Upper East Side #10

by Ashley Valentine

  We all get a little moody around our birthdays.

  Chanel padded into her father’s library and slunk into his swiveling chair. She grabbed the telephone from his desk and dialed one of the few telephone numbers she’d ever memorized.

  “Hello?” Her brother Cairo’s voice sounded very suspicious. It was six o’clock in the morning, after all.

  “It’s me.” Chanel leaned back, placing her bare feet on her dad’s old mahogany desk.

  “Shit, Chanel. Came up as the home number—was worried for a minute.” Her brother laughed.

  “They’re not here.” She studied the book-lined walls, examining the framed family photos of Cairo playing tennis, of Chanel astride a black horse, of her tanned parents sipping sodas at an outdoor café on the Amalfi coast. “Out of the country,” Chanel and her brother said in unison.

  “They’re so damn predictable,” Cairo scoffed. “What are you doing home, anyway?”

  “Just planning a little summer getaway. Thought I’d give my brother a call. And where are you exactly?”

  “Connecticut,” Cairo told her. “I thought Dad might be calling to say they were coming out.”

  Chanel glanced through the French doors into the living room, where Kaliq was chasing Porsha around a leather ottoman, trying to stick Cheetos in her ears. “We’re taking a road trip,” Chanel told him. “You want to come? We’ve got room in the car for one more.”

  And maybe she didn’t feel like being the third wheel?

  “Tempting. But I’m kind of digging it up here. How about a pit stop in Ridgefield instead?”

  She did some quick mental planning—they could crash here today, then head out tomorrow morning. Then maybe she could convince Porsha and Kaliq to spend a night in Ridgefield, and hopefully someone would realize that the next day was her birthday. “I think we can arrange that.”

  Chanel said goodbye to her bother, replacing the phone on her dad’s desk. She glanced toward the closet, wondering idly if her parents had stashed a surprise birthday present for her somewhere in the apartment.

  Aren’t surprises always the most fun?

  Porsha yawned—the kind of deep yawn you feel all through your body—and ran Chanel’s brush through her hair roughly. She’d never been one of those one-thousand-strokes-of-the-brush-before-bed types but still, it couldn’t hurt. It was only eight o’clock in the morning and the sun was streaming in through the window, but it seemed like years, not hours, since she’d had a proper night’s sleep.

  “I can’t believe I’m so tired.” Chanel collapsed onto the wide plain of her bed, arms and legs stretched out around her.

  “Yeah.” Kaliq hesitated at the foot of the bed, glancing at Porsha, who was standing by the mirror, and then down at Chanel, lying prone in front of him.

  “I’m done.” Chanel unbuttoned her jeans and wiggled out of them without standing up. “I can’t even get under the blankets.”

  Porsha glanced at Chanel’s long tapered legs and then at Kaliq looking at those same legs. She felt a familiar pang of jealousy inside her chest. She’d loved and been jealous of Chanel for as long as she’d known her, which was pretty much forever. But things were finally different. The year had been filled with so many ups and downs, but it was finally summer, they were going to Yale together in the fall, and they had the rest of their lives as best friends ahead of them. And she had Kaliq, right here, right now, right in front of her.

  Now who’s forgetting about someone?

  Porsha slipped her pale pink polo over her head and then reached up her back to unclasp her bra, which she let fall to the ground casually. “Kaliq, can I sleep in your shirt?” she asked shyly.

  “Course.” Kaliq nodded eagerly, trying to look away. He pulled his cotton tee off and tossed it to her.

  She pulled it over her head, pausing inside the darkness of it to breathe in his overwhelming scent: his armpits and his laundry detergent, a hint of weed smoke and toothpaste.

  Good enough to eat.

  By the time she popped her head through the head hole in the still-warm T-shirt, Kaliq had kicked off his khakis and crashed out on the bed next to Chanel in a pair of funny palm-tree-printed boxers that Porsha was pretty sure had been a present from her.

