Upper East Side #2

by Ashley Valentine

  “Bree didn’t want to watch it without you,” Mekhi said. “It’s just me here. Yasmine gave me the key.” He felt weird admitting this, but he didn’t want to lie.

  “Oh.” Chanel suddenly remembered what Mekhi’s father had said about him writing poetry about her. Now he was watching her film all alone in Yasmine’s house? She didn’t want to feel weird about it, but it was hard not to.

  “I’m really excited for next weekend,” Mekhi said, sitting up. “Do you think I should try and schedule an interv—?”

  “Cool,” Chanel suddenly interrupted, cutting him off. “So I’ll see you Friday, right? Grand Central, three o’clock.”

  “Okay.” Was that it? They were done talking?

  “Bye.” Chanel hung up. She didn’t want to linger on the phone in case Mekhi said something intense she couldn’t handle. Things were already far more intense than she’d intended.

  “Bye,” Mekhi said. He pressed play on the remote once more, his brain still fuzzy from the spell the film had cast. It couldn’t hurt to watch it again, could it?

  11

  “I’ve never been inside a house like this.” Bree stood on the stoop of Kaliq’s beautiful townhouse. It was three stories high, with green-painted window boxes filled with flowers and ivy cascading from the roof. The door had a complicated series of alarms and locks, and a security camera was trained on the house front and back.

  Kaliq shrugged as he punched a code into the alarm system. “It’s just like living in an apartment,” he said. “Except there are stairs.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” She didn’t want to let on how truly awestruck she was.

  Kaliq led her inside. The foyer floor was made of red marble and a giant stone lion stood in one corner. Someone had put a fur hat on its head. Down a set of stairs was an enormous sunken living room, and there were original oil paintings by famous artists on every wall. Bree even thought she recognized some of them. Renoir. Sargent. Picasso.

  “My parents are into art,” Kaliq said when he noticed Bree staring. Then he noticed something else. A wrapped package sat on the side table. The card had his name on it so Kaliq went over and ripped open the envelope. PORSHA CORNELIA SINCLAIRE was printed on the face of the card in classic Tiffany letterhead. Inside it read: For Kaliq. You know I love you. Porsh.

  “What’s that?” Bree asked. “Is it your birthday or something?”

  “Nah.” He stuffed the card back in its envelope, picked up the box, and stashed it on the floor of the coat closet. He wasn’t even curious about what was inside. It was probably just a sweater or some cologne. Porsha was always giving him shit for no reason, except to get attention. She could be so demanding sometimes.

  “So what do you want to eat?” He led Bree down the hall and into the kitchen. “Our cook makes good brownies. I bet there are still some left.”

  “Cook?” Bree echoed, following him. “Of course you have a cook.”

  Kaliq located a cookie tin on top of the enormous marble kitchen counter and opened it. He pulled out a brownie and shoved it in his mouth. “My mom’s not exactly the best cook in the world,” he said. The idea of his mother even making toast was a complete joke. She was a French princess who lived on restaurant food or catered meals at dinner parties. She’d barely even been in the kitchen. “Try one,” he said, handing Bree a brownie.

  “Thanks.” She took the brownie even though she was too excited to eat it. It was probably going to melt in her sticky palm.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” he offered. “This way’s fastest.”

  Bree sucked in her breath. She had never been alone with a boy in his house before, and it was a little scary. But she wanted to trust Kaliq. He was so unlike that horrible Jaylen Harrison who had taken advantage of her at that party. Jaylen had seemed dangerous and exciting at first, but he’d never even asked Bree what her name was. Kaliq was polite, and he seemed genuinely interested in getting to know her. And Bree was genuinely interested in letting him.

  Kaliq led her out a side door and up a narrow stairwell. She had read enough Jane Austen books to know that these were the servants’ stairs. On the third floor, Kaliq opened the door at the top of the stairs onto a wide hallway lit overhead by a glass skylight. They passed an oil portrait of a little boy dressed in a sailor outfit and holding a wooden boat. It was Kaliq, she realized. He opened another door.

  “This is my room.”

