Upper East Side #6

by Ashley Valentine

  "Wow," Yasmine remarked. Tiphany was probably the most interesting, upbeat person she'd ever met, and she could feel herself developing a crush on her. Not in a sexual way, but in a sort of I-wish-I-were-more-like-you way.

  "But if you could do it all over again, would you have gone to college?" Mekhi called over from the bedroom doorway. He was wearing a faded red T-shirt and white boxers and his hair was wild and matted.

  "Hey, sleepyhead," Tiphany replied, ignoring the question.

  "Hey, sleepyhead," Yasmine said in exactly the same tone of voice. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine." Mekhi tugged on his shirt uncomfortably. "Did you guys just wake up?"

  "We've been up for a while," Yasmine answered vaguely.

  Tiphany popped her egg out of the microwave, slid it onto her toast, and carried her plate into the living room. There was a lump under the sheet on Ruby's futon where Tooter the ferret was curled up, sleeping. Tiphany put one of her own CDs in the stereo and turned up the volume. It was something loud and harsh that Mekhi had never heard before. Definitely not morning music.

  Tiphany danced over to Yasmine and took her hands, and to Mekhi's amazement Yasmine started hopping around and wiggling her butt in time to the music.

  Hello? Yasmine didn't dance. Ever. What had Tiphany done to her?

  While the girls continued to danced, Tooter slithered out from underneath the covers and trotted over to Mekhi's new blue-and-gold vintage Pumas, which were parked by the front door. He sniffed them a few times, then turned around, squatted down, and began to pee.

  "Hey!" Mekhi cried, dashing over to rescue his shoes.

  "Tooter?" Tiphany danced over. "You're okay, baby. Come to Mommy." She squatted down and held out her arms. "Don't be scared."

  Yasmine joined them, her body warm from dancing. "Oh, Mekhi. Did you scare him?"

  "No, I didn't scare him." Mekhi flapped his hand angrily at the ferret. "Go to Mommy, little fucker," he added under his breath.

  In his head, he'd already started a new poem. It was called "Killing Tooter."

  27

  "Line up, girls. In size order, please!" barked Andre, the photographer's assistant.

  It was eleven o'clock on Sunday morning and Bree had arrived at the studio over an hour ago after waking up at six and spending three hours getting ready. She'd taken a shower, blow-dried her hair, and applied her makeup—three times. The first time she looked overdone, the second time she just looked freakish, and the third time she'd sensibly decided to just let herself air dry and go without makeup, since that was the stylist's job anyway.

  The shoot was in the same studio as the go-see. This time the white screen and red velvet chaise were gone, replaced by a giant piece of artificial grass covering the floor and a volleyball net set up over the it.

  When Bree arrived, she discovered she wasn't the only "model" being photographed. There were five other girls, and all of them looked...like models. The stylist asked her to change into a royal blue Nike jog bra and matching shorts. Then she combed Bree's hair back into a ponytail and brushed on some clear lip gloss. Bree felt more ready for gym class than a photo shoot, but then she noticed that all the other models were dressed the same way.

  "From a line in front of the net. Hurry up, girls. This isn't rocket science," Andre complained.

  Since she was usually the shortest girl in any group, Bree stood at the end of the line in front of the volleyball net next to a flat-chested girl who was only few inches taller than she was. Then Andre came over and grabbed her arm, dragging her down to the other end of the line next to a tall girl with boobs that were almost as big as hers. He jostled some of the others girls in line.

  "That'll do," the photographer called out, striding up on his stocky legs. He stroked his goatee, surveying the lineup. "Try putting your arms around each other's waists."

  The girls did as they were told.

  "Nah, too cheerleader. Step away from each other and put your hands on your hips. Legs wide." He held his camera up and peered through it. "Shoulders back, chins up, that's it," he instructed, snapping away.

  Bree did her best to look brave and strong and challenging, the way she thought a Nike model should look. She didn't have the musculature of a rock climber or a marathon runner, but neither did the other girls.

  "What is this for, anyway?" she whispered to the girl next to her.

  "Some teen magazine," the girl answered. "What kind of expression do you want us to make?" the same girl called out to the photographer.

