Upper East Side #2

by Ashley Valentine

  “There, that’s what you get for hurting me,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

  “I promise to be careful,” said Kaliq seriously, sliding his hand over her hip and down her leg.

  Porsha took a deep breath and tried to relax her whole body. This wasn’t like any of the love scenes in any of her favorite old movies. She hadn’t thought it would feel this real or be quite so awkward.

  Nothing ever looks as good as it does in the movies, but it should still feel nice.

  Kaliq kissed her softly, and she touched the back of his neck and smelled his familiar Kaliq smell. Bravely, she reached down with her other hand and tried to unbuckle his belt.

  “It’s stuck,” she said, plucking at the confusing tangle of leather and metal. Her body flamed uncomfortably. She’d never felt so uncoordinated.

  “I’ll do it,” Kaliq offered. He quickly undid the buckle as Porsha cast her gaze around her room, her eyes settling on an old oil painting of her grandmother as a young girl, holding a basket of rose petals. Porsha suddenly felt very naked.

  She turned back to Kaliq, watching as he pulled his pants down, kicking them off over his ankles and feet. The crotch of his red-and-white checkered boxers stuck out, tentlike. She sucked in her breath. Then the front door to the apartment creaked open and slammed loudly shut.

  “Hello? Anyone home?”

  It was Porsha’s mother.

  Porsha and Kaliq both froze. Her mother and Cyrus, her mother’s new boyfriend, had gone to the opera. They weren’t supposed to be home for hours.

  “Porsha darling? Are you here? Cyrus and I have something exciting to tell you!”

  “Porsha?” Cyrus’s loud voice reverberated against the walls.

  Porsha pushed Kaliq off of her and pulled the comforter up to her neck.

  “What should we do?” Kaliq whispered. He slid his hand under the comforter and touched Porsha’s stomach.

  Bad move. Never touch a girl’s stomach unless she asks you to. It makes her feel fat.

  Porsha shrank away from him and rolled over, dropping her feet to the floor.

  “Porsha?” Her mother’s voice was just outside the bedroom door. “Can I come in for a moment? It’s important.”

  Whoa.

  “Hold on!” Porsha shouted. She lunged for her closet and whipped out a pair of sweatpants. “Get dressed,” she hissed at Kaliq. She kicked off her Manolos and scrambled into her sweatpants and her father’s old Yale sweatshirt. Kaliq pulled his pants back on and redid his belt buckle. Strike two on the sex thing.

  “Ready?” she whispered.

  Disappointed, Kaliq nodded silently in response.

  Porsha pushed open her bedroom door to find her mother waiting for her in the hallway. Eleanor Sinclaire beamed happily at her daughter, her cheeks flushed with red wine and excitement. “Notice anything different?” she asked, waggling the fingers of her left hand in the air. On her ring finger flashed an enormous diamond set in gold. It looked like a traditional engagement ring, just four times the usual size. It was ridiculous.

  Porsha stared at it, frozen in the doorway to her bedroom. She could feel Kaliq’s breath on her ear from where he stood behind her. Neither of them said anything.

  “Cyrus asked me to marry him!” her mother exclaimed. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Porsha stared at her in disbelief.

  Cyrus Campbell was balding and had a small, bristly mustache. He wore a gold bracelet and ugly, double-breasted pinstriped suits. Her mother had met him last spring in the cosmetics department at Saks. He was shopping for perfume for his mother and Eleanor had offered to help him. She came home reeking of the stuff, Porsha remembered. “I even gave him my number,” her mother had said with a giggle, making Porsha want to puke. Much to Porsha’s disgust and dismay, Cyrus had called and kept calling. And now they were getting married.

  Just then, Cyrus himself appeared at the end of the hall. “Whaddya think, Porsha?” he asked, winking at her. His face was red and his stomach stuck out. His eyes bulged out of his head like those of a blowfish, and he rubbed together his fat, stubby hands with their hairy wrists and cheesy gold jewelry. Her new stepfather. Porsha’s stomach churned queasily. So much for losing her virginity to the boy she loved. The movie of her actual life was turning out to be much more tragic and much more absurd.