  Bree followed him inside. Other than the antique sleigh bed and the ultramodern, ultracool desk with a laptop sitting on it, his room looked pretty normal. The bed was covered with a green-and-black plaid comforter. There were DVDs scattered on the floor, dumbbells stacked precariously in a corner, sneakers spilling out of the closet, and vintage Notorious B.I.G. posters hanging on the walls.

  “It’s nice,” Bree said, sitting down nervously on the edge of the bed. She noticed the model of a sailboat sitting on the bedside table. “Do you sail?”

  “Yeah.” Kaliq picked up the model boat. “Me and my dad make boats. Up in Maine.” He handed the model to Bree. “This is the one we’re working on now. It’s a cruiser, so it’s got a heavier hull than the boats we build to race with. We’re going to sail it to the Caribbean first. And then maybe even to Europe.”

  “Really?” Bree examined the model boat. She couldn’t imagine sailing across the Atlantic in something so small and delicate. “Does it have a toilet?”

  Kaliq smiled. “Yeah. Here.” He stuck his pinky down into the cabin. There was a tiny oval door with the letters WC printed on it. “See it?”

  Bree nodded in fascination. “I’d love to know how to sail.”

  Kaliq sat down next to her. “Maybe you could come up to Maine and I could teach you,” he said quietly.

  Bree turned to him, her big brown eyes searching his green ones. “I’m only fourteen,” she told him.

  Kaliq reached up and touched her curly hair, combing it ever so gently with his fingers. Then he put his hand down again. "I know," he said. "It’s okay."

  12

  “Where’s it going to be?”

  “How many guests is she having?”

  “How many bridesmaids?”

  “What are you going to wear?”

  “How many layers is she having on the cake?”

  “Is your father invited?”

  Porsha held her breath. It was lunchtime, and she was waiting in line with Alexis and Imani in the cafeteria. Porsha wasn’t even hungry, not anymore. Alexis had started the whole annoying inquisition by mentioning that she’d seen a really cool wedding dress in a vintage 60's Vogue she’d found in a thrift shop. The dress had little crystal daisies all over it, white velvet trim, and a big white velvet bow in the back. Then Imani had asked Porsha if her mother was going to wear a traditional white wedding dress or something different. Now Porsha was surrounded by eager Emma Willard girls with Monday-bright eyes, all firing questions at her about her mother’s wedding.

  To her disgust, her senior classmates weren’t the only ones who thought they had a right to know all the boring details. Ashley Perry and her group of annoying junior followers were practically pulling on Porsha’s black cashmere sweater, drooling over any tidbit of wedding news. Even a few bold ninth-graders were lingering nearby hoping to hear enough to brag about it to their friends.

  “It’s really not such a big deal,” Porsha said impatiently. “She’s been married before, you know.”

  “Who are the bridesmaids?” Ashley asked.

  “Me, Alexis, Imani…” Porsha slid her lunch tray along the cafeteria counter and picked up a coffee yogurt. “Chanel and my aunts,” she added quickly. Fudge-frosted brownies on little white plates sat temptingly on a shelf at eye level. She picked one up, examined it for any defects, and then put it on her tray. Even if she actually decided to eat it, she could always throw it up later. It wasn’t much, but at least she had that much control over her life

  “Chanel?” Ashley repeated, glancing at her groupies in shocked surprise. “Really
?

  “Yes,” Porsha snapped. “Really.” If it weren’t for the fact that she was head of Willard's social services board, leader of the French club, and chairwoman of all the worthwhile junior social functions in the city, Porsha would have told Ashley to fuck off. But Porsha was a role model: she had a reputation to uphold.

  She tossed a few leaves of spinach onto a plate and slopped some ranch dressing on top of them. Then she picked up her tray and headed into the cafeteria. Grades one through eight had already eaten, so the room was filled with uniformed upper-school girls gossiping about each other and picking at their food.

  “I heard Porsha is getting liposuction before the wedding just to make sure she looks good in Vogue,” snitched a junior girl to her friends.

  “I thought she already had it,” quipped another girl. “Isn’t that why she always wears black tights? To hide the scars?”

