Upper East Side #2

by Ashley Valentine

  Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, Porsha thought bitterly. As soon as this receiving line bullshit was over, she was going to find Kaliq and have a serious talk with him. Didn’t he understand how much she needed him right now? Couldn’t he see?

  “At least they got this right,” Misty Harrison whispered to her husband when they passed through the receiving line and entered the elegant ballroom of the St. Claire Hotel, where the wedding reception was to take place. The room sparkled with silver, white linen, crystal, and candlelight. A harp player sat in the corner, playing discreetly. Waiters in white jackets distributed flutes of golden champagne and escorted guests to their appointed tables.

  If Porsha had involved herself in the seating arrangements, things might have been slightly different, but Chanel, Mekhi, Kaliq, and Cairo were all seated at the same table with Chanel sitting between Kaliq and Mekhi. Across the table from them was Jaylen, Chanel and Mekhi’s least favorite person in the entire zip code. He had shellacked his hair back with gel, which was a new look for him. It made him look like more of a penis man than ever.

  (Penis man, noun: An insensitive, arrogant, annoying jerk. Usually, but not always, short and bald. Thinks he’s the studliest dude in the room.)

  Jaylen was actually devastatingly handsome, in an aftershave commercial kind of way, with smooth butterscotch skin and masculine features. It was his personality that made him a penis man.

  On either side of Jaylen were Alexis and Imani, still squirming in their too-tight dresses. Mekhi sat down at his place and eyed the array of silverware.

  “It’s not that hard,” Jaylen told him snottily. He pointed at Mekhi’s soup spoon. “Just work your way from the outside in.”

  “Thanks,” Mekhi said miserably. He wiped his clammy hands on his tuxedo pants. He should never have come.

  The waiters brought the first course. Turkey soup, in honor of Thanksgiving, and a big basket of warm sourdough rolls.

  “So I’m confused here,” Jaylen continued, dominating the table in his usual obnoxious way. He pointed his bread knife at Chanel. “Are you with him?” he asked, jabbing his knife at Kaliq. “Or him?” He thrust his knife at Mekhi.

  Cairo laughed. “Actually, Jaylen,” he said sarcastically, “they’re a threesome. Kaliq’s had a crush on Mekhi forever. Chanel introduced them.”

  Chanel stirred her soup up and rolled her eyes apologetically at Mekhi. “Mekhi’s my date,” she said. “And he’s probably hating me right now.”

  Mekhi shrugged. “No, I’m not.”

  But he wondered what the real answer to Jaylen’s question was. Are you with him? Well, was she? Was she?

  Finally all the guests had passed through the receiving line, and Porsha and her new and improved family made their way to the head table. Porsha sat down between Tahj and Brice, practically back-to-back with Kaliq. She couldn’t believe it. Chanel and Kaliq were sitting next to each other at the next table, while she was stuck sitting with her family. Un-fucking-believable.

  She leaned back in her chair to whisper in Kaliq’s ear. “Can I talk to you? After the speeches?”

  Kaliq nodded hesitantly. He looked at his watch. Brianna would be there soon. It was possible he could avoid talking to Porsha altogether.

  Satisfied, Porsha tilted forward in her chair and scooped up her champagne flute, downing its contents in one giant gulp. If she was finally going to lose her virginity to Kaliq, she wanted to be relaxed.

  “Easy there, princess,” Tahj warned. “I don’t want you puking all over me.”

  “Why not?” Porsha replied, holding up her glass for the waiter to fill. “It would be an improvement.”

  Cyrus was reading from a stack of index cards and mumbling to himself, practicing his speech. “Don’t be nervous, darling,” Eleanor said, patting his shoulder. “Just be yourself.”

  Porsha rolled her eyes and downed another glass of champagne. That was the worst advice she’d ever heard.

  The waiters cleared the soup bowls and poured more champagne. Cyrus was sweating like a pig. He picked up a fork and banged it on his glass.

  Porsha couldn’t stand to sit there one agonizing minute longer. She sloshed champagne around in her mouth to clean it of any impurities, turned around, and tugged on the sleeve of Kaliq’s jacket.

