Upper East Side #6

by Ashley Valentine

  "Why don't you use the twins' bathroom? It's just down that hall, on the right," Ruth said, coming over to take Porsha's place.

  "Ahh," Eleanor moaned as Ruth began to drum her fingers over her foot.

  The bathroom was large and modern, like the rest of the house, but it was cluttered with bottles of Clearasil and assorted hair products. On the floor was a silver plastic litter box that looked like it had been designed by Ruth's husband, and bits of cat litter were scattered all over the tiles. Porsha wasn't sure where Kitty Minky's litter box was located in her family's penthouse, but certainly not in her bathroom. How unsanitary!

  She stood at the sink and ran the tap, staring at her reflection in the toothpaste-spattered mirror. Her lips were turned down at the corners, and her small dark eyes were hard and angry-looking. Her short hair was growing more slowly than she would have liked and was in a stage of styleless droopiness. She lifted up her shirt and examined her body. Her chest looked small, and her stomach was a little soft after not playing tennis all winter. Not that she was fat or anything. But maybe if she'd gone out for the swim team and stayed in shape, Yale would have wanted her and she would have already had sex with Kaliq and her life would be great instead of—

  Suddenly the bathroom door swung open and Ruth's thirteen-year-old twins, a boy and a girl with braces and frizzy hair like their mother, stood staring at Porsha. The girl was wearing a gray pleated Emma Willard uniform. Porsha let her shirt drop.

  "We're looking for our cat," the girl said.

  "Are you a lesbian?" the boy asked. The twins giggled in unison. "Because if you are, then how did you get pregnant?" continued the boy.

  Excuse me?

  Porsha reached for the door and slammed it in their faces, careful to lock it this time. Then she flipped the lid down on the toilet seat and sat down. A worn copy of Jane Eyre was lying on the floor and she picked it up. Porsha had read the book twice. Once on her own when she was eleven and once in ninth-grade English. Now she reread the first few pages, feeling very much like Jane herself—locked away, tortured by her family, her great intelligence and sensitivity completely underappreciated. If only the bathroom had some sort of escape route—a trapdoor to the street. She would take a cab straight to the airport, catch a plane to England or even Australia, change her name, get a job as a waitress or a governess, fall in love with her boss just like Jane, get married, and live happily ever after.

  But first she had to wash away the disgusting odor of pregnant woman foot that seemed to have permeated her skin. Without stopping to think about what she was doing, Porsha closed the book, stood up, and turned the tap on in the bath. She emptied a capful of cucumber body wash into the water, took off her clothes, and got in. There.

  Closing her eyes, she envisioned herself lying on an Australian beach in that Burberry bikini she'd almost bought last weekend, watching her sexy husband surf the Pacific. At sunset they'd sail out into the horizon in their yacht, drink champagne and eat oysters, and then have sex right on deck, his green eyes glittering in the moonlight.

  Green eyes...

  Porsha sat up in the tub. Kaliq! She didn't need to run away after all, not when she still had Kaliq. Her cell phone was sticking out of the back pocket of her jeans where they lay crumpled on the floor next to the tub. She grabbed it and dialed Kaliq.

  "Wassup?" he asked, sounding high.

  "Will you still love me even if I don't go to Yale?" Porsha purred as she lay back in the bubbles.

  "Course I will."

  "Do you think I'm fat and out of shape?" she asked, kicking one naked foot out of the water and then the other.

  "Porsha," Kaliq scolded her. "You're the opposite of fat."

  Porsha smiled and closed her eyes. She and Kaliq had had this conversation a thousand times before, but each time it always made her feel better about herself.

  “Hey, are you taking a bath or something?” he asked.

  "Uh-huh," Porsha opened her eyes and reached for the bottle of body wash. "I wish you were here."

  "I could come over," Kaliq offered hopefully.

  If only she were actually home in her own bathtub.

  "Sweetheart?" Eleanor Sinclaire's voice called through the door. "Are you okay in there?"

  "I'm fine!" Porsha yelled back. I'm just lying in my mother's birth class instructor's tub, having phone sex with my boyfriend.

  "Well, don't forget there are a lot of pregnant women out here with overactive bladders!"