  "Doesn't matter." The photographer climbed onto a step-stool and continued to photograph them.

  Bree relaxed her challenging-Nike-model face. What did he mean it didn't matter? She closed her eyes and stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout, testing him.

  "Nice work, short girl!" the photographer called out.

  Bree opened her eyes, completely confused. She wrinkled her nose and then she stuck out her tongue.

  "Excellent!" the photographer responded.

  Bree giggled. Actually, it was a lot more fun than trying to look alluring and pretty. At least she could show off her personality. And for the first time ever in front of a camera—in a bra, no less—she completely forgot about her boobs.

  And that in itself was a sort of miracle.

  28

  "How's it hanging, coach?" Kaliq drawled as he joined the Yale coach at her table at Sarabeth's a full forty-five minutes late. "Sorry I'm late. I'm still wasted from last night." He'd smoked two more joints since the one with Brittany in the hotel room. Now his eyes were mere slits, and he couldn't stop smiling.

  Sarabeth's was bright and flowery and packed with brunching Upper East Side moms with babies and dads reading the Sunday papers. The whole place smelled like maple syrup.

  "Have a seat." The coach pointed at the chair opposite her. Her mane of blond hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she was wearing red lipstick and a sort of silvery tank top. She looked like Scarlett Johansson's long-lost older sister. "Nice hat," she added with a smile.

  Kaliq was wearing one of the Yale baseball hats she'd given him. "I've got the jockstrap on, too," he told her, trying desperately to maintain a straight face. He was getting kind of good at acting like an asshole. He grabbed a muffin from out of the basket on the table and shoved the entire thing into his mouth. "I'm fucking starving," he added with his mouth full.

  "Eat as much as you like," the coach told him generously. "I'm used to being around a team of hungry boys."

  "Humphft," Kaliq grunted. This was going to be harder than he thought. He grabbed an entire pat of butter between his fingers and rammed it into his mouth with the muffin. "So tell me why I should want to play with those pussies, anyway."

  The coach sipped her mimosa. "You're the type of guy who likes a challenge—I can tell. Otherwise you get bored. My job is to kick your ass, and I promise you, I'll do it."

  Kaliq swallowed the lump of butter. No wonder Yale's team was doing so well this year. He had to admit, he was impressed. Convincing him to go to Yale was the coach's mission—the whole reason she'd come down to New York in the first place. Maybe he was taking the wrong approach.

  He wiped his mouth and gazed into the coach's blue eyes with his irresistible green ones. "Has anyone ever told you that you're sexy as hell?" He reached for her leg underneath the table and held on.

  The coach smiled her placid, confident smile. "I get that a lot, especially from the guys on my team."

  All of a sudden Kaliq felt a hot, stabbing pain in his hand. "Shit!" he cried, pulling it away. He cradled the hand in his lap. The Yale coach had stabbed him with her fork. He was bleeding!

  "And I have to say I'm attracted to you. You're a good looking boy. But I'll just have to satisfy myself with seeing you in that Yale jockstrap in the locker room next fall." She reached into her purse and tossed a Band-Aid at him. "Deal?"

  All of a sudden Kaliq realized that Yale might be the place for him after all. And what if Porsha wound up getti
ng in? They could go to Yale together and live happily ever after. Maybe Chanel would go there too, and all three of them would live happily ever after.

  Unlikely story.

  "Deal," he said, and signaled to the waiter with his good hand. He ordered a beer and then flashed the coach the same cocky, stoned smile that made girls swoon and his teachers give him As when he deserved Cs.

  The coach ran her thumb over the tines of her fork. "I think I'm going to enjoy having you on my team," she said.

  And we're all going to enjoy seeing him in that jockstrap

  29

  Chanel's tour guide at Yale was a no-show, which wasn't really a surprise since she was nearly an hour late. "Come back at three," the woman at the admissions reception desk told her. "There's a tour going out then."

  Chanel stood outside the Yale visitors' center, a historic white house with black shutters, wondering what to do next.

  "Do re mi fa so la ti do!" chorused a group of male voices farther down Elm Street. "La, la, la, la!" the voices chorused once more.