  She switched off the bedroom’s overhead light. The morning summer sun was pouring through the bedroom window, illuminating the bodies of her friends. She walked over to the foot of the bed, then carefully wedged herself between Chanel, who was already sleeping, her breaths long and muted, like a baby’s, and an almost-naked Kaliq.

  “Night,” Kaliq whispered.

  “Night,” she quietly repeated. Her heart pounding in her ears, Porsha suddenly felt wide awake. She studied the delicately molded panels of Chanel’s ceiling as she listened to the light snore of her best friend and tried to ignore the soft skin of her other best friend—the only guy she had ever really loved—whose arm was grazing hers ever so slightly. How was she ever going to fall asleep?

  Then she felt fingers trailing down her arm, so delicately it tickled. Kaliq’s hand slid down over her wrist, then slipped into her palm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  Letting out a sigh, it felt like she was breathing out something she didn’t even know was inside of her. The frustration, the jealousy, the worry over what would happen next. She turned to look at him, but his eyes were closed, and soon hers were too. And that’s how they slept, for the rest of the day and into the night.

  17

  “Davey, Hargrove, Bogart, whatever your name is, speed it up.”

  All the managers at the Strand had the same authoritative bark that never failed to make Mekhi stand up a little straighter. He looked left and right but couldn’t tell where the command had come from.

  “You waiting for an engraved invitation, madam?” Phil, a balding, failed Ph.D. candidate who loved to make the afternoon shifts hell, popped his head around an old rusty metal shelf.

  “Asshole,” Mekhi muttered as he pushed the groaning cart of to-be-shelved books.

  Sensitive much?

  The cracked rubber wheels squeaked and clacked as Mekhi pushed the rickety cart down the long, narrow aisle, past the outdated travel guides. He took a deep breath, immersing himself in the familiar rhythm of picking up a book, determining the last name of the author, and locating its spot on the shelf. It was a sure way to let his subconscious speak to him:

  Hairy kiss—burn my chin

  The sick taste of absinthe in my throat

  Deep in my gullet; sore lips and

  Punches in the gut

  Blind corners turned and now I am nowhere....

  His poetic free association was interrupted when an oversize book slipped off his cart. He bent over to pick it up, reading the title: Everything You’ve Always Wanted to Know (Go Ahead, Admit It!) About Gay Sex by Melvin Lloyd and Dr. Stephen Furman.

  The line drawing on the glossy cover showed two male forms embracing chastely. Like brothers. Or baseball players after a game. Totally normal. Glancing around to see if anyone was near—as usual, no one was interested in the travel guides to New Zealand published in the 1970s—Mekhi opened the book, whistling all casual-like.

  Nice try.

  The slick pages slipped through his fingers, revealing more line drawings of two muscular fellows in various embraces, arms and tongues positioned here and there. There were a number of bullet points and lists of dos and don’ts. He skimmed the book, heart pounding, taking in only snatches of phrases like “Insert your tongue” and “Some partners find the use of an elbow helpful” and “Remember to brush your teeth.”

  Pausing again to make sure that he was alone, Mekhi skipped ahead to the back of the book, where the heavier paper stock meant only one thing: photographs. And there they were, in full-color glory: two men, performing what at first glance looked like a gymnastic routine.

  Mekhi’s throat suddenly felt very dry. He slammed the book shut and stuffed it on the very bottom of his pile. He’d never needed a cigarette thi
s badly in his life.

  Breathe, breathe.

  Shaking slightly, Mekhi inhaled deeply on a beloved Newport and stepped away from the Strand. He needed a walk to purge his mind of the mental images of those two thick-necked wrestler types in unimaginable poses. Not that he had any kind of problem with gay people, of course. They’re here, they’re queer, it’s awesome. But there were some things that people just weren’t meant to do with their bodies. Like running. And yoga. And...whatever it was you called the thing he had just seen depicted in that book.