  “Let’s just go now,” she said, between clenched teeth.

  Kaliq turned around and stared at her.

  “People, if I could just have a moment of your attention!” Cyrus said, still banging on his glass.

  “Let’s go, Kaliq,” Porsha ordered.

  Kaliq looked at his watch. Brianna was coming in a few minutes. No way was he going to keep her waiting because he was off somewhere letting Porsha cry on his shoulder. “But Cyrus is making a speech.”

  Porsha dug her nails into his arm. “Exactly,” she said. “Come on.”

  Kaliq shook his head. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Just relax,” he told her and turned around.

  Porsha stared at the back of Kaliq’s wavy head in disbelief. “What?” she said, not sure if she’d heard him right. Her bare butt itched from her dress chafing against it. This isn’t happening, she told herself. Kaliq wasn’t acting like an asshole, and he didn’t just majorly diss her. It was all in her head.

  Cyrus cleared his throat.

  “Porsha!” her mother hissed from across the table.

  Tahj grabbed her hand and pulled her around in her chair. “Don’t be rude,” he told her.

  The entire room was quiet, waiting for Cyrus to begin his speech. “Thank you for coming,” he began. “And thank you for cutting your Thanksgiving plans short so you could be here.” Then he launched into the same lame ass speech Porsha had heard him practicing at home all week, pacing up and down the hallway of their 72nd Street penthouse in the same kind of cashmere pajama bottoms that she had stolen for Kaliq.

  Porsha sat very still, watching the bubbles float from the bottom of her champagne glass to the top. If she moved one muscle, her head was going to explode.

  31

  “I hope he’s waiting for us in the lobby,” Bree said nervously.

  “Don’t worry,” Yasmine soothed. “We’ll find him.”

  They pushed their way through the St. Claire Hotel’s revolving door and glanced around the sumptuous lobby. Both girls were dressed in the little black dresses they’d picked up for ten dollars at a thrift shop in Williamsburg. Bree’s was embroidered with jet beads, and Yasmine’s had a velvet cat sewn into the skirt. She was also wearing black fishnet stockings, which was a first. Both girls looked very retro and extremely cute.

  “There he is!” Bree squealed, making a beeline for Kaliq, who was sitting stiffly on a chair in the corner, gulping his champagne.

  “Good,” Yasmine said, suddenly feeling completely out of place. What was she supposed to do while Bree and her rich preppy boyfriend were groping each other’s asses? “I’ll see you guys over at the bar.” She’d insisted that she was only coming along for moral support, but of course she had an ulterior motive. There was a chance Mekhi would pass by on his way to the bathroom or something. Then she wouldn’t feel like she’d wasted her time putting on a dress.

  “Hey, Brianna.” Kaliq kissed her on the cheek and took her hand.

  “Hey,” Bree replied, her eyes wide with excitement. She took in Kaliq’s shiny lace-up shoes. His crisp black tuxedo. His wavy hair. His glimmering green eyes. “You look…really, really good.”

  Kaliq smiled. “Thanks. So do you.”

  “So what do you want to do?” she asked.

  “Let’s just sit down and hang out for a while, okay?”

  “Okay.” Kaliq led her over to a loveseat in a quiet corner by the bar. “Is it okay if I just have a seltzer or something?” she asked, crossing her legs and nervously uncrossing them again. “I feel kind of weird.”

  “Of course,” he said. The waiter approached and he ordered for them. “Two seltzers.”

  Wow, he really was reform
ing.

  He took Bree’s hand again and put it in his lap. Bree giggled. It felt weird to be in a hotel bar with Kaliq instead of in the park or at his house. She felt like everyone in the hotel was watching them.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he said quietly. He lifted her small hand and kissed the back of it tenderly.

  “I’m trying not to be.” Bree closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned her head against Kaliq’s shoulder. It was easy to relax when she was with him. He made her feel so safe. She opened her eyes to find him smiling down at her, his green eyes shining.

  “I have a feeling I’m going to get in a lot of trouble for this,” he said, as if he was looking forward to it.

  Bree frowned. “How come?”