  Porsha pursed her lips and gave her mother a small, stiff peck on the cheek. “Congratulations, Mom,” she said.

  “Thatta girl,” boomed Cyrus.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Sinclaire,” said Kaliq, stepping around Porsha. He felt awkward participating in such an intimate family moment. Couldn’t Porsha have just told her mom to wait and talked to her in the morning?

  Mrs. Sinclaire kept hugging him. “Isn’t life wonderful?” she said.

  Kaliq wasn’t so sure.

  Porsha sighed resignedly and padded down the hall in her bare feet to congratulate Cyrus. He smelled like bleu cheese and sweat and he had hair growing out of the top of his nose. He was going to be her new stepdad. She still refused to believe it.

  “I’m happy for you, Cyrus,” Porsha said stiffly. She stood on tiptoe and put her smooth, cool cheek near his hot, whiskey mouth.

  “We’re the luckiest people in the world,” Cyrus said, giving her a revolting wet kiss on the cheek.

  Porsha didn’t feel very lucky.

  Eleanor released Kaliq. “The best part is we’re doing it fast,” she said.

  Porsha turned to her mother and blinked.

  “We’re getting married the Saturday after Thanksgiving,” her mother continued. “That’s only three weeks away!”

  Porsha stopped blinking. The Saturday after Thanksgiving? But that was her birthday. Her seventeenth.

  “It’s going to be at the St. Claire. And I want lots of bridesmaids. My sisters and your friends. Of course, you’ll be the maid of honor. You can help me plan. It’s going to be so much fun,” her mother said breathlessly. “I just love weddings!”

  “Okay,” Porsha responded, her voice completely devoid of emotion. “Should I tell Dad?”

  Her mother paused, remembering. “How’s your father?” she asked, still beaming. Nothing was going to put a damper on her bliss.

  “Great.” Porsha shrugged. “He got me a pair of shoes. And a really nice cake.”

  “Cake?” Cyrus asked eagerly.

  Pig, Porsha thought. At least her father had given her a birthday, because it didn’t look like her real one was going to be much fun. “Sorry we didn’t bring any home,” she said. “I forgot.”

  Eleanor ran her hands over her hips. “Well, I can’t eat any anyway. The bride has to watch her figure!” She glanced at Cyrus and giggled.

  “Mom?” Porsha said.

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Do you mind if Kaliq and I go back in my room and watch some TV?” she asked.

  “Of course not. You go right ahead,” her mother said, smiling knowingly at Kaliq.

  Cyrus winked at them. “Nighty-night, Porsha,” he said. “Night, Kaliq.”

  “Good night, Mr. Campbell,” Kaliq said and followed Porsha back into her bedroom.

  The minute Kaliq shut the door, Porsha threw herself onto her bed facedown, her head buried in her arms.

  “Come on, Porsh,” he said, sitting down at the end of the bed and rubbing her feet. “Cyrus is okay. I mean, it could be worse, right? He could be a total asshole.”

  “He is a total asshole,” Porsha murmured. “I hate him.” All of a sudden she wished Kaliq would just leave her alone to suffer. He couldn’t understand; no one could.

  Kaliq laid down beside her and stroked her hair. “Am I a total asshole?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  “No,” Porsha said into the comforter.

  “Then come here,” he said, tugging on her arm. He pulled her toward him and slid his hands beneath her sweatshirt, hoping they’d get back to where they’d left off. He kissed her neck.
r />   Porsha closed her eyes and tried to relax. She could do this. She could go ahead and have sex and millions of orgasms even though her mother and Cyrus were in the next room. She could.

  Except she couldn’t. Porsha wanted her first time to be perfect, and this was anything but. Her mom and Cyrus were probably fooling around in her mom’s bedroom right now. Just thinking about it made her feel like her skin was crawling with lice or something. This was all wrong. Everything was wrong. Her life was a complete disaster.

  Porsha pulled away from Kaliq and buried her face in a pillow. “I’m sorry,” she said, although she didn’t feel very sorry.

  Kaliq went back to stroking her hair and rubbing the small of her back, hoping she’d change her mind. But Porsha kept her face stubbornly pressed into the pillow. He couldn’t help wondering if she’d ever really intended to have sex with him.