  Yoga. He’d had a brush with that stuff—that was the closest he’d come to contorting his body into a shape resembling what the guys in the book were doing, and he was not eager to get into that particular position again anytime soon. The only reason he’d bothered with yoga in the first place had been for a girl. He’d been so crazed over Nicole he’d experimented with all kinds of insane things: yoga, running, organic fruit juice. Maybe the same thing was happening with Gabriel? He’d never really met anyone who loved books as much as he did. Maybe he was just getting everything all mixed up? Maybe it was just like his dad had said and he was just transferring his passion for books onto their friendship?

  Yup—like quasi-gay father, like quasi-gay son.

  Dodging the summer tourist sidewalk traffic, Mekhi stubbed out his cigarette and stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his fraying brown corduroys. You can’t be gay. The image of Nicole naked and glistening with sweat in that overheated yoga studio came to him, and suddenly he felt a little out of breath. A little dizzy. What was this sensation? It felt familiar and alien all at once. And he felt something else too—a boner. In full daylight, like a little kid. Looking down at it, he couldn’t help but smile. It was the best boner he’d ever had! The thought of Nicole, her bare skin damp with sweat as she arched her back and planted her palms on the floor, was what sent his heart racing.

  He lit another cigarette to celebrate the fact that he had biological evidence to prove that he, Mekhi Hargrove, was most certainly not gay. He had to keep himself from jumping in the air to click his heels together.

  Oh, and that’s not gay at all.

  18

  “Girls! There are girls here!” yelled a guy Chanel didn’t recognize. He lurched down the stone steps from the foyer to the driveway, clutching one of her mother’s antique crystal champagne flutes. He raised the glass in salute as she stepped out of the Aston Martin, sloshing champagne all over the stone steps.

  “Dude, that’s my sister.” Cairo Crenshaw pushed the staggering guy out of his way and raced toward Chanel. He wore a rumpled blue oxford sshirt, top three buttons undone, and khakis that had started to fray at the cuffs. His silky black hair was mussed and his huge almond-shaped eyes were bloodshot, but he was as handsome as ever. “What's up, sis.”

  “Got the party started, I see.” Chanel hugged her brother excitedly. “In case you forgot, my birthday’s not till tomorrow.”

  “You only turn eighteen once.” He threw his arms around her and lifted her off her feet easily. “Happy almost birthday.”

  “This is for me?” Chanel asked, a smile spreading across her face. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly her idea of a birthday party, but it was sweet that her brother had remembered. Even if it was probably just a convenient excuse for a blowout.

  Probably?

  Behind her, Porsha and Kaliq shuffled out of the backseat. Chanel had volunteered to drive since she knew how to get here the best, and Porsha couldn’t drive stick, but did they really have to ride in the backseat together again? What was she, the chauffeur?

  Kind of looks that way.

  “What’s up, guys?” Cairo greeted them.

  “Hey.” Kaliq nodded at Cairo. “Good call on the party. I almost forgot that tomorrow’s your birthday,” he said, turning to Chanel.

  Porsha slipped her hand into her best friend’s. “What’s an appropriate afternoon cocktail, birthday girl?”

  Is there one that’s not appropriate?

  The scene by the pool was like something out of a screw-ball college comedy. A gaggle of obviously drunk guys in board shorts cannonballed into the water, splashing their buddies seated nearby. A crowd lingered near the double-height French doors that led to the library and the well-stocked bar. And there were so few girls in evidence—a couple stretched out on chaises near the diving board and a trio of giggling girls attempting some kind of drinking game—that wherever they congregated, a drooling group of boys was not far off. Someone had rigged an iPod to the Crenshaws' stereo system, and the insistent thrum of the new Drake album filled the air.

  “This is finally starting to feel like summer vacation.” Porsha slipped her feet out of her white leather Prada flip-flops and propped them on the edge of the wrought-iron garden table. She swirled the ice in her Bloody Mary distractedly.

  “Something like that.” Chanel leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and scanned the crowd that had gathered, supposedly, for her birthday celebration. The guys outnumbered the girls by a ratio of about ten million to one, and though she recognized some of them—Cairo’s old tennis teammates, his roommate at Brown—she didn’t see many familiar faces in the crowd. She might be the birthday girl, but she wondered if anyone even knew who she was.

  It’s her party and she’ll pout if she wants to.

