Upper East Side #10

by Ashley Valentine

  Mekhi paused. The only sounds besides the clink of ice were a couple of muffled titters from across the room. His tongue felt thick and dry and he knew he was having trouble with his pronunciation, but he was determined to get his opening remarks out. He’d spent so long drafting their mission statement and fielding e-mails and had gone through revision after revision of his speech—he wasn’t going to go and blow it just because he’d had one drink too many.

  One?

  “We were going to start today with the reading from the book that I liked that I found that day at the Strand. That’s where I work. Where’s that book? Gabriel, do you know where I left that book?”

  “Hey, hey.” Gabriel laughed. “Why don’t we put off the reading for now and maybe just go around the circle or something? We can all introduce ourselves. Mekhi and I have been reading your e-mails, but we’re looking forward to a chance to getting to know you guys in real life.” Gabriel helped ease Mekhi back into his seat on the couch. “Why don’t you go first?” He nodded at a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table. Her head was half-shaven and she was sporting a tattoo of a cockroach on her skull. She seemed to have a very toned body, but her face looked weirdly misshapen.

  The misshapen-faced girl nodded back. “Yo, what’s going on, my name’s Penny,” she barked. “Favorite book, totally got to be Sexing the Cherry, you know how it goes. I just finished school, heading out to Smith in the fall, but I’m so psyched to be here right now, meeting some cool book lovers, you know?” She turned to glance at the girl to her left, who was hugging her knees and sipping shyly at a cup of cheap white wine.

  “H-h-hey,” the girl whispered. “I’m Susanna. My favorite book is The Awakening. I’m from the East Village, I’m thinking of going to Bennington when I finish school next year, and I love Erykah Badu.”

  “You totally look like her,” interjected Penny.

  Susanna blushed, looking down at the ground.

  “I guess I’ll go next,” blurted out a gaunt guy who looked about fourteen, dressed in a gray suit complete with bright maroon bow tie and sitting in a rocking chair across from Mekhi.

  “Yes, please do,” replied Gabriel, slipping Mekhi a bottle of water.

  Mister Considerate!

  “I’m Peter, I’m about to start my sophomore year at NYU, and my favorite writer is definitely J. D. Salinger. In fact, as my honors thesis, I’m thinking of memorizing Raise High the Roofbeam in its entirety.”

  Mekhi sipped the bottle of tepid water. That sounded vaguely familiar—he sort of remembered having read an e-mail from a devoted Salinger fan, but for some reason he was having trouble remembering things.

  Like his own name?

  “Anyway,” Peter continued, “I’m glad I made the cut. Word on the blogs is that this group is pretty exclusive.”

  “I heard that too!” exclaimed the girl sitting next to him, a prim brunette whose milk-white face was framed by perfect brown ringlets. “And I’m so lucky that you were willing to include two Salinger enthusiasts. My name is Franny, and yes, I’m named after the Salinger book, and yes, it’s obviously my favorite book in the world. I’ll be starting at Vassar next year and, um, well, I guess I hope I make some new friends today!”

  Don't we all.

  “Yasmine,” Mekhi murmured, running his hands over the soft-prickly stubble on the back of her head as she kissed him ever so tenderly. “You came back to me.”

  “Er, Mekhi? It’s me, Gabriel. Are you okay?”

  Gabriel’s voice snapped Mekhi back to reality. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, sorry, I think I was nodding off there.”

  “It’s okay. You’ve been sleeping for about an hour.”

  “I have?” He stood up and then sat down again quickly. Whoa. “I was just listening to that girl talk about liking Salinger and that’s the last thing I remember...”

  “That girl?” asked Gabriel, pointing out the curly-haired Franny, who was sprawled on the floor across the room while Peter, her fellow Salinger fan, tickled her neck with his tongue. “She, uh, connected with a fellow book lover, as you can see.”

  “What’s going on?” Mekhi looked around the room, which had grown considerably darker. It seemed like all twenty-two salon-goers were hunkered on the floor in pairs, or in small groups. No one seemed to be doing much talking, and if they were, it certainly wasn’t about books. On the room’s other big couch, Mekhi counted seven legs and eight arms. The half-bald punk girl, Penny, was getting her multiply pierced ears worked over lovingly by Susanna’s tongue right in front of him. Mekhi frowned. His elite literary gathering was turning into an orgy. And he could have sworn someone had been kissing him right before he woke up. But who? There weren’t any girls there with completely shaved heads.