  Thanks for the reminder.

  "Damn, I gotta go," Kaliq said. "All these college lax coaches are calling me. They're coming down this weekend to watch me play."

  Notice that he was careful not to mention which colleges.

  "Well, I'm going down to Georgetown early tomorrow morning, but I'll call you from there, okay?" Porsha clicked off and, with a rush of water, rose to her feet and dried herself off with one of the fluffy white towels she found folded in a stack on a shelf beside the tub. Then she pulled her clothes back on and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Her reflection in the mirror looked more vibrant now, and she smelled fresh and cucumber-clean. Maybe it was the bath, or the pick-me-up talk with Kaliq, but she felt like a whole new person.

  Outside in the hallway, pregnant women were milling around eating cheese and olive pizzettes delivered from Eli's. Porsha lingered by the door, waiting impatiently as Eleanor chatted with Ruth about her husband's refrigerator designs.

  Ruth's twin daughter, the one in the Emma Willard uniform, walked over, carrying a white Himalayan cat. "This is Jasmine," the girl said.

  Porsha smiled tightly and tightened the posts on her diamond stud earrings.

  "Are you having a nervous breakdown?" the girl persisted. "I heard you had to drop out of school."

  It was no secret how fast rumors flew around school and beyond. By Monday the braces-wearing, frizzy-haired wretch would have told every soul who would listen how Porsha Sinclaire was looking at her chest in the bathroom at her house, or probably much worse. In a way Porsha was actually looking forward to this weekend's trip to Georgetown. At least no one would know her, and she would be treated with the decency and respect she deserved.

  "Mom!" she called harshly. "It's time to go."

  And, just as Porsha predicted, as soon as the door closed behind her, that evil twin raced to her room to log onto the computer, and the IMs began to fly.

  13

  Chanel stepped out of her Logan Airport limo and tripped down the flagstone path to the Harvard admissions office, her body buzzing with caffeine from the huge Starbucks cappuccino she'd drunk during the flight. It was a sunny spring morning—cooler than in New York—and Cambridge was bustling with street vendors and hip bohemian-looking students, hanging out on benches and drinking coffee. She wondered how Harvard had earned its serious and intimidating reputation when it seemed so relaxed and unintimidating.

  Her tour guide was waiting for her just inside the door. Tall and dark skinned, with silver-wire-rimmed spectacles—the perfect geekily handsome intellectual. "I'm Drew," he said, holding out his hand.

  "I already love it here," Chanel gushed as she shook his hand. She had a tendency to gush when she was nervous, even though she wasn't exactly nervous, just over-caffeinated. One of the reasons Chanel couldn't wait to go to college next year, no matter where she got in, was because she got to live on her own—without parents or nannies or housekeepers or bodyguards or anyone watching over her. Even if she had her own wing or floor, or even her own kitchen or whatever at home, the point was, she wanted out.

  "I can give you the standard two hour tour, or maybe it would be better if you tell me what you want to see," Drew offered. His hair was cut clean and short, and he was wearing a beige cable-knit sweater and olive green khakis that were so perfectly creased, Chanel could picture him getting the package from J. Crew that his mom had had sent for him and putting the clothes on right out of the box. She liked it when boys paid attention to fashion, but it was almost more appe
aling when a boy looked good despite his nerdy mom-just-bought-me-this outfit.

  "I'd really like to see your room," she said, without even stopping to think about how it sounded. Actually, it was true. She really did want to see what the dorms were like.

  Drew blushed and Chanel blushed back at him. And all of a sudden it hit her—she'd gone to an all-girls school since first grade. All girls for twelve years straight. College was going to be full of boys. Boys all day, every day. Boys, boys, boys.

  Whoopee!

  "Are you hungry?" Drew asked. "The dining hall in my dorm actually has pretty decent food. I could take you through one of the bigger libraries and then we could walk over and get lunch and check out the dorm rooms. It's a coed dorm, so..." He blushed again and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

  "Perfect," Chanel breathed.

  Drew led her out of the admissions office and down a long walkway that cut through Harvard Yard. The greener-than-green grass was crawling with students playing Frisbee or reading books. A professor corrected papers under a maple tree.

