“Grab a seat,” she told Bree when she walked in. “We’re just about to start.” She walked to the back of the room and dimmed the lights. The TV over the bar flickered blue.
“Hold on,” CJ said from behind the bar. “I have to take a leak.”
The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer. A girl wearing blue leather pants and a black wifebeater was sitting alone at the bar. There was a tattoo of a monkey on her bicep. Bree sat down next to her.
“Hey,” the girl said, holding out her hand, which was covered with silver rings. “I’m Yasmine’s sister, Ruby.”
“I’m Brianna. I like your tattoo.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Hey, I’m getting a Pepsi. You want one?”
Bree nodded and Ruby swung her cool black bob around and shouted at the bathroom door. “Hey, bring us some Pepsis, would you, man?”
CJ came out of the bathroom. “At your service!” he shouted back.
“I like to make him work for his money,” Ruby joked.
Yasmine plunked herself down next to Bree and kicked the legs of her bar stool impatiently. “Are we going to watch this or what?” She’d shaved her head again recently and it was looking particularly domelike and odd.
Bree wondered if she should say something, like, “Nice haircut.” But then she decided that would be weird.
CJ filled up two glasses of Pepsi and slid them across the bar. He hit play on the DVD player and then came around to the other side of the bar and wrapped his arm around Yasmine’s waist. “And now for our feature presentation,” he said, in a Mr. Moviefone voice.
Yasmine scowled. “Just watch.”
Bree kept her eyes trained on the TV as the film began. The camera bopped along the dirty ground, following Marjorie Jaffe, a sophomore at Emma Willard, as she walked up the Brooklyn Bridge. Cars zoomed back and forth over the bridge and helicopters policed the sky—all under the blandly imperious watch of the Statue of Liberty.
Marjorie had frizzy red hair and she was wearing a green scarf. She stopped, and the camera panned in on her face. She was chewing gum, slowly playing it between her teeth as her eyes scanned the bridge, looking for someone. At the corner of her mouth was an angry cold sore that she’d tried and failed to cover up with concealer. It looked pretty nasty.
Finally Marjorie seemed to find what she was looking for. The camera followed her as she hurried over to someone, and that someone happened to be Mekhi. He was dressed in his Mickey Knox costume, armed with a knife, a crowbar, and a baseball bat, all hanging from a harness strapped over his shoulders and across his chest. The camera lingered on his still form. The sun was going down, and his dark skin glowed orangey pink in the light.
Bree took a sip of her Pepsi. Actually, her brother made a pretty convincing psychopath.
"Mickey Fox, will you marry me?" Marjorie asked, batting her eyes flirtatiously. She smacked her gum a few times and wiped her nose on the back of her hand.
“I will. I will,” Mekhi said quietly, pretending to slice the knife against his palm.
Bree knew the movie was adapted from a scene in Natural Born Killers. It was kind of weird seeing her brother act like some mentally unbalanced, deadly murderer, but it was kind of cool, too.
Marjorie fumbled for the knife. Her gum fell out of her mouth and onto Mekhi’s new Converses. She didn’t look like she was trying to play a part. She was just sort of there. Bree couldn’t tell if that was intentional or not.
Marjorie put another piece of gum in her mouth and drew the blade clumsily against her own palm. Then she clasped her hand through his. "We're Mickey and Mallory Fox now," she said, chomping away on her gum and getting the last name completely wrong. "And we'll stay together until we die and die and die again."
Ruby burst out laughing. “That girl is too much!” she cried.
Yasmine glared at her. “Shush.”
Bree kept her eyes on the screen.
"I love you, Mallory," Mekhi said unconvincingly. Then he closed his eyes and they kissed. A small, awkward kiss. The camera panned away, sweeping across the grounds of the bridge. It paused to watch a pigeon peck at a used condom on the ground, and then it hurtled towards the busy harbor, where it watched the sun set and disappear. Then the screen went black.
Yasmine got up and turned the lights back on.
“What was going on in the end with that pigeon and the condom?” CJ asked. He stepped behind the bar and pulled a bottle of Corona from the fridge. “Anyone want anything?”