  Growing up, Chanel always hated having a summer birthday. She never got to have ice cream parties at Serendipity because all her friends were away at camp or whiling away the season in the Hamptons. She never got to bring pastel-frosted cupcakes for the whole class to enjoy. She never got to have the coveted tea party at the Plaza with all her best girlfriends. All because she just happened to be born during the three months of the year when the last thing anyone wanted to think about was anyone but themselves.

  “Shit.” Porsha tilted her head back and drained her glass. “I guess I was thirsty. You want another?”

  Chanel shook her head, almost spilling her untouched Cosmopolitan. “I’m good.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Chanel watched from behind her aviators as Porsha launched out of her seat and padded toward the bar. Cairo was presiding over the bottles of alcohol lined up like toy soldiers on the elaborate carved mahogany bar. Kaliq was lingering on the fringes of the crowd, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his tattered khaki shorts. Chanel watched as he pretended not to see Porsha skipping through the crowd toward him.

  Interesting.

  She’d woken up this morning to the sound of Porsha’s giggles, but when she’d asked what was funny, Porsha had sighed and said, “Just Kaliq.” Then, in the car, she kept glancing back at them in the rearview mirror, but every time Porsha was just staring placidly out the window, and Kaliq was resting his eyes. Nothing amiss. So why did she feel so...weird?

  She raised her glass and swallowed a small sip of the tart cocktail, finally recognizing someone in the crowd: a broad-chested, dark-skinned guy was seated at the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water. His eyes had a familiar sparkle as he took in the scene around him, drumming his long, tapered fingers on the neck of his beer bottle. The tiniest suggestion of a grin played on his full lips, and Chanel knew that behind those lips were two rows of brilliant white teeth. She could picture his smile, she could practically hear the tremulous sound of his voice as he whispered the words she’d run away from. That was the last time she’d seen him, exactly one year ago.

  Hakeem was the bassist in Hanover’s jazz band. He was tall and cute with a mischievous smile. Chanel’s dorm room had been right under his, and late at night she’d throw her textbooks at the ceiling, waiting for him to drop something loud and heavy on the floor in response. Sometimes—actually, a lot—they’d hang out on the roof and drink whiskey and smoke cigars. They’d been good friends, and then the year had ended and they’d wound up in Ridgefield together—his family lived there year round, and she summered there. The night before her seventeenth birthday she and Hakeem had stayed up late, drinking a
nd talking, and had wound up on their backs on the tennis court, waiting for shooting stars, and eventually kissing. Then, Hakeem said it: “I love you.” Instead of saying it back, Chanel fled into the house, booked a plane to Paris to join her brother, Cairo, in his travels, and never spoke to Hakeem again. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. Honestly, she did. But love was unmistakable, and at that time, there was only one boy she could ever truly love. Then, and maybe now, too...

  Chanel tipped her glass back and gulped its contents, her hands shaking. Leave it to me to have a nervous breakdown the night before my eighteenth birthday, she thought.

  “Hey. Remember me?”

  Hakeem’s voice gave her a little start. “I was wondering when you were going to come over and say hello.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and smiled at him.

  “I could say the same thing.” The chair’s legs scraped noisily on the concrete as he pulled it out and took a seat. “You look great.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled shyly, taking a sip of her drink. She fumbled nervously for her cigarettes, which were lying on the table near the trunk of the big umbrella.

  Hakeem lit her shaking Gauloise and then helped himself to one from her stash. Chanel exhaled a long plume of smoke, which danced away in the breeze.

  “What happened to you, anyway?” Hakeem smiled thoughtfully, studying Chanel’s face. “I mean...you just left.”

  Chanel looked away.

  “I e-mailed you a few times,” Hakeem continued. “I never heard back from you...And when I tried again, your school account had been closed.”

  “I guess I needed to be alone for a little while to sort some things out. And then I went back to the city.” She pulled a strand of hair out from behind her ear and played with it distractedly, smiling sadly. “It’s a long story.” One even she didn’t understand, and one she’d never told anyone.