Upper East Side #3

by Ashley Valentine

  After the fish market she wanted to spend the day with one of those bicycle cops who were always riding their bikes in pairs around Central Park, and who never seemed to care that all the kids in Sheep Meadow were getting high and drinking beer underage. What she wanted to find out was, did they ever arrest anyone, or were they just trying to build muscle tone in their legs with all that riding? Actually, the police department probably wouldn’t let her film the bike cops without some kind of permit, but it was a nice idea anyway.

  Finally, she wanted to hang out with a hot dog vendor. See his house, his family, his pets. See if he had any regular customers. See if maybe while he waited for people to come buy hot dogs he read some very challenging book and dreamed of being a leader of men someday. Or maybe he was just happy being a hot dog vendor and eating free hot dogs all day.

  A movement at the front of the room caught Yasmine’s eye. The Willard lemmings were dispersing from around Chanel’s chair.

  “Thank you, girls. And thank you, Chanel,” Mr. Hanson called. “Ten more minutes.”

  Yasmine watched as Chanel went back to fervently splitting her split ends. Chanel and Mekhi were both supposed to have starred in her Natural Born Killers film that October. But then Mekhi had acted like such an idiot around Chanel that Yasmine couldn’t stand it, so she’d asked a girl who could barely act to play the female lead instead. Chanel had been into Mekhi, too, but only for about five seconds. And before Chanel could do too much damage, Yasmine had stormed in with her shaved head and black turtleneck and combat boots to mend his broken heart.

  Yasmine uncrossed her legs and then crossed them again. The thought of rescuing Mekhi from a broken heart made her want to have sex with him even more. She sighed impatiently. Over break she and Mekhi were going to spend a lot of time together with very little adult supervision. Whether he was ready or not, it was only a matter of time before they hsd sex.

  See? Despite Yasmine’s tough look and disdain for almost everyone else in the human race, she was just another curious seventeen-year-old girl. We’re all the same.

  8

  Kaliq was eating lunch at Jackson Hole with Anthony, Charlie, and Jeremy in the hour between his calculus and chemistry exams. The calc exam had been a total bitch, and they were all loading up on burgers and fries and Cokes to make it through chem, which was probably going to be even worse. Kaliq was thinking about how the restaurant should invest in some ceiling fans to get rid of the deep-fried onion-fart odor lingering in the air. He was also thinking about Bree and Porsha in the sort of nonspecific, unworried way he tended to think about most things.

  He hadn’t heard from Brianna since Saturday night, which was kind of strange, since she usually sent him cryptic little text messages on his cell phone or sweet little e-mails to his St. Jude’s e-mail address. Maybe she was just busy studying for midterms. Kaliq pushed his plate away and pulled his phone out of his pocket. It wouldn’t hurt for him to send her a text message, just to keep her spirits up during exams.

  Aw, how thoughtful.

  Good luck! he wrote. Thurs pm ill take u xmas shopping.

  Jeremy stretched his skinny arms overhead and rolled his head around to unkink his neck. “Hey, who’re you texting, man?” He was a small, gawky kid who was so thin he had trouble keeping his pants up.

  Kaliq shrugged. “None of your business.”

  Anthony shoved a handful of cold, ketchup-soaked fries into his mouth. He played on just about every sports team at St. Jude’s, so he could eat fries all day and still look buff. “Hey, I noticed Porsha was looking pretty good on Saturday night.”

  Kaliq nodded as an image of Porsha’s ass in her tight black dress surfaced in his mind. She had looked good.

  “Course she’s not stacked like Brianna,” Anthony added. The boys had stopping making fun of Kaliq for going out with a ninth grader a while ago, but every now and then they made a reference to Bree’s enormous chest. It was kind of hard not to.

  Kaliq smiled. Then he frowned, trying to remember what Brianna had looked like on Saturday, but all that came to mind was a mess of black curls, her stupendous cleavage, and her shy smile. He took a few gulps of Coke, squinting his gorgeous green eyes and thinking hard. Which was a very rare occurrence indeed.