  After a few minutes he stopped rubbing her back and stood up. It was late, and he was getting tired and bored. “I have to get home,” he said.

  Porsha pretended not to hear him. She was too caught up in the drama of her own misery.

  “Call me,” he told her.

  And then he left.

  4

  On Saturday morning, Chanel woke to the sound of her mother’s voice.

  “Chanel? Can I come in?”

  “What?” said Chanel, sitting up in bed. She still wasn’t used to living with her parents again. It kind of sucked.

  The door opened a few inches. “I have some news for you,” her mother told her.

  Chanel didn’t really mind that her mother had woken her up, but she didn’t want her mother to think she could just barge into her room uninvited any time she felt like it. “Okay,” she said, sounding more annoyed than she really felt.

  Mrs. Crenshaw came in and sat down on the end of the bed. She was wearing a navy blue silk dressing gown by Oscar de la Renta and matching slippers. Her wavy hair was pulled up in a loose bun on top of her head, and her beige skin had a pearly sheen from years of using La Mer skin cream.

  Chanel pulled her knees up under her chin and covered her legs with the comforter. “What’s up?”

  “Eleanor Sinclaire just called a minute ago,” her mother told her. “And guess what?”

  Chanel rolled her eyes at her mother’s attempt at suspense. “What?”

  “She’s getting married.”

  “To that Cyrus guy?”

  “Yes, of course. Who else would she marry?” her mother said, brushing imaginary crumbs from her dressing gown.

  “I don’t know.” Chanel frowned, wondering how Porsha had taken the news. Probably not very well. Even though Porsha hadn’t been very nice to her lately, Chanel could still empathize with her old friend.

  “The unusual thing is,” continued Mrs. Crenshaw, “they’re doing it just like that.” She snapped her bejeweled fingers.

  “What do you mean?” Chanel asked.

  “Thanksgiving weekend,” her mother whispered and raised her eyebrows to make the point that this was very unusual indeed. “The Saturday after Thanksgiving. That’s the wedding date. And she wants you to be a bridesmaid. I’m sure Porsha will fill you in on all the details. She’s the maid of honor.”

  Mrs. Crenshaw stood up and suddenly began straightening the scattered perfume bottles, little boxes of Tiffany jewelry, and tubes of makeup on top of Chanel’s dresser.

  “Don’t do that, Mom,” Chanel whined and closed her eyes.

  The Saturday after Thanksgiving. That was only three weeks away. It was also Porsha’s birthday, Chanel realized. Poor Porsha. She loved her birthday. It was her day. Obviously not this year, though.

  And what was it going to be like to be a bridesmaid when Porsha was the maid of honor? Would Porsha purposely make her wear a dress that didn’t fit? Would she spike her champagne? Make her walk down the aisle with Jaylen Harrison, the slimiest boy in their old circle of friends? It was too weird to even imagine.

  Her mother sat down on the bed again and stroked Chanel’s long, silky hair. “What’s wrong, darling?” she asked, worriedly. “I thought you’d be excited about being a bridesmaid.”

  Chanel opened her eyes. “I have a headache, that’s all,” she sighed, pulling the comforter around her. “I think I’m going to just lie here and watch TV for a while, okay?”

  Her mother patted her foot. “All right. I’ll send Deidre in with some coffee and juice for you. I think she bought some croissants, too.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Her mother stood up and went to the door. She paused and turned around to smile brilliantly at her daughter. “Autumn weddings are always so lovely. I think this is quite exciting.”

  “Yes,” Chanel said, fluffing up her pillow. “It’s going to be great.” This time of year was usually a little dull, with nothing much happening until the holiday party season. But Porsha's mother had suddenly given everyone something to talk about. How long had she and her boyfriend known each other, anyway? Like two or three months? If Chanel were going to spend the rest of her life with someone, or even a weekend, she'd want to know them better than that. And Cyrus was seriously tacky, so the wedding was definitely going to be a sight to behold

  Her mother left, and Chanel rolled over and stared out her window for a minute, watching birds take flight from the bronzed treetops surrounding the roof of the Met. Then she reached for the phone and pressed the speed-dial button for her brother Cairo’s number at Brown. Whenever she needed reassurance, it was the first button she pressed. With her other hand she clicked the power button on her TV’s remote. SpongeBob SquarePants was on Nickelodeon. She stared at it without really seeing it, listening as the phone rang three times, then four.