  "This is Widener, the humanities library," Drew said as Chanel followed him up the building's stately steps. "I'm a music-chemistry double major, so I don't really spend much time in here," he explained, holding the door open for her. They stepped inside the quiet, cool space, and Drew pointed to a locked glass case standing against the far wall. "They have a pretty amazing collection of original manuscripts here. You know, ancient Greek papyri and muff."

  Papyri?

  Drew stood patiently with his hands in the pockets of his neatly creased khakis, waiting for her to ask questions about the library. But Chanel was too absorbed in him. She'd already decided Drew was cute, but a boy who used words like papyri with a completely straight face was completely irresistible!

  She twirled a strand of silky hair around her finger and stared up at the library's ceiling as if fascinated by its design. "You're a music major? Do you play an instrument?"

  Drew looked down at the floor and muttered something inaudible.

  Chanel took a step closer. "Sorry?"

  He cleared his throat. "The xylophone. I play xylophone, in the orchestra."

  And she'd thought the xylophone was just a toy instrument invented so there'd be at least one English word that began with the letter x! Chanel clapped her hands together in delight. "Can I hear you play?"

  Drew smiled hesitantly. "I have practice at three, but I'm only just learning. You probably wouldn't want to stick around—"

  Chanel had ordered a car to drive her out to Providence that afternoon to check out Brown. Her brother, Cairo, went there and was going to take her around campus for once instead of just getting her drunk with his roommates in his off-campus house. Still, it was only Cairo. He'd understand if she was late.

  When you're seventeen and beautiful, you can always be late.

  "Of course I'll stick around." She took hold of Drew's arm and pulled him out the library door. "Come on, I'm starving!"

  Who needed libraries full of papyri when Harvard had so much more to offer?

  14

  "My name is Rebecca Reily and I'll be your host this weekend. Here's a name tag and a map and a whistle. Please wear the name tag and keep the map and whistle with you at all times."

  Porsha stared at the short, perky, fake-blond girl in front of her. She had nothing against perkiness per se. She herself even resorted to perkiness when she was trying to get a designer like Kate Spade to donate the gift bags for one of the big benefit parties she chaired, or when she needed a teacher to let her out early for a Chloe sample sale. But genuine perkiness among your peers was just plain sad and desperate.

  "A whistle?" Porsha repeated. The entire plane ride down she'd been building this trip up as a big ego boost. She'd spend the day with some geeky tour guide who'd make her feel sophisticated and intelligent in comparison. Later on she'd get a room at the DC Ritz-Carlton or some equally grand hotel and spend the night soaking in her own private hot tub, drinking champagne and indulging in more phone sex with Kaliq.

  "Georgetown gives all its women students whistles. We have a very strong women's advocacy group here. And there have been no campus rapes or stalkings in the past two years!" Rebecca announced in her southern twang. She beamed up at Porsha through thick, blue-mascaraed lashes. Her bleach-blond hair smelled of hair products, and her white Keds were so new, they looked like they'd never been worn outside the mall.

  Porsha flicked a stray hair off the sleeve of her new suit jacket. “I need to book a hotel room for tonight—”

  Rebecca grabbed her arm. "Don't be silly, sugar. You're staying with me and my girls. We have a quad that's just deeelish, and you have absolutely the bestest ever timing, because tonight we're having our girls-only Southern Belles partay!"

  Hello? Since when was girls-only anyone's idea of a partay?

  "Great," Porsha responded weakly. If only she'd thought to book a room in advance. She looked around at the other visitors being greeted by their hosts. Everyone, hosts and visitors alike, looked strangely similar to Rebecca. Like they'd all grown up in suburban mall towns where everyone was Caucasian and happy and clean and uncomplicated. Porsha felt like a pixie-cutted, stylishly dressed, cynical and jaded alien among them.

  Actually, it was just the sort of ego boost she'd been looking forward to. See, I am different and smarter and better than these girls, she told herself. She suddenly wondered what her life would have been like if she went to a different school in a different town and had a completely different set of friends. She'd probably look completely different than she did now; talk different, dress differently. She'd do different after-school activities, listen to different music.