  It was strange, but Kaliq had never sat down and actually compared the two girls. He really liked Brianna a lot—she was less demanding than Porsha and kind of left him to his own thoughts, while Porsha always wanted to know what he was thinking or where he was going and who he was with. Bree didn’t put any pressure on him the way Porsha had, like forcing him to apply to Yale so they could live together off campus or giving him expensive presents so he’d feel compelled to return the gesture and buy her something, too. And Bree had those incredible tits, while Porsha’s were just sort of there. Nice, but nothing spectacular.

  Despite Porsha’s shortcomings, though, he’d always felt like they really knew each other—after all, they’d grown up together. And the whole time they’d been going out, he’d felt like they were moving toward something. There was a destination, like the red pin he stuck in his nautical charts when he sailed his boat into harbor somewhere. The destination was partly sex—they’d done everything but, so it was an obvious next step. But it was also partly something less specific. Their lives were moving forward at the same pace, separately, but together. They were both seventeen. They were both graduating this June. They were both going to college next year.

  He and Brianna were on totally separate courses, and unfortunately sex wasn’t even on the horizon. She was only fourteen. Next year, and for two more years after that, she’d be putting on her uniform and going to Emma Willard every day while he was at college doing who knows what. Most guys would be put off by the age difference, but Kaliq found it sort of comforting. While he was drifting in the uncharted waters of the future, Bree would be securely anchored at home. He could text her, or call her, or come back and see her, and nothing would have changed.

  Charlie stabbed his uneaten pickle with his fork and flopped it onto Kaliq’s plate like a dead fish. “You look like you’re jonesing. Think you can make it through chem?”

  Kaliq looked up and squeezed the little plastic bag of weed in his pocket. He glanced at his watch. “How about a quick smoke before we go in?”

  The other three boys nodded eagerly, and Kaliq smiled and stood up. He felt like he’d worked something out in his head, although he wasn’t quite sure what.

  “Hell yeah,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  9

  While Willard's juniors and seniors were starting their second midterm exam, Bree was in health class, discussing love, sex, shampoo, and the nature of boys, among other things.

  Eleven freshman girls sat in a circle on the floor beneath a sunny window in the cozy nook of a room that had been specifically designed for intimate classes like ninth grade health. On the floor was a plush crimson carpet instead of the puke green one that covered the floors of the rest of the school. The walls were painted a cheerful cornflower blue, bordered in crisp linen white. There was a small, freestanding chalkboard with plenty of colored chalk for the teacher to draw diagrams, and, most importantly, there were no desks, allowing the girls to relax their bodies and really talk about what was on their minds.

  The class was taught by Ms. Doherty, the New Age dance teacher, who was twenty-five with a gorgeous yoga-toned body, long hair, and a pretty face that was always completely free of makeup. She was the only teacher in the gym department who wasn’t totally butch, and the girls would have loved her easygoing, open manner if it weren’t for her tendency to talk about embarrassing body parts like they were the family dog. Ms. Doherty let the girls choose the topics for discussion, so they usually spent the bulk of class time talking about boys.

  “I honestly don’t understand how we’re supposed to meet people of the opposite sex when we spend ninety percent of our time in an all-girls environment,” Kim Swanson complained. She ran her hands carefully over h
er perfectly blown-out hair, which she’d been getting highlighted every other month since fourth grade.

  Bree sat next to Kim, marveling at how perfect everything about her was. Her French manicured nails, her subtly applied makeup, her crisp white oxford shirt, the square Cartier diamond studs in her ears. Maybe if Kim didn’t spend so much time grooming herself, she’d have more free time to meet boys.

  Ms. Doherty smiled her placid, good-natured smile. “I know it’s hard, Kim,” she said sympathetically. “All I can suggest is, get involved in some of those coed interschool activities like drama and glee club. And if your friends have friends who are boys, don’t be shy—ask them to introduce you!”