  On the sixth ring, Cairo answered. “Yo?”

  “Hey,” Chanel said. “What are you doing up?”

  “I’m not up,” Cairo said. He coughed loudly.

  “Oh, man.” Chanel grinned. “Sorry. Hard night, huh?”

  Cairo moaned in response.

  “So, the reason I’m calling is I just found out that Porsha’s mom is getting married to this guy, Cyrus. I don’t even think they’ve known each other all that long, but whatever. Anyway, I have to be a bridesmaid, and Porsha is the maid of honor, which means…I don’t know what it means. But I’m pretty sure it’s going to suck.” She waited for Cairo to answer. “I guess you’re too hungover to talk about this now, huh?” she said when he didn’t.

  “Kind of,” Cairo responded.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll call you later,” Chanel replied, disappointed. Her brother never wanted to talk to her. “Hey, I was also thinking about visiting you up there sometime soon. Like maybe next weekend?”

  “Okay,” he yawned.

  “Okay. Bye.”

  Chanel hung up and rolled out from under the covers. She stood up, and shuffled into the bathroom, where she examined herself in the mirror. Her gray boxer shorts were sagging in the butt, and her T-shirt was twisted around and hanging off one shoulder. Her jet-black hair was plastered to the back of her neck, and a thin line of crusted drool had dried on one cheek.

  Of course, she still looked beautiful.

  “Fatso,” Chanel said to her reflection. She reached for her toothbrush and began to brush her teeth slowly, thinking about Cairo. Even though he seemed to party even harder than she did, he’d managed not to get kicked out of boarding school and had gotten into Brown. Cairo was the good son, while Chanel was the bad daughter. It was so unfair.

  She furrowed her eyebrows determinedly as she scrubbed at her molars. So what if she’d been kicked out of boarding school, her grades were only mediocre, and her only extracurricular was this weird movie she had made for the senior film festival? She was going to show everyone that she wasn’t as bad as they thought. She was going to show them by getting into a good college like Brown and becoming someone.

  Not that she wasn’t already someone. Chanel was the girl everyone remembered. The one everyone loved to hate. She didn’t have to try t
o shine: she shined brighter than the rest of them already.

  She spat a wad of toothpaste into the sink. Yes, she was definitely heading up to Brown next weekend, even if it was a long shot. She might get lucky. She usually did.

  5

  “Freak,” Bree Hargrove whispered to her reflection.

  She stood in front of the mirror holding her breath and pushing her stomach out as far as it would go. It still didn’t stick out as far as her boobs, which were enormous for a ninth-grader. Her pink nightgown fell in a tentlike triangle from her breasts to her knees, hiding her protruding stomach and her short little legs. She had grown out instead of up like Chanel Crenshaw, the senior at Emma Willard whom she idolized. Bree’s boobs erased any hope of her ever looking remotely cool, like Chanel. They were the bane of her existence.

  Bree let out her breath and pulled her nightgown over her head so she could try on the new black tube top she’d bought at H&M after school yesterday. She yanked it over her shoulders and down over her boobs and looked at her reflection. No longer did she have two gigantic boobs but one monster slug of a uniboob. She looked deformed.

  Pushing her curly hair behind her ears, Bree turned away from the mirror, disgusted. She pulled on a pair of old sweatpants and headed out to the kitchen for some tea. Her older brother, Mekhi, was just coming out of his room. He always looked scary in the morning, his hair wild and his eyes bleary. But this morning his eyes were huge and bright, as if he’d been up all night drinking coffee.

  “So?” Bree said as they filed into the kitchen. She watched as Mekhi spooned some instant coffee grounds into a mug and ran the hot tap water over them. He wasn’t particularly discerning when it came to coffee. He stood by the sink silently stirring the stuff with a spoon, watching the brown froth spin round and round.

  “I know you went out with Chanel last night,” Bree continued, crossing her arms impatiently. “So what happened? Was it amazing? What’d she wear? What’d you do? What’d she say?”