  Well, that's exactly what was happening with this whole which-college-should-l-go-to? thing. Of course, her parents and teachers would tell her it didn't matter where you went, it's what you made of it. Porsha was sure that was partly true. But if she wasn't going to fit in at a certain school because everyone there wore Levis instead of Blue Cults or thought carrying your poodle puppy around with you everywhere in a Burberry doggie tote was pretentious, she wanted to know now.

  Not that the jeans or the dog make the girl. Well...actually, they sort of do.

  "Come on, let's start the tour!" Rebecca grabbed Porsha's hand like they were four years old and pulled her out of the admissions house.

  Sun glistened on the Potomac River, and the spires of the university's ancient chapel towered majestically from the hilltop. Porsha had to admit that the old Georgetown University campus was beautiful, and the town of Georgetown was way nicer and cleaner than New Haven. But it definitely lacked the unique, we're-the-smartest-kids-in-the-class air of Yale.

  "Up ahead on your left you'll see a big modern structure. That's our architectural award-winning Lauinger Library, with the largest collection of..." Rebecca walked backwards ahead of Porsha down a flagstone walkway, burbling boring facts about Georgetown.

  Porsha ignored her, keeping her eyes focused on the human traffic crisscrossing the main campus. Boys and girls dressed head-to-toe in Brooks Brothers or Ann Taylor marched purposefully toward the library, their bags bulging with books. Porsha took schoolwork seriously, but it was Saturday. Didn't these people have anything better to do?

  Rebecca stopped suddenly and pressed her palm against her forehead. "Sugar, I am so hungover. This walking backwards thing is getting me so dizzy, I might puke!"

  Porsha wanted to say something about how the entire situation made her want to puke, but then again, so did most situations. "Why don't we just sit down somewhere and have a...coffee," she suggested, pleased with how normal and friendly she sounded, when what she could really use was a very strong vodka martini.

  Rebecca threw her arms around Porsha's neck. "A girl after my own heart!" she squealed. "I'm absolutely addicted to caramel macchiatos, aren't you?"

  Yuck.

  It was only two o'clock. Coffee would have to do. "Is there someplace close by?"

&
nbsp; Rebecca slipped her arm through Porsha's. "There sure is!" She whipped out her pink sparkly iPhone. "Just give me a minute to round up the girls. Why not get our Southern Belles partay started earlay?"

  Porsha grimaced and fingered the cell phone in her mint green Birkin bag. Already she was homesick for Kaliq. If only she'd borrowed the silver flask he carried around, then she'd at least have a memento of him, and a shot of vodka for her macchiato.

  Rebecca looked up from the little telethon she was having with her friends. She held her hand over the mouthpiece. "They're in a bar already," she whispered, her cheeks flushing a perky, embarrassed pink. "It's down on M Street. Do you mind if we meet them there?"

  "Okay," Porsha agreed readily.

  Give her a cocktail and a cigarette and she could be happy in almost any company.

  15

  "Bro, you never told me the coaches were all chicks," Jeremy Scott, one of Kaliq's best buddies, hissed as he sprinted past Kaliq to retrieve a long pass.

  Kaliq twirled his lacrosse stick overhead and waited until Jeremy had overshot before stepping in to catch the pass himself. It was a show-off kind of maneuver but it was effective. Besides, he was supposed to be showing off. He tossed the ball back to Jeremy, demonstrating his teamwork skills the way Coach Michaels had asked him to. Then the two boys ran back to center field together.

  "The white one's the Yale coach. The black one is the Brown admissions chick who interviewed me," Kaliq explained. "The other coach couldn't make it because of a game."

  "But dude, they're all chicks!" Jeremy said again, his curly hair flapping around in the breeze as he jogged away. "No wonder you got in!"

  Kaliq grinned to himself as he wiped the sweat from his brow. It might have been nice to believe he was completely oblivious to his perfection, but the truth was, he knew exactly how fine he was. He just wasn't an asshole about it.

  From the sidelines the two women watched him intently. Then Coach Michaels blew the whistle. "Gotta quit early today, boys!" the coach shouted, spitting into the grass. "Wife and I are celebrating our fortieth anniversary tonight." He tucked his gnarled hands into his windbreaker and nodded at Kaliq before spitting into the grasss once more. "Come on, Braxton."