“It’s a mood piece,” Yasmine said defensively. “It doesn’t have to make perfect sense.”
“I thought it was hilarious,” Ruby said. She tipped her glass back and chewed on some ice. “More Pepsi, please,” she told CJ.
“It wasn’t supposed to be funny,” Yasmine said angrily.
Bree could tell she was trying very hard not to lose her shit. “I thought the cinematography was great,” she offered quietly. “Especially those shots at the end.”
Yasmine gave her a grateful look. “Thanks,” she said. “Hey, you never saw the final cut of Chanel’s film, did you? It’s pretty decent.”
“Yeah. But you did all the camera work for that, too, right?” Bree asked.
Yasmine shrugged. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Seriously, though. Your film was good, but I liked Planet of the Apes better,” Ruby joked.
Yasmine rolled her eyes. Her sister could be so immature. “That’s because you’re a moron,” she snapped.
“I liked it.” CJ took a sip of his beer. “Although I didn’t really get it.”
“There’s nothing to get,” Yasmine said, exasperated.
Bree didn’t feel like sitting there listening to them argue. She’d come to Williamsburg to be entertained, not tortured. “Hey, do you want to go get some food somewhere or something?”
Yasmine grabbed her coat off the bar stool and jammed her arms into it. “Definitely. Let’s get out of here.”
They walked to a café that specialized in Middle Eastern food and ordered hummus and hot chocolate.
“So, Brianna. With a rack like that, how come you don’t have like, seven boyfriends?” Yasmine pointed directly at her chest.
Bree was too embarrassed to even realize how rude her question was. “Well, I do…kind of…have one.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Sort of.” Bree blushed, remembering how Kaliq had been about to kiss her in the park. He’d promised to call her the minute he got back from Brown. Just thinking about it made her sweat.
The waitress brought their hot chocolates and Yasmine scooted her chair forward and blew into her mug. “So tell me about this boy.”
“His name is Kaliq, and he’s a senior at St. Jude’s,” Bree said. “He’s kind of a stoner, but he’s really sweet and totally unpretentious, you know, for a boy who lives in like, a billion dollar townhouse.”
Yasmine nodded. “Uh-huh.” He sounded like the kind of boy she would never be remotely interested in. “And are you guys like, going out? Isn’t he kind of…you know, old?”
Bree just smiled. “Kaliq doesn’t mind. He just…likes me.” She blew happily into her mug, letting the steam hit her cheeks.
Yasmine was about to ask if Bree was putting out for this Kaliq character. That might explain why he liked her so much.
“I mean, we haven’t even kissed or anything yet,” Bree continued before she could ask. “Which kind of makes me like him even better. He’s so not slimy, you know? He doesn’t even stare at my chest.”
“Wow,” Yasmine said, impressed.
“Anyway,” Bree added, sipping her hot chocolate. “He’s up at Brown this weekend. I wonder if he’ll bump into Mekhi.”
“Maybe.” Yasmine shrugged, trying to act like she didn’t care. She wished she didn’t get all goose-pimply whenever anyone mentioned Mekhi’s name.
The waitress brought their hummus, and Yasmine sank a piece of pita bread into it and swirled it around. Bree knew Yasmine still had
a huge crush on Mekhi—her film was partly a testament to that. But Mekhi was with Chanel now. And if Mekhi was with Chanel, Bree had access to Chanel, which was just the way she had always wanted it. Or was it?
Bree dipped her pinky in the hummus, brought it to her mouth, and sucked on it, thinking. Mekhi was his usual miserable self whether he was with Chanel or not, although Bree had to admit she kind of missed him. And when she really thought about it, she realized she didn’t need Chanel to be going out with Mekhi to hang out with her. After all, she had helped Chanel with her film. She could talk to her whenever she wanted. She wasn’t Mekhi’s little sister Bree anymore. She was Brianna, her own person, with a sexy senior for a boyfriend.
She looked up and smiled at Yasmine. Maybe she could help her. “You know, Chanel tried to read one of Mekhi’s favorite books. And she completely hated it. She couldn’t even finish it.”
Yasmine frowned. “So?”