  “Don’t worry, Mekhi,” murmured Gabriel, slipping an arm around his shoulders. “We’re all just having a good time getting to know one another. You know, it’s like we wanted, right?”

  Mekhi nodded. It was?

  Gabriel reached out and cupped Mekhi’s chin gently with his hand. “We’re all passionate people, passionate about books, passionate about life.” Squeezing Mekhi’s chin playfully, Gabriel pulled Mekhi’s face close to his and kissed him, softly, on the lips.

  Mekhi yanked his face away. Excuse me? What the fuck?

  Gabriel smiled and kissed Mekhi again, this time letting his warm tongue slip over Mekhi’s lips. Mekhi was about to pull away again, but his hand involuntarily ran up the back of Gabriel’s neck and into his short, prickly hair. There was something so totally familiar and comforting about kissing someone with short, spiky hair.

  Hello? Even if that someone is a dude?

  Feeling totally confused and extremely nauseated all of a sudden, Mekhi mustered enough energy to push Gabriel away and mumbled something about needing to puke as he stumbled for the bathroom. It was the absinthe that was to blame, he assured himself as he settled onto the white-tiled floor in front of the toilet.

  For the kissing-someone-with-face-stubble part, or the puking part?

  Air Mail - Par Avion - July 11

  Hi Mekhi!

  How come you haven’t been replying to my postcards? Are you okay? Has Yas painted my room black yet? Write me baaaaack!

  Love (but not for long if you don’t write me soon),

  Bree

  11

  “Are you ready yet?” Chanel banged on the thick wood door to the guest house’s only bathroom, straining her voice to be heard over the persistent beat of techno playing outside, and of the noise of partygoers laughing and yelling to one another across the wide, emerald green lawn.

  “Almost.” Porsha dabbed a bit of her current favorite perfume—a lilac concoction from Gucci—behind her earlobes, on her wrists, and, just in case, on the soft space between her breasts that was just visible in her low-cut dress. She glanced at herself in the mirror, imagining what she might look like if someone like, say, Kaliq, just happened to wander next door to check out the party. With her tousled beachy hair and her long nearly white dress, she looked like a bride about to get married on a sailboat. A sailboat like the Charlotte, the boat Kaliq had built that very first summer they were together.

  Which was the only sailboat she’d ever really sailed on.

  She’d been thinking about Kaliq a lot ever since they ran into him three days ago, hoping he’d come visit again. She’d already heard from a million people that his hot romance or whatever-the-fuck he had with that townie girl was long over, and with some proper groveling, she could forgive him for his romantic retardation. Yes, he was a total fuckup and yes, he’d broken her heart a million times, but something about the way he’d watched her run off, taking in her familiar naked form like it was a painting or something, had left her wanting to see him again and again.

  Spinning around on the heels of her white gladiator sandals, Porsha slid the rolling bathroom door open dramatically and stepped into the bedroom, where Chanel was smoking the fourth cigarette she’d lit
since Porsha first disappeared into the bathroom.

  Boredom can turn any nice girl into a pyromaniac.

  “Nice choice.” Chanel nodded approvingly, studying Porsha’s outfit. “But we’ve got to make our grand entrance soon, and there’s no way I’m doing it without you.”

  “You-know-who already outside?” Porsha asked.

  Chanel hopped off the bed and walked over to peer out the window at the action poolside. Porsha joined her, taking in the dozens of silhouettes and the bright blue pool lit up behind them. She spied Ibiza and Svetlana in the distance. “DJ booth.” Chanel pointed. “Nice shorts,” she added, pretending to admire Ibiza’s trashy, butt-cheek-revealing hot pants.

  Porsha snorted, stepping back inside the bathroom to dab a bit of her nail cream onto her cuticles—they seemed a little dry lately.

  Must be all that manual labor.

