitt had been so popular since stepping in as principal, he’d had to temporarily shut down his psychiatric practice because the school had yet to find a new principal they liked nearly as much.

  “Nice speech, dickhead,” Jaylen hissed as he lumbered over Mekhi’s feet on his way back to his seat. “‘Follow your heart’? Does that mean we’re eloping to Vegas together after the ceremony?”

  Mekhi resisted the urge to grind his Wallabees into Jaylen’s nuts. He hadn’t thought about how his speech might sound to everyone else. All he knew was that he’d written it from the heart, with one person in mind: Yasmine.

  “Nice work,” Zeke Freedman sneered at Mekhi as he passed by on his way up to the stage. Zeke and Mekhi had been best buddies until Yasmine became Mekhi’s girlfriend and Mekhi sort of forgot about everything and everybody else. Zeke was kind of a computer geek and was extremely proud of the fact that he was going to MIT in the fall, so it wasn’t a stretch to guess that Mekhi’s speech had rubbed him the wrong way.

  Mekhi glanced back at his family again. Bree had her arm around their dad now, and Rufus’s shoulders were shaking with grief. The other parents probably thought Rufus was weeping with pride, but Mekhi knew better. Maybe he should have given his dad some warning and told him about not going to Evergreen next year.

  Yeah, maybe.

  “Mekhi Randall Hargrove,” Dr. Nesbitt called out.

  Mekhi squirmed in his seat. Hadn’t he used up enough front-of-stage time already? He dashed out of his third-row seat, grabbed the brown leather folder out of Dr. Nesbitt’s hand, and dashed back to his seat again, as if he were afraid his classmates were going to attack him with raw tomatoes or something.

  Bree had thought Mekhi’s graduation would be relatively painless and boring. She hadn’t even minded when her dad had changed her ticket to Prague to leave tomorrow morning instead of yesterday so she wouldn’t miss it. He’d get his diploma while she and Rufus whispered to each other and heckled his nerdy classmates. Then they’d go eat Chinese at Mekhi’s favorite place on Broadway, and later she’d drag Mekhi out to that party Porsha Sinclaire was rumored to be hosting at the Yale Club—a party that she was absolutely determined not to miss.

  Instead, their whole family was falling apart, and she was freaking out.

  She and Mekhi had basically stopped being nice to each other when Bree had spent the night in a Plaza Hotel room with the members of the Raves and then proceeded to record a song with them on the same day they fired Mekhi. At home it seemed like Mekhi could do no wrong. He was a published author and an A student. He’d had his pick of colleges to go to, including Brown, Colby, NYU, and Evergreen. Their dad boasted about his achievements all the time. Bree was an even better student, but ever since Mrs. McLean had requested that she not return to Willard next year, she’d felt like Mekhi’s naughty little sister. The fact that overprotective Rufus had actually agreed to let her go to boarding school made it even more clear: Mekhi was the good one, and she was the bad one.

  But now here she was, holding her dad’s hand and pretending to be totally calm and mentally stable while she was really wondering what was going to become of her next year. If only she could take Mekhi’s place at Evergreen. It was supposed to be arty—she’d probably do fine.

  Too bad they don’t have a tenth grade.

  28

  Even though she’d been totally two-timing him and a cross-country road trip really wasn’t her idea of a good time, Yasmine was ready for Tahj when he pulled up in his red Saab, right on time. She just couldn’t let him down, because if she did, she’d have to explain her outrageously heinous behavior, which she wasn’t prepared to do, because she honestly didn’t know why she’d behaved so heinously. Maybe she was just…

  Psycho?

  “I’ll be down in a sec!” she called when he buzzed from downstairs.

  “Nah, buzz me in, I’m coming up,” he responded.

  Yasmine should have known that something was up when he walked in and didn’t kiss her. Downstairs, Mookie, Tahj’s huge brown-and-white boxer, barked eagerly out of the Saab’s open sunroof. There were little cowrie shells in Tahj’s coarse black hair. All of a sudden Yasmine noticed that he’d grown it out into inch-long littl
e dreads all over his head. When had that happened?

  “Thank God Porsha’s graduating today too,” he remarked. “My dad was actually fine with going to her thing instead of mine.” He patted his pockets. “Um…” he began, his slanted eyes darting nervously around the room. “Hey, nice dress!”

  The white dress hung all by itself in the living room closet.

  Yasmine shrugged. “I’m returning it.”

  Tahj went over to the dress and pulled the hanger off the rail, twirling it around to get the full effect of the dress. “Put it on,” he suggested, holding it out to her.

  She shook her head. “I already tried it on a couple of times. Besides graduation, I don’t have anywhere else to wear it.”

  Tahj hung on to the dress. “Look,” he began. “I kind of don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come with me. First of all, with Mookie I kind of don’t have any more room in my car. Second of all, I’ve kind of known for a while that you and Mekhi have kind of been hanging out a lot.”

  Kind of.

  Yasmine crossed her arms over her chest, all of a sudden feeling a little too large or a little too stupid or a little too something she couldn’t quite place. He knew? But hadn’t she and Mekhi been totally discreet?

  You call having sex in broad daylight on a rooftop discreet?!

  “I’m sorry,” she managed to utter. It was all she could think of.

  “It’s okay. But you should have told me when I tried to give you this.” Tahj held out the corny silver love/friendship ring. “I found it in a drawer with the serving spoons.” He didn’t even look that upset, which made Yasmine feel even worse. Obviously she’d been paying so little attention that he’d had time to think about this and get over it. But aside from feeling terrible, she was also totally relieved.