  “I heard Kaliq is cheating on her, but Porsha won’t break up with him before they get their pictures taken together at the wedding,” Ashley Perry said, joining them. “Isn’t that so typical?”

  Chanel was sitting alone reading a book at the table where Porsha usually sat. She had pulled her silky hair up into a bun, and she was wearing a black V-neck sweater with nothing underneath it. Her legs were crossed, and her short maroon uniform actually looked stylish. She looked like an exotic model for Burberry or Gucci or something.

  Actually, she looked better than a model because she wasn’t trying to look good. She just did.

  Porsha turned away and headed for a table by the windows. Just because her mother had asked Chanel to be a bridesmaid didn’t mean she had to talk to her. When they were younger, Porsha and Chanel had taken baths together. They’d had sleepovers every weekend, during which they practiced kissing on pillows, made prank calls to their nerdy seventh grade bio teacher, and stayed up all night giggling. Chanel had been there for Porsha when she got her period at the end of eighth grade and was terrified of tampons. They’d gotten drunk for the first time together. And they’d both loved Kaliq like a brother. At least at first.

  But Chanel had gone away to boarding school two years ago and spent all of her vacations partying in Europe, sending Porsha only the occasional postcard. It had been especially hurtful when Porsha’s father had announced he was gay and her mother had sued him for divorce. Porsha had had no one to turn to. There was also the small matter that Chanel and Kaliq had already slept together, while Porsha and Kaliq still hadn’t.

  So when Chanel had returned to the city, Porsha had decided to pay her back by ignoring her and demanding that all their other friends ignore Chanel, too. She had turned Chanel into a social leper.

  Porsha sat down and began poking angrily at her salad. After she’d left Barneys the day before, she’d sat on a park bench for a while, waiting for Chanel to clear out of the area. When she finally returned home, her mother informed her that she’d just closed her bank account and opened a new joint account with Cyrus. Porsha’s new credit card would be coming in a day or two. That explained why her credit card didn’t work.

  Thanks for the update, Mom.

  Porsha had found a nice box in her closet to put the pajama bottoms in. She wrapped it in pretty silver paper and tied it with a black bow, and then she took it over to Kaliq’s house. But Kaliq hadn’t called or texted last night to thank her. What was his fucking problem, anyway?

  Alexis and Imani suddenly sat down across from her.

  “Why don’t you just tell your mom you don’t want Chanel to be a bridesmaid?” Imani reasoned. She wound her thick box braids onto a knot on top of her head and took a sip of skim milk. “I’m sure she’d listen to you.”

  “Just tell your mom you and Chanel aren’t friends anymore.” Alexis picked a long strand of Malaysian hair out of her tea. Her extensions were always getting all over everything.

  Porsha stole a glance at Chanel. She knew her mother had already talked to Chanel’s mother and that Chanel already knew that she was supposed to be a bridesmaid. Tempting as it was, she couldn’t ask her mother to unask her. That would be tacky. And Porsha didn’t want to risk giving Chanel anything to complain about, just in case Chanel had seen her take those pajamas in Barneys. Chanel might smear her name all over the Upper East Side.

  “It’s too late,” Porsha said and shrugged. “I’m really not that bothered by it. She’s just going to walk into the church with us wearing the same dress, or whatever. It’s not like we have to hang out together.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. Her mother was planning some sort of luncheon and a day of beauty for all the bridesmaids, but Porsha was pretending that that wasn’t happening.

  “So what do the dresses look like? Have you and your mom picked anything out yet?” Alexis asked, biting into her brownie. “Please tell me we don’t have to wear anything tight. I promised myself I’d lose ten pounds before Christmas, but look at me eating this stupid brownie!”

  Porsha rolled her eyes and stirred up her yogurt. “Who cares what we wear?”

  Imani and Alexis stared at her. Neither of them could believe she’d just said that. Of course it mattered what they wear. When a girl like Porsha says a thing like that, you know something is up.

  Porsha took a bite of her yogurt, ignoring them. What was wrong with everyone anyway? Couldn’t they just shut the fuck up about the wedding and leave her alone?

  “I’m not really hungry,” she said, suddenly standing up. “I think I’m going to go send some e-mails or something.”