  “Shit, Porsh, come on, what are you doing back in the bathroom?”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Porsha wiped the excess cream off her nails with one quick swipe. She dropped the tissue in the trash and froze. What. The. Fuck. What was that in the trash!? She bent over and picked up the basket and placed it on the countertop. “Get in here.”

  “You look fine.” Chanel leaned into the bathroom to grab Porsha’s forearm. “Let’s just go. I’m dying for a drink.”

  “Look.” Porsha shook the basket angrily. “Does this strike you as at all suspicious?”

  Chanel glanced at the pink plastic bottle inside the trash can. “Nair.” She paused. “Whatever. I mean, I prefer a waxing, but who knows what they do in Latvia or wherever.”

  “There’s something weird going on.” Porsha’s eyes darted all over the bathroom, looking for signs of criminal activity. She felt like Audrey Hepburn in Charade. She just knew she was in danger. She could sense it. Of course! It dawned on her at last, and she threw open the shower curtain, sending its sleek gold hanging rings clattering.

  “What’s going on?” Chanel yawned, smoothing the waist of her micropleated sundress.

  “I know they’re up to something.” Porsha grabbed her bottle of shampoo from the shelf in the shower. “And I know it can’t possibly be anything original. And I think we both know that the Nair-in-the-shampoo thing is the most obvious trick in the world. Remember that time? At Imani’s sleepover? When we were, like, eleven?”

  Chanel just stared at her.

  “Well, I remember.” Porsha unscrewed the top of the bottle. She didn’t even need to sniff it to realize that someone had indeed tried to pull a switch on her—the powerful chemical fart stench of the Nair was unmistakable. “Bitches!” she cursed. “It’s a fucking good thing I wanted to have beach hair.” She touched her thick locks worriedly to make sure they were still there. “Now it’s fucking war.”

  Dignified and determined, Porsha and Chanel burst out of the guest house’s French doors and onto the white pebble path leading to the swimming pool. Porsha surveyed the crowd, seeing now that they were all men. Every single one. Whoa. A hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty people, and the only girls in sight were her and Chanel—and Ibiza and Svetlana, of course.

  “My dad would totally love this.” Porsha almost wished that her fabulous gay dad, Harold Sinclaire, and his much-younger French boyfriend, Etienne or Edouard or whatever-the-fuck his name was, weren’t off living the good life in the south of France. She wanted someone besides Chanel to witness what was about to happen.

  “My girls are here!” Bailey Winter emerged from a thicket of silver-haired news-anchory types, all of whom seemed to be wearing white blazers and white pants, despite the fact that it was easily eighty degrees. Bailey himself wore a similar ensemble, but with three-quarter-length sleeves and pant legs that left his hot pink argyle knee socks and white shoes exposed. Skipping up the path to Porsha and Chanel, he extended one chubby hand to each of them, his entourage of five yelping pugs following closely on his heels.

  “Come, girls, make a Bailey sandwich.” He giggled. “Hopefully it won’t be the only threesome I’m in tonight.” He grinned and gave a little wave to the shirtless DJ.

  “Lovely party,” Porsha complimented Bailey, noticing the many barely clothed waiters circulating with champagne flutes. But what was with the all-white theme? For people who considered themselves free thinkers, like herself, the idea was just so...single-minded. Porsha supposed it was a way for the rich and famous to make themselves feel chic and fabulous—she even remembered hearing about Kash Polk's apartment being done entirely in white. Even his guests had to match the décor. And while it may have looked fantastic for five minutes, it was so impractical—hello, drunk people, colorful drinks, and white sofas? Could anyone else put two and two together?

  “Thank you, darling!” Bailey squealed. “Step, step, ladies. We need to get you some drinks!” He dashed off in the direction of the bar, pulling the two along with him like puppies on a leash. “Bartender!” he barked at the golden surfer-boy model-type who was behind the bar. His uniform, like those of the rest of the waitstaff, consisted of a low-cut Bailey Winter vest over his perfectly defined bare chest.

  “What do my pets want?” Bailey cooed.

  “Two Martinis.” Porsha turned to scan the crowd, a blur of white trousers against the green grass, perfect haircuts and impressive muscles peeking out of too-short sleeves.