  “Ms. Doherty, do you think you have to be in love with a guy to be with him?” Jessica Soames asked. Jessica had gotten her period in fourth grade and the rumor was she’d lost her virginity in sixth. Originally, she had had the biggest chest in the class, but over the past year Bree’s chest had far exceeded Jessica’s.

  Ms. Doherty tucked a stray hair behind her ear and smoothed out her wispy eyebrows, obviously trying to think of a tactful way of answering the question while drawing out further discussion. But before she could say anything, little Bree Hargrove piped up.

  “Yes, definitely. I mean, maybe it takes a while for both of you to realize you’re in love, but if you aren’t, then I think you should break up.”

  The entire class, including Ms. Doherty, stared at her. Ms. Doherty was staring because Bree Hargrove never spoke in class and she’d had no idea Bree was so opinionated. The girls were staring because they all knew Bree had managed to snag Kaliq Braxton away from Porsha Sinclaire, which was really quite amazing, and there was no way she could have done it unless she was putting out, big time. Was Bree Hargrove secretly even sluttier than Jessica Soames? And was she now admitting it?

  When Bree noticed everyone looking at her, she blushed. “I mean, I don’t think you have to break up if you haven’t said ‘I love you’ to each other yet, because maybe you still like hanging out together and everything and you’re just waiting for the right time to say it.”

  Ms. Doherty nodded and smiled her lipstick-free smile. Love was one of her favorite topics. “The first time you fall in love, it can be hard to recognize. Some people even mistake it for the flu!”

  A few of the girls giggled and Bree smiled to herself. She knew what Ms. Doherty meant. Sometimes Bree felt so dizzy and faint when she was with Kaliq, she could easily have been coming down with the pneumonia or something.

  Ms. Doherty went on. “But I also don’t think you have to be in love to have a relationship. You’re only fourteen. It’s not like you’re going to marry the guy, right? You’re just learning how to be with people. It’s like trying on clothes. You have to try all different styles and sizes to see which ones suit you the best.”

  Bree frowned. She didn’t want to try on all different styles and sizes. She only wanted Kaliq.

  “Wait, are we talking about having sex with someone you aren’t in love with, or just, like, hanging out?” Andrea Armstrong asked craftily. “Cuz, like, I really think you should be in love if you’re going to have sex.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Bree agreed quickly, blushing again.

  The rest of the class stared at her again. So was she admitting to having sex with Kaliq Braxton or denying it?

  Bree hadn’t even been talking about sex, but now she realized that was what Jessica meant when she’d said “be with” a guy. She pulled a strand of yarn out of the red carpet. For her, sex wasn’t even the issue. It was love. How long should she wait before she told Kaliq that she loved him? Or should she wait for him to say it?

  She raised her hand again, but Azaria Muniz raised hers first. “Ms. Doherty, is it true you should alternate between different shampoos when you wash your hair to avoid buildup?” Azaria had long wavy hair that hung down to her butt, and her locker was full of hair products.

  Ms. Doherty looked at Azaria blankly. “Don’t quote me on this, but I think as long as you use a good product with all-natural ingredients that don’t cause buildup, you can use the same shampoo every time.” She smiled and turned back to Bree, eager to get back to the subject of love. “Yes, Bree? You had your hand up?”

  Bree looked up at the ceiling, choosing her words carefully. But before she could even start, Jessica rudely interrupted her.

  “Is it true that all the feeling is in the end part of the penis?” she asked, her eyebrows knitted together seriously, as if she were asking a question about the discovery of the atom.

  The rest of the class erupted into giggles. Jessica always asked the most outrageous questions, but they were all secretly glad when she did.

  “Jessica, please don’t interrupt your classmates,” Ms. Doherty said evenly. “Briefly, the answer to your question is yes, the tip of the penis is very sensitive, but sensitivity varies from penis to penis.” She turned back to Bree. “Bree, you were saying?”

  Bree let out a snort and her face turned hot. Penis, penis, penis! The word always made her giggle.

  “Yes?” Ms. Doherty prompted.

  Bree covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, it was nothing.”