  Alexis pointed to the untouched brownie on Porsha’s tray. “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

  Porsha shook her head.

  Alexis picked up the brownie and put it on Imani’s tray. “We can share it.”

  Imani scowled and tossed the brownie back at Alexis. “If you want to eat it, you take it,” she insisted.

  Porsha picked up her tray and hurried away. She couldn’t wait to fucking graduate.

  Bree spotted Chanel the instant she walked into the cafeteria with her cup of tea and her banana. She was sitting alone, reading something. Bree hurried over. “Is it okay if I sit with you?”

  “Of course.” Chanel closed her book. It was The Sorrows of Young Werther, by Goethe. Bree had never heard of it, and Chanel caught her looking. “Your brother recommended it to me. I honestly don’t know how he can read this shit. It’s seriously boring.”

  Actually, Mekhi hadn’t recommended the book to her, but he’d mentioned that he’d read it. It was all about a guy who was totally obsessed with a girl. She was all he thought about and all he could write about. It was kind of creepy.

  Bree laughed. “You should see some of the poetry he writes.”

  Chanel frowned. She wished she could see some of the poetry he had written, since supposedly some of it was about her. “Promise you won’t tell on me if I don’t finish this?”

  “I won’t say anything,” Bree promised. “As long as you promise not to tell him I told you his poetry was boring.”

  “I promise.”

  Bree sneaked a peek under the table. As usual, Chanel was wearing the maroon, polyester-blend pleated kilt, the uniform unofficially reserved for seventh grade losers. Except she looked amazing in it. She always looked amazing. “You know, you’re like, the only senior who wears the maroon uniform.”

  Chanel shrugged. “I think it’s cool,” she said. “Navy blue is boring, and wearing the gray one makes you never want to wear gray again in your life, and I like gray.”

  Bree was currently wearing the gray uniform. “I guess you’re right. I have a pair of gray pants I never wear. Maybe that’s why.” She cleared her throat. What she really wanted to talk to Chanel about was Kaliq.

  “Hey, sorry I messed up yesterday,” Chanel said. “I forgot all about meeting up with you and Yasmine.”

  “That’s okay,” Bree started to say. “As it turned out, I had an amazing—”

  “Hey guys.” Yasmine herself suddenly walked up to their table, wearing black t
ights that did their best to hide her chunky knees. “What’s up?”

  “Hey. Sorry about yesterday,” Chanel apologized again.

  Yasmine shrugged. “That’s okay. I’m sort of sick of watching those films over and over anyway.” Especially your film, she thought bitterly. It’s too fucking good.

  Chanel nodded. “Grab a chair.”

  Bree glared at Yasmine. She wanted Chanel all to herself.

  “Sorry, I can’t,” Yasmine insisted. “Um, Bree, we really have to get going developing film for this month’s Rancor feature. There’s like twenty rolls of it, and the dark room’s free right now. Do you think you could help me out?”

  Bree glanced at Chanel, who shrugged and stood up. “I should get going anyway,” Chanel told them. “I have a college meeting with Ms. Glos. Fun, fun, fun.”

  “I just had mine,” Yasmine replied. “Watch out, she’s having another bloody nose.”

  Ms. Glos had yellow-tinged skin and frequent bloody noses. All the girls were convinced she had some terrible contagious disease. If she gave you a handout or loaned you a college catalog, you had to wear gloves when you read it. Either that or wash your hands in very hot water afterward.

  “Great,” Chanel giggled. “Okay, I’ll see you guys later.”

  Yasmine sat down and waited for Bree to finish eating her banana. Bree took the last bite and folded the peel up into a paper napkin.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  Bree shrugged. “Actually, I can’t. I have a history paper to print out for next period. Sorry.” She quickly stood up and started gathering her stuff.

  Yasmine frowned. “Fine. But let me know when you’re free. I really do need help.”

  “Okay,” Bree said breezily. “I’ll let you know. Oh, and do you think you could call me Brianna, instead of Bree, from now on? I’d really prefer it.”

  Yasmine stared at her. “Okay. Brianna.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and hurried off to the computer lab. Maybe Kaliq had e-mailed her!