  Chanel followed her ears down the street toward Yale's stately Battell Chapel. When she reached the chapel she discovered a group of boys standing in formation beneath the arched doorway, exercising their voices. She'd heard of the famous Whiffenpoofs, Yale's all-male acappella singing group, but she'd never heard them sing. And she'd had no idea how adorable they all were!

  Suddenly they broke into "Midnight Train to Georgia." Chanel sat down at the bottom of the chapel steps, hoping they wouldn't mind if she stayed and listened. And looked—at the boyish brown-skinned tenor in the front who kept stepping forward and doing cute little cameo solos; at the muscular rugby player in the back who had the deepest baritone she'd ever heard; at the tall dark-skinned geek who was just coming into his own; at the skinny boy with an afro who sang his solos with a wonderful English accent and was wearing the dandiest 1940s-style shoes Chanel had ever seen. She could have stood up and done her own little acappella solo: Yale boys, Yale boys. Yum, yum, yum!

  The boys sang a last long, sweet note, standing on tiptoe to draw it out. Then the tenor in the front of the group came humming and bebopping down the chapel steps in Chanel's direction. When he reached her step he fell on his knees and gazed up at her. "One, two, three...Beautiful girl, won't you fall in love with me?" he sang.

  Chanel giggled. Was he kidding?

  "Beautiful girl, won't you be my family?" The rugby player picked up the song from the top of the steps.

  "Beautiful girl, won't you waste the afternoon kissing me under a tree?" the entire group sang in harmony.

  Chanel sat on her hands, blushing furiously. She could see now why Porsha wanted to go to Yale so badly!

  "Today is Sunday, and on Sundays we sing instead of talk. It's a beautiful day. Won't you join me for a walk?" the babyfaced tenor sang, taking her hand.

  Chanel hesitated. It was kind of cocky of him to just walk up and start serenading her. The boy seemed to notice her hesitation.

  "I'm Lars. I'm a sophomore," he whispered, as if worried that the rest of the group would hear him talking instead of singing. "That was just an improv song. We do them all the time."

  Chanel relaxed a little. Lars had magnificent hazel eyes and the tiniest smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. He was also wearing the exact same pair of tan Wallabees she'd bought her brother for his last birthday.

  "I did miss my tour," she confessed.

  "I'll give you a tour, no problem," he sang.

  She gazed over his shoulder across College Street at Yale's campus. A group of girls were playing Frisbee on New Haven green, the gabled windows of the ancient residence hulls rising up around them. It was a beautiful place.

  "Beautiful girl, we'll all give you a tour," the Whiffenpoofs sang.

  Chanel giggled again and let Lars pull her to her feet. If Yale wanted her this bad, they could have her!

  30

  “Mrs. M got a call from Georgetown,” Rain Hoffstetter whispered to Alexis Sullivan in the Emma Willard library as the girls pretended to select books on modern American painting to read during study hall. "Saturday night Porsha and a bunch of Georgetown girls were caught getting paid for sex. They went to some singles bar in town and picked up guys all night. Her mom is coming for a conference in Mrs. M's office because now she can't even go to Georgetown."

  Sure enough, Porsha had just told the librarian that she was skipping study hall for an important meeting in the headmistress's office with her mother.

  "I thought she looked funny today," mused Imani Edwards. "I guess if you're going to wait this long to lose your virginity, you may as well get paid for it."

  "But how come she's wearing tights? It's like seventy degrees today!" Alexis pointed out.

  Lauren Salmon giggled. "Maybe she's got, like, rug burn—you know, from all the sex."

  Or maybe she let four drunk girls shave her legs?

  Mrs. M's office was on the main floor, down the hall from the reception area. As she walked by, Porsha noticed that the reception desk was covered with bouquets of flowers—roses, mostly.

  "What are those for?" Porsha asked Donna, the new part-time receptionist.

  Donna shrugged and stamped another letter with Mrs. M's signature. "You tell me."

  Porsha checked the tag on the biggest bouquet, a gorgeous mix of yellow roses and freesias. Chanel, Chanel, it read. I can't stop singing your name. And it was signed, Love, Lars and the Yale Whiffenpoofs.

  "It figures." Porsha sulked as she headed into Mrs. M's office. Maybe if she'd been slutty enough to sleep with every guy in the Whiffenpoofs, she would have gotten into Yale, too.