  Jessica’s eyes narrowed. “What’s so funny, Bree? Is that Kaliq’s most sensitive part? The tip?”

  Bree stopped smiling and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Remember, Jessica—no naming names,” Ms. Doherty cautioned. She readjusted her legs in the lotus position and cleared her throat. “I want to remind you girls again that our discussions are all confidential. Nothing said here will be repeated outside the group.”

  Yeah, right. Then how come everyone in the entire school knew that Andrea Armstrong didn’t use tampons because her parents thought that if she did, she wouldn’t be a virgin anymore? Bree wasn’t stupid. She knew that whatever she said would definitely be repeated, so she decided it was safer not to say anything than to say something that might be taken the wrong way.

  “I remember the first time I saw an actual penis,” Jessica burst out, sending the rest of the class into a giggling frenzy once more. “I was so freaked out!”

  Ms. Doherty smiled her Zenlike smile. Not even Jessica Soames was going to cause her to lose her temper. “Remember,” she said. “This is a place to ask questions...”

  “I don’t understand the whole erection thing. How exactly does that happen?” Kim Swanson asked.

  “Is it true that guys always have them first thing when they wake up in the morning?” asked Rebecca Mitchell.

  Ms. Doherty sighed. As she began to tactfully answer their questions, Bree tuned them all out, preferring to stick to the subject of love.

  If boys were like clothes, the way Ms. Doherty said, then Kaliq was like her first pair of True Religion jeans that she’d bought and only worn on special occasions because they were so nice she didn’t want to get them dirty. But the more she wore them and the more she washed them, the better they fit, until it got so she couldn’t live without them—they were the perfect fit. And if she knew so absolutely how she felt about Kaliq, then what was the harm in telling him?

  10

  Porsha had handed in a draft of her Yale admissions essay earlier that morning, and when exams were finally over, she dropped by Emma Willard's college advisor’s office to see if Ms. Glos had read it yet.

  Ms. Glos was sorting through her files, her surprisingly long, trim legs crossed neatly at the knees. “Oh, hello, Porsha. Why don’t you sit down?”

  Porsha narrowed her eyes and stared critically at Ms. Glos’s ugly brown orthopedic shoes. What a waste to have such great legs for an older woman and absolutely no taste in shoes. She sat down in the hard wooden chair across from her desk.

  “I read your essay.” Ms. Glos thumbed through the stack of files on her desk until she found the one marked Sinclaire. Then she pursed her thin lips and dabbed at her nose with a tissue. Ms. Glos was always getting nosebleeds and was thought to have some rare contagious disease. All the gir
ls were afraid to touch the handouts she gave them.

  Porsha raised her neatly plucked eyebrows. “And?”

  Ms. Glos looked up. Her hair curled under at the bottom, just grazing her chin. It looked exactly the same every time Porsha saw her and it was so obviously a wig.

  “I think you’d better take another stab at it if you’re really serious about getting into Yale.”

  It took a moment for Porsha to register what the college advisor had said. “But—”

  Ms. Glos opened Porsha’s file and stabbed at the stapled pages inside with a long, nasty yellow fingernail. “This is a perfectly adequate essay on the life of Audrey Hepburn,” she said. “But it doesn’t say anything about you. You need to show Yale that you can write well, that you can think creatively, and that you can give an extraordinary answer to an ordinary question.” She handed the essay back to Porsha.

  Porsha held the six stapled pages between her thumb and forefinger, her temples throbbing. She was dying to tell Ms. Glos to fuck off and buy herself a new wig while she was at it, but she knew the college advisor was extremely good at her job, and if anyone could help her get into Yale, Ms. Glos could.

  “Okay,” she said, tersely. “I’ll try again.”

  “Good girl. Try not to be so literal. Show them how much you admire Audrey Hepburn movies rather than telling them.”

  Porsha nodded and stood up. She smoothed out her skirt, trying to maintain her composure in the face of such outrageous insult, behaving exactly as she imagined Audrey would behave. “Have a nice Christmas,” she added politely.