Bree shrugged. “So I just don’t think they have all that much in common, that’s all.”
Yasmine narrowed her eyes. “This coming from the girl who would practically lick the bottoms of Chanel’s feet if she asked you to.”
Bree opened her mouth to say something in her defense. Then she shut it again. It was true: she had been following Chanel around like a little puppy dog. But not any longer. Her name was Brianna now.
“I just think that if you still have feelings for Mekhi, you should do something about it, that’s all. You might be surprised.”
“I don’t,” Yasmine said quickly. She grabbed a triangle of pita bread and ripped it angrily in half.
“Yes, you do.”
Yasmine didn’t like being told what to do, especially by a little kid. But Bree seemed sincere, and if Yasmine were to be honest with herself, she had to admit that she very definitely did still have feelings for Mekhi. She ran her hand over her nearly bald head and raised her hazel eyes to meet Bree’s. “You think?”
Bree cocked her head. Yasmine had pretty decent bone structure and nice, cinnamon toned skin. With a little lip gloss she might actually look like a girl. She also wasn’t half as tough or as weird as she made herself out to be.
“You might have to grow your hair out a little, but it could happen,” Bree said. “I mean, you guys are already really good friends. You just have to take it to the next level.”
Give a girl a boyfriend and she becomes a total expert on relationships.
24
“So how’d it go?” Tahj asked when Porsha came back to the car after her interview. He was sitting on the Saab’s hood, softly playing his guitar and smoking another herbal cigarette. He looked right at home at Yale.
“Okay, I think,” Porsha said hesitantly. Reality had yet to set in. She opened the door to the passenger seat, sat down, and removed her shoes. “I think I have a blister. Fucking flats.”
Tahj opened the driver’s side door and got in. “So what’d they ask you?”
“You know, why Yale—stuff like that,” Porsha said vaguely. The whole interview was a blur to her now. She was just glad it was over.
“Sounds pretty standard,” Tahj said. “I’m sure you did fine.”
“Yeah.” Porsha turned and reached behind her for her bag. The Autobiography of Malcom X was lying on the backseat, and she instantly remembered one of her interviewer’s questions. Can you tell me about a favorite book you’ve read recently?
Uh-oh.
Suddenly it all came back to her. She whipped around, trembling. “Shit,” she said, in almost a whisper.
“What?”
“I messed up. I completely fucked up the whole thing.”
“What do you mean?” Tahj asked, confused.
Porsha rubbed the pimple above her eyebrow. “He asked me if I’d read any good books lately. Do you know what I said?”
Tahj shook his head. “What?”
“I told him I hadn’t been reading anything because my life is a total mess. I told him I shoplifted. I told him I was suicidal.”
Tahj just stared at her, his eyes wide.
Porsha gazed out the window at Yale’s pretty campus. She’d wanted to go there since she first came with her father to watch the Yale versus Harvard football game on alumni weekend when she was six. Yale was her destiny. It was everything she’d worked for. Why she didn’t go out on weeknights anymore because she was actually studying for her APs. She’d been so confident about getting in, and in a few short minutes she’d blown it completely. How could she face everyone after this?
Tahj put his hand on her shoulder. “So are you? Suicidal, I mean?”
Porsha shook her head. “No.” She slumped in her seat, her chest heaving as angry tears rolled down her cheeks. “Although I should be after this.”
“And do you really shoplift?”
“Shut up,” Porsha snapped, shrugging his hand off her shoulder. “This is all your fault. You kept me up too late. I should have just taken the train up this morning like I’d planned to.”
“Hey, I didn’t tell you to say all those things in your interview,” Tahj corrected her. “I wouldn’t worry about it so much, though. The interview only counts for like one fifth of the whole process. You might still get in. Even if you don’t, there are a billion other good schools to go to.”
Porsha considered this. She tried to remember how the rest of the interview had gone. Maybe that one little blip hadn’t mattered as much as she thought.
Then she remembered what she’d done at the end of the interview, and she slammed her head against the back of her seat. “Oh God!”
Tahj put the key in the ignition and started the engine. “What?”
“I kissed him.”
“Who?”