  Mrs. M's office was completely red, white, and blue. Blue-and-white striped wallpaper. Red carpeting. Navy blue velvet sofa. Red-and-white chintz chair. It was very patriotic. Even Mrs. M was red, white, and blue—navy blue old-lady pantsuit, red lipstick, pasty white skin, red polished fingernails. Only her hair, which was curly and black, varied from the color scheme.

  "I do like your hair short," Mrs. M commented when Porsha walked in.

  Of course you do, you lesbo dyke, Porsha thought, smiling politely. She patted her head. "Thank you." Actually, she was kind of relieved that she'd made it this far into the day without anyone—even her mother—noticing that her hair had been dyed from natural black to taxicab yellow and then back to black again. The colorist had done a decent job, but to her the color was unnatural, and her scalp itched like crazy from all the dye.

  Porsha sat down on the sofa and then her mother waddled into Mrs. M's office, clutching her stomach like the baby was going to fall out if she didn't hold on to it. Pieces of her bob were plastered to her cheeks, and her skin was blotchy. She fanned herself with her hand. "This time last year I was playing a full game of tennis five days a week. Now I can't walk down the block without breaking a sweat!"

  Mrs. M smiled her polite, talking-to-a-parent smile. "Running after a baby will get you back in shape in no time."

  Right, as if there wasn't already a baby-nurse sleeping in the maid's room of the penthouse!

  Porsha rolled her eyes and scratched her razor-burned calves. She hadn't called this meeting to talk about babies. Through Mrs. M's office window she spied a woman in military fatigues walking down 93rd Street. The sight gave Porsha an idea. Wasn't there some kind of army program that sponsored your years at college? She could join the army, go to Yale, and then do the minimum required service. She imagined herself up to her waist in the muddy trenches, fighting off the enemy while everyone else was studying in the library or something. She could be a hero, win a Purple Heart! And when she went MIA, Kaliq would go after her, risking his life to get her back and finally have sex after all these years.

  Saving Private Porsha. Coming soon to your local theaters.

  Mrs. M nestled her wide, manly ass into the chair behind her huge mahogany desk. "While I've got you both here, I'd like to congratulate Porsha on her performance at Emma Willard. Never a grade below a
B. Excellent attendance. Wonderful show of leadership and participation. Porsha, you can expect to receive a handful of awards at graduation in June."

  Porsha's mom smiled vaguely at the headmistress. Her mind seemed to be on other things.

  "Then why didn't I get into Yale?" Porsha demanded. "What's the point of working so hard at everything if a school like Yale goes and accepts some of my classmates who are way dumber than I am?"

  Mrs. M sorted through the papers on her desk. "I can't speak for Yale, and I can't say I understand their decision. But our records show you were wait-listed. There's still a very good chance you'll get in."

  Porsha crossed her arms over her chest. That wasn't good enough. She glared at her mom. Now was when her mom was supposed to bribe Mrs. M with lots of money for Emma Willard if Mrs. M put in a few calls to Yale's dean of admissions and secured Porsha a place. But Eleanor just sat there staring out the window and panting through her mouth like a dog in summer.

  "Mom?" Porsha demanded.

  "Whoosh," Eleanor panted, fanning herself frantically. "Would you mind calling me a car, dear?" She pried herself out of her chair and squatted on Mrs. M's crimson carpet in a pose Porsha recognized from Ruth's birth class. "Whooosh! I think I may be further along than everyone thought!"

  Talk about timing. Porsha grimaced as her mother went into serious birth-class-breathing-exercise mode.

  "Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!"

  "Mom!"

  Mrs. M dialed Donna in reception. "Call an ambulance, please, Donna. Mrs. Sinclaire Campbell appears to be in labor."

  "No!" Porsha countered. "Lenox Hill isn't far. Mom's car is waiting for her out front."

  Her mother grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard. Porsha had the feeling she'd said the right thing.

  "Scratch that," Mrs. M commanded in that military commando voice the girls always made fun of. "Mrs. Campbell's car is waiting outside the school. Please tell her driver she's coming out and needs to get to Lenox Hill Hospital."