  “I don’t know.” He wasn’t about to explain to Bree that his girlfriend, Porsha, was right in the next room, probably armed and dangerous. “I just have a feeling.”

  Bree gave his hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”

  “So,” Porsha’s mother said, when Cyrus had finished his speech and the quenelle and organic leaf salad were served. “Cyrus and Brice and I have been talking about our name.”

  “What about our name?” Porsha asked. She poked her quenelle with her fork. “What is this stuff, anyway?”

  “Don’t you remember?” her mother said. “We chose it at the tasting.”

  Porsha took a tiny bite. “It tastes like cat food.” She shoved her plate to the side and picked up her champagne glass.

  “Anyway,” her mother continued. “Brice’s agreed to change his name to Campbell. And I’ve already done it. So that leaves you.”

  Porsha kicked her chair leg. This wasn’t the first time the subject had come up. “You’re changing yours?” she asked her brother incredulously.

  Brice nodded. “I decided to, yeah. Brice Campbell. It sounds cool, doesn’t it? Like a DJ or something.”

  “Definitely,” Tahj agreed. He lowered his voice. “Laying on the beats it’s Brice Campbell, coming to you live from 72nd Street.”

  “Shut up,” Porsha mumbled. As if her middle name weren’t lame enough, now they were trying to stick her with an even lamer new last name? Porsha Cornelia Campbell—no fucking way. “I told you before. I’m not changing it,” she said.

  Her mother’s face fell. “Oh, Porsha. It’d be so nice if we all shared a name. Like a real family.”

  “No,” Porsha insisted.

  Cyrus gave her a sympathetic smile. “It would mean a lot to me and your mother if you’d at least think about it some more.”

  Porsha pressed her lips together to keep from screaming in outrage. What part of “no” didn’t they understand? She turned around to look for Kaliq, but his chair was…empty. Oh, why was everything such a fucking mess?

  “Sorry,” she said bitterly. The quenelle rose up in her throat, mingling fizzily with the liters of champagne she’d already consumed. Porsha clapped her hand over her mouth and quickly fled the table.

  Chanel and Cairo were making food sculptures with their quenelle. It was too nasty to eat, and the band hadn’t started playing yet, so there was nothing else to do. Cairo had stolen Kaliq’s plate, and they’d stuck the three fish-shaped quenelles on top of each other, linking them together with two cocktail straws. Cairo knew how to do this because he was studying architecture at Brown.

  Mekhi actually liked the quenelle. He ate it very slowly, gathering courage for what he was about to do.

  “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” he finally asked Chanel, putting his hand on the table beside her plate to get her attention.

  “Sure,” she said, turning around.

  “Don’t mind me,” Cairo said, sandbagging their quenelle stack with balls of butter. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “What’s up?” Chanel tucked her hair behind her ears and leaned toward Mekhi, giving him her complete attention.

  Mekhi looked into her dark, almond shaped eyes and tried to find what he was looking for. Something that would tell him he’d been silly to worry. That she loved him just as much as he loved her. But he couldn’t see anything in her eyes but brown.

  “I just wanted to say that I didn’t mean to…I didn’t want…when I sent you that poem, I thought…” Mekhi didn’t know what he was trying to say. It sounded like he was apologizing, and he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t sorry about anything but the fact that Chanel’s eyes were still brown, and nothing more.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it.” Chanel took a sip of her champagne and fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth. “You were just a little too intense, that’s all.”

  Too intense? Mekhi wondered. What was that supposed to mean?

  All of a sudden the jazz band began to play. “Oh, I love this song!” Chanel cried. She was a sucker for corny music.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom!” the band leader announced. Cyrus and Eleanor Campbell stood up and twirled out onto the dance floor, beckoning to their guests to join them. Jaylen grabbed both Alexis and Imani’s hands and twirled them away, his hands sliding down their backs to their butts within seconds.

  “Wanna dance?” Chanel asked Mekhi. She stood up and held out her hand.

  Mekhi looked up at her with hurt eyes, feeling very intense indeed. “No, thanks,” he said. He stood up to leave. “I think I’ll go smoke a cigarette.”