“The guy. The interviewer. I kissed him on the cheek before I left.” Her lower lip trembled and more tears rolled down her face. “I was a total freakshow.”
“Whoa,” Tahj said, sounding slightly impressed. “You kissed your interviewer? I bet you’re like the first person who’s ever done that.”
Porsha didn’t answer. She turned her body toward the window and wrapped her arms around herself, crying miserably. What would she tell her father? What would she tell Kaliq? She’d given him such a hard time about not being serious about Yale, and then she’d gone and turned her own interview into a complete farce.
“Okay, you know what?” Tahj said, backing the car out of the lot. “I think we should get the hell out of here before they call the cops or something.” He smiled and picked up a dirty Dunkin’ Donuts napkin from off the floor, handing it to Porsha to blow her nose with. “Here.”
Porsha let the napkin drop to the floor. She couldn’t imagine how she’d gotten herself into this situation in the first place. Riding around in a dirty car with an overly optimistic dreadhead vegan boy who was soon to become her stepbrother. Staying up late eating junk food and drinking beer. Spilling her guts to her Yale interviewer and then kissing him and totally wrecking her future. These sorts of things didn’t happen to her. They happened to losers with problems. The actors who showed up time after time at castings but never got the leads. People with bad hair and skin problems and horrible clothes and no social skills.
Porsha touched the zit on her forehead once more. Oh God. What was she turning into?
“Want to go get breakfast somewhere?” Tahj asked, turning onto the main road through New Haven.
Porsha slumped down in her seat. She couldn’t bear to eat anything ever again. “Just take me home,” she said in disgust.
Tahj put on a Bob Marley CD and drove toward the highway, while Porsha stared out the window, trying to think of reasons to live. There was the Willard film festival on Monday. If she won she’d have one more accolade on her record, and maybe Yale would turn a blind eye to her unfortunate interview. Maybe they’d forgive her for being weird, because, after all, she was an artiste. And if she won the competition but still didn’t get into Yale, she could become all artsy and start wearing only black like that weirdo bitch Yasm
ine and apply to NYU or Pratt. And if she didn’t win? She’d have one more thing to add to her list of reasons why her life was totally fucked up.
To makes things worse, next weekend was her mother’s spa day and bridesmaids’ luncheon. Porsha was going to have to be pleasant and enthusiastic. She might even have to talk to Chanel.
Yippee!
And then the following Saturday was the wedding day itself. Her birthday. And the day she was finally supposed to lose her virginity to Kaliq. Porsha squeezed her eyes shut as tight as they would go, trying to recall the image she’d dreamed up earlier of Kaliq uncorking a bottle of champagne in their hotel suite, wearing those sexy cashmere pajama bottoms.
Instead her head was filled with an entirely different vision. She imagined Tahj’s dog trotting up to her with a letter in his slobbery mouth. The letter was written on Yale stationery and it read, “Dear Ms. Sinclaire, we regret to inform you that you have been denied admission to Yale. Thanks for trying, and have a nice life. Sincerely, Yale University Office of Admissions.”
Porsha opened her eyes and sucked in her breath. No, she told herself firmly. She wasn’t a loser. She was going to get into Yale, no matter what. She and Kaliq were going to go there, together. They were going to live together and have sex whenever they wanted to. That was the life she had imagined for herself and that was how it was going to be.
She turned to Tahj. “First thing when we get back, I’m calling my dad and asking him to donate something to Yale,” she said determinedly. It wasn’t exactly bribery, was it? That sort of stuff happened all the time! And it wasn’t like she was a bad student or anything.
Still, her interviewer definitely wasn’t going to forget that kiss anytime soon. Whatever her father donated was going to have to be pretty huge.
25
Mrs. McLean, the Emma Willard School headmistress, had given the memo that the upper-school girls would be excused from their last two classes on Monday to attend the senior film festival. Grades seven through twelve filed into the auditorium and took their seats. A large white screen hung from the ceiling over the stage. The contestants sat in the front row, Porsha, Yasmine, and Chanel among them. Arthur Edwards, Imani’s famous actor father, stood at the podium, ready to give a speech and introduce the films.
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