  Then she spotted them: Ibiza and Svetlana, clad in white. Copycat bitches. Svetlana wore a tacky, stretchy asymmetrical dress that emphasized her basically nonexistent chest. Ibiza had squeezed herself into a backless white jumpsuit that looked like something Porsha’s mother might have worn to Studio 54, like, thirty years ago. Nasty.

  Why not do something about it then?

  “Here you are.” The bartender handed Porsha two tumblers filled with the rich orange liquid. “I’m Gavin.”

  “Thank you, Gavin.” Chanel batted her eyelashes at him. “So...are you out here all summer?” she asked, leaning against the weathered-wood bar.

  “Not now,” Porsha snapped, grabbing her friend’s arm.

  She had no patience for Chanel’s flirting—not when they had a job to do.

  “Sorry.” Chanel took a small sip of the bittersweet cocktail. “I was just having a little fun. He’s probably the only non gay guy here.”

  “Bailey, I’d like to get a closer look at the DJ booth,” Porsha announced.

  “Oh, honey, you read my mind.” Bailey guided the two by their elbows around the perimeter of the pool toward the pink-trimmed white cabana that had been erected for the occasion. “He’s positively scrumptious, don’t you think? Oh, shoo, girls.” He waved away Ibiza and Svetlana, who were pawing through the milk crates packed with records. “He’s got work to do!”

  “Ve’re helping him,” Ibiza protested, pouting and sipping at her chardonnay.

  “Sure you are.” Bailey winked sarcastically at Porsha.

  “Why don’t we all go over there and chat?” Porsha pointed at an all-white seating area next to the pool.

  “Yes, yes, you girls go sit—I mean, I had those cushions specially made just for this party. That is the most divine Italian silk. Very rare. Very special. So lounge, come on, look pretty. Go on, run along.” Bailey raised his tiny champagne flute in salute. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on our music man, don’t you worry!”

  Ibiza and Svetlana arranged themselves on the over-stuffed, raw-silk pillows stationed poolside. Porsha and Chanel stood above them, grimacing.

  “He’s a gay, you do know?” Ibiza sipped her wine and stared coldly at Porsha.

  Porsha looked down at her. It was almost like looking in a particularly fucked-up trick mirror at a carnival. “Yes, I’m aware, thanks.”

  “I just thought, you know, you hold hands with him, I tell you, you know, don’t expect anything to happen,” Ibiza continued.

  “Why would I expect anything to happen?” Porsha looked blankly at Chanel.

  “I don’t know.” Chanel shrugged.

  “I mean,
what could happen?” Porsha smiled, then suddenly tripped spastically forward. Her deep-orange cocktail flew at Ibiza’s chest. She grabbed Chanel’s arm to steady herself, which caused Chanel’s drink to spill all over Svetlana’s head.

  What are the odds?

  The crowd clustered around the quartet gave a collective, horrified gasp as everything—the white dresses, the white pillows, Svetlana’s silky hair—turned a deep tangerine color right before their eyes.

  “Oh goodness, what have I done?” Porsha used her cocktail napkin to dab delicately at the front of Ibiza’s dress.

  “Ees ruined, you beetch. Is Versace!” Ibiza waved her away irritably.

  “What happened?” Bailey Winter dashed toward them, palms pressed against his cheeks in dismay. His five pugs barked uneasily at the crowd. “What’s going on? Someone spilled? Oh my word! My pillows!”

  “They do this!” barked Ibiza, the tangerine stain spreading across her hideous formerly white jumpsuit. “They do on purpose!”

  “We better go get some towels...” Porsha backed away from the scene and into the still-stunned-silent crowd.

  “Towels.” Chanel nodded seriously. She pulled at her own silky locks, tying the ends in a knot to hold them in place.

  “I need a minute alone, please!” Bailey Winter raised his hands and started shooing. “Everyone, please, just back to the party. Pretend I’m not here.”

  That’s right: ignore the weeping man in pink argyle socks surrounded by barking dogs.

  “We’ll give you a minute.” Porsha grabbed Chanel’s hand and pulled her through the crowd of men. By the time they reached the lawn, both of them were nearly hysterical with giggles.

  “What now?” Chanel gasped. “We can’t go back there.”