  Chanel watched him go. She knew Mekhi was upset, but what could she do? It seemed like no matter what she said or did he would always find a reason to be miserable. That was the way he liked it. It gave him something to write about.

  Chanel preferred to be carefree and happy-go-lucky, just like her brother. She downed her champagne and grabbed Cairo by the shoulders to distract him from his food games. “Can’t a girl have any fun anymore?” she asked him, giggling a little desperately.

  Cairo stood up. “This girl definitely can,” he said, taking her in his arms and dipping her backward dramatically.

  And it was true. Chanel did always find a way to have fun, she just hadn’t found it yet. But the night was still young…

  32

  “Have you seen my brother?” Bree asked Kaliq. “Is he having a good time?”

  Kaliq flicked open his silver lighter and lit a cigarette. “I wasn’t really paying that much attention,” he admitted.

  “I’m sure he is.” Bree looked around at the hotel’s luxurious decor. “I mean, how could he not?”

  Kaliq tilted his head and blew smoke at the ceiling. Bree took a sip of her seltzer.

  “Are you having a good time?” she asked.

  Kaliq leaned forward and rested his head on her bare shoulder. She smelled like baby powder and hair conditioner. “I’m having a much better time now than I was in there.”

  “Really?” Bree still couldn’t get over the fact that Kaliq even liked her. Now he was telling her he’d rather hang out with her than be dancing at the reception of one of the biggest weddings of the year?

  Kaliq ducked his head and kissed his way up the side of her neck and along her jawbone until he reached her lips. Bree squeezed her eyes shut and kissed him back. She felt like a princess in a fairy tale, and she never wanted to wake up.

  Mekhi slipped into a seat at the end of the St. Claire Hotel bar and ordered a double scotch on the rocks. With trembling hands he pulled a Newport out of his coat pocket and lit it. Tears fell on the cigarette’s paper as it hung, damp and bent, from between his lips. He grabbed a pen from off the bar and drew a big black X on his cocktail napkin. It was all he could muster.

  All those lovely, tragic poems he’d written had been meant to ward away the actual tragedy, the actual idea even, that Chanel didn’t love him. But it was true after all. She didn’t.

  The funny thing was, he wasn’t crying over her so much as what she’d said. He was too intense. A weirdo destined to scare people off because no one would be able to match his intensity.

  Mekhi’s chest convulsed in a sob and he slumped forwar
d, resting his forehead against the edge of his glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar image of curly hair, enormous cleavage, and a tiny figure.

  His sister. And next to her, with his hands all over her enormous cleavage and tiny figure was that rich bastard, Kaliq.

  Mekhi really wasn’t in the mood to watch his little sister get molested by another stoned prep boy with hash for brains. Sitting up, he poured the glass of scotch down his throat and spun around.

  After throwing up her quenelle, Porsha had gone outside to smoke a cigarette and get some fresh air. That didn’t last long. It was November and she was freezing her ass off, so she went inside and headed back to the ladies’ room to spruce herself up.

  As soon as she rinsed out her mouth, smoothed down her hair, put on another coat of MAC lipstick, and spritzed herself with perfume, she was going to find Kaliq and take him upstairs to their suite. Enough was enough. It was her birthday and she wanted it her way.

  But as she passed through the bar on the way to the ladies’ room, Porsha stopped dead in her dead tracks. In the corner, Kaliq Braxton—her Kaliq—was kissing that little ninth-grade bitch from Emma Willard. The soundtrack came to a crescendo and then stopped dead. The leading lady trembled, her eyes wide.

  Porsha felt like she’d been shot in the stomach. Kaliq looked completely relaxed and happy. He and the girl—what was her name, Bria? Brielle?—were holding hands. They were smiling and murmuring sweetly to each other. They looked like they were in love.

  This was definitely not in the script. And as she looked on in horror and fascination, Porsha had the most starkly disappointing realization of her entire life. Worse even than the thought of not getting into Yale.

  Kaliq wasn’t her leading man. He wasn’t going to sweep her off her feet and love her and only her. He was just a supporting actor, some loser who would drop off the screen before the final act. And if that was the case, she definitely didn’t want him.