Upper East Side #3

by Ashley Valentine

  “Brianna.” Her father controlled his voice as best he could. “I never thought I’d have to do this, but you’ve given me no choice. For the rest of vacation you are grounded. No going out. No movies. No allowance. No phone calls. No e-mails. No nothing. And certainly no contact with that Kaliq character. Mekhi’s going to watch you like a hawk and make sure you don’t sneak around, because clearly you can’t be trusted.”

  Bree sat up. Her face was blotchy and her lower lip quivered. “It’s not fair!” she protested. “I don’t know who did that! It’s not my fault! Kaliq and I are in love! He took me to the Nutcracker. We didn’t do anything wrong!”

  Rufus waved his hand in the air to quiet her. “You’re too young to know anything about anything, especially love,” he harrumphed gruffly.

  “But Dad, I didn’t know anyone was filming us,” Bree pleaded, hugging her panda.

  Rufus raised his wild, bushy eyebrows and rubbed his stubbly chin. “You think that makes it okay?”

  “I don’t even care!” Bree cried, throwing her panda on the floor and bringing on a fresh onslaught of angry tears. “I don’t care what you think! We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Rufus crouched down and pulled the unread copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God that he’d given her last summer from her bookshelf. He stood up and tossed it on her bed. “I’ll tell you what I think,” he bellowed. “I think you need to stay indoors reading more books!”

  Bree glared at the book and kicked it childishly until it slid off the bed and fell onto the hardwood floor. Rufus shook his head in disgust and turned and slammed the door behind him before he really lost it.

  * * *

  Mekhi listened from his room, still staring at the footage repeating itself on his computer screen. Now that he was over the initial shock of seeing his baby sister starring in a pornographic web video, he saw that there was something horrifyingly familiar about the camera work. The unusual angles. The way the camera cut so close, the images were almost abstract, and then panned so far back, Kaliq and Bree were just a writhing blob in the pure white snow.

  It was the work of Yasmine Richards. Mekhi was sure of it.

  He punched the power button on his computer, disgusted with himself for watching for so long, but even more disgusted with Yasmine and Bree. How was it that they had both turned out to be such...

  Mekhi picked up his black notebook and instantly thought of a new word to start his writer’s block exercise. He picked up his pen and wrote it down.

  Sluts.

  22

  You’d think having a country house as far from the city as Mount Desert Island, Maine, would be kind of lonely, but Mount Desert was full of enormous vacation “cottages” owned by New York’s oldest and wealthiest families, and the children had all played together during the summers and on holidays since they were toddlers. For high school, most of them went off to different boarding schools all over the East Coast, so when they saw one another on the island again it was like a reunion. Every Fourth of July a huge gang of them built a bonfire on the beach and set off fireworks they’d smuggled in from Canada. And every Christmas Eve, Kaliq always hooked up with the same two guys and did bong hits in his rec room.

  The rec room had oak paneling, an enormous stone fireplace, and a slate floor that was heated by the copper pipes beneath it. Impressive racks of antlers hung from the walls, taken from the deer and moose that Kaliq’s grandfather had hunted himself. There was an oak bar stocked with aged Scottish whiskeys and rare European brandies, and a wine cellar that you got to by climbing down a ladder through a trapdoor beneath the handwoven Persian rug. An antique mahogany pool table with ornately carved mahogany legs and a red felt top stood in the center of the room.

  Kaliq supplied the bong. He’d had it since he was thirteen, and it was covered in Looney Tunes Band-Aids. The other two boys grinned at it like an old buddy that had been through even more wacky shit than they had.

  “Dude,” said John Gause, who had brought the weed. “It’s good to see you.” John was a white boy wearing a tan sheepskin vest, faded boot-cut jeans, and a scuffed pair of tan leather cowboy boots. Not a great look, unless you’re the Marlboro Man or a Ralph Lauren model, and he was neither one. A week before finals John had been expelled from Deerfield for dealing, and he’d just returned from ten days on a ranch in Wyoming, where he’d been sent to learn values like honesty, trust, and respect for his fellow man.

  Kaliq packed the bowl and handed it to Ryan O’Brien, who was only fifteen but a worse stoner than John and Kaliq combined. After getting kicked out of St. Jude’s the first week of the school year, Ryan had left for Hanover Academy, the boarding school where Chanel used to go.

  “I think you’ve grown,” Kaliq said. “Doesn’t Ryan look more grown up to you?” he asked John.

  Ryan flicked his lighter over the bowl. He was six foot two and had a curly black fro that hung down to his shoulders almost exactly like Flow’s, only longer. “Fuck you,” he said, hitching up his baggy gray pants.

  Kaliq waited for Ryan to take a hit and pass him the bong. The sun was setting and the windows in the rec room were glowing pink. It had snowed hard that winter, and the huge house was nestled in an eight-foot drift. Outside, there were no bleeping car alarms or roaring buses. It was completely still. But if Kaliq listened hard, he could hear the sound of the ocean crashing against the rocks. He loved that sound. Sometimes at night he just lay on his bed, listening to it.

  He took a hit, covering the top of the bong so the smoke wouldn’t escape. Then he took another one, rewarding himself for spending two whole hours earlier that day reading through his college applications and filling out the easy parts.

  He exhaled, passed the bong to John, and closed his eyes. It was good to be away from the city—away from school and everyone talking so incessantly about the future. Up here he could just relax and enjoy himself without worrying about exams or college or answering to anyone.

  John finished his hit and put the bong down on the pool table. He picked up the white ball and rolled it around in his hand. “So, Kaliq,” he began. “What’s with the porno flick on the Internet?”

  Kaliq blinked slowly at him, like a lizard blinking in the sun. “Huh?”

  Ryan lit a cigarette and blew a few smoke rings up at the post-and-beam ceiling. “You know,” he prompted. “You and that short girl with the curly hair and the huge tits?”

  Kaliq nodded. He knew who Ryan was talking about, but for a split second he couldn’t remember her name. “Brianna,” he said, suddenly remembering.

  “Yeah, okay. Brianna,” Ryan said. “Didn’t you see the video?”

  Kaliq shook his head. “What video?”

  John grabbed a pool cue from the rack on the wall and twirled it in his hands like a bayonet. “Dude, the video that, like, everybody’s talking about!” He laughed. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen it!”

  Ryan picked up the little blue cube of pool cue chalk, held it under his nose, and sniffed it, as only a very high person would do. “It’s like a whole movie of you and that Brianna chick,” he explained. “Like, fucking in Central Park.”

  Kaliq held the bong in front of his face. He didn’t remember fucking Brianna in the park. He didn’t remember fucking Brianna at all. All he remembered were those crazy portraits of him hanging on the walls of her room. He shook his heavy, stoned head and chuckled to himself. A porno flick on the Internet? That was a good one. These guys were always fucking with him.

  Shrugging it off, he pressed his mouth into the stem of the bong and flicked on the lighter, taking a nice, long Christmas Eve hit. He was on his way to a very mellow place, one where Brianna and those weird portraits were just tiny specks in the hazy distance.

  The house intercom crackled. Suddenly Kaliq’s father’s voice filled the room. “Your mother and I are pouring cocktails in the great room. Won’t you join us?”

  You’d think this would have been a buzzkill, but Kaliq always got a kick out of hang
ing out with his aristocratic parents when he was high. They made the strongest drinks, and besides, it was Christmas Eve.

  Kaliq handed John the bong and hit the button on the intercom. “Be right up.” He let go of the button and nodded at John. “Go ahead. One more hit and then you guys better split.” He and Ryan watched John take his final hit.

  “So are you and that Brianna girl, like, still together?” Ryan asked.

  Kaliq grabbed the eight ball and rolled it across the pool table. He tried to remember the way he’d left things with Brianna, but all he could remember was the stuffed panda that sat on her bed. It was funny how he kept managing to forget the “I love you” part.

  “Nah,” he said. “Not really.”

  John finished his hit and Kaliq let him and Ryan out the back door of the rec room and into the snow. Then he locked the door, stashed the bong in an old tin of Triscuits under the bar sink, and headed upstairs to drink gin and tonics and eat fresh Maine oysters with his parents.

  23

  Porsha had showered and put on her new pink dress. Now she sat on the wraparound deck smoking a cigarette and waiting for Chanel to get ready while she thought about Audrey Hepburn.

  As if she wasn’t always thinking about old movie stars. Another thing she loved about Audrey that she wanted to discuss in her college essay was her versatility. No matter what setting she was plunked into or what sort of costume she had to wear—like the tweed outfit in the bookshop scene in Funny Face, or the crazy hat and lace dress from the scene in My Fair Lady—she seemed perfectly at ease, adapting to her surroundings and at the same time maintaining her cool Audreyness.

  Porsha liked to think that she would be able to do that when she went off to college. Since she and Kaliq were obviously not going to live in an off-campus apartment together in New Haven any longer, she might very well have to live in a dorm with some random roommate. She might have to eat in a dining hall, and she’d definitely have to go to class. But no way was she going to start wearing oversized Yale sweatshirts and carrying a backpack. She was going to maintain her dignity, her sense of style, and her unique herness.

  Porsha puffed on her cigarette, trying to imagine Audrey at Yale, dressed in her black Breakfast at Tiffany’s gown, with her elbow-length black gloves and diamond-and-pearl choker.

  And then it hit her. That was exactly what she would do for her essay: make Audrey a Yale student in a screenplay! Ms. Glos had told her to be creative. Well, you couldn’t get much more creative than that! Porsha leaped to her feet and slammed open the screen door to the villa, eager to start writing immediately. She could skip the stupid Christmas Eve party. Getting into Yale was so much more important.

  Chanel was standing in front of the mirror tying a beaded pareo around her waist. She was still wearing her wet white bikini, and there was sand in her hair.

  “I thought you were getting changed,” Porsha said.

  Chanel frowned. “I didn’t feel like it.” Everyone expected her to get all dolled up and look pretty for Flow, but really, why should she?

  The thing was, Chanel was still ten times more gorgeous than any other girl on the island no matter what she was wearing.

  “So you’re wearing your bathing suit?” Porsha asked, confused.

  Chanel nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  Porsha grabbed her MacBook out of her bag and flopped down on her bed. “I think you’re in denial.”

  Chanel flopped down next to her. “Maybe.” She glanced inquisitively at Porsha, who was already typing. “What are you writing?”

  “A screenplay.” Porsha typed in her name and December 24 at the top of the page, and then the tentative title: Audrey Goes to College. “I think I’m going to skip the party so I can work on it.”

  “Talk about denial. Miles is excited to hang out with you tonight, and no way am I going to this thing alone,” Chanel declared. She leaned her head on Porsha’s shoulder. “Don’t you want to have a fun Christmas Eve?”

  Porsha chewed her bottom lip. “I do, but I want to get into Yale more.”

  Chanel reached out and quickly snapped the laptop closed. “Well, I’m going to make sure you get everything you want,” she cried, jumping up and pulling Porsha to her feet. “Please come?”

  Porsha sighed. Chanel had the remarkable ability to go from sulky to perky with the bat of an eyelash. “Okay,” she sighed. “But if I don’t get into Yale, it’s going to be all your fucking fault.”

  * * *

  Miles and Tahj were waiting for the girls in the bar. Tahj had rearranged his dreadlocks so that they lay flat on the sides of his head and stuck straight up on top, and his mocha skin was tan and smooth. He wore a black linen jacket over a gray T-shirt and black linen pants, and if he hadn’t been Porsha’s stepbrother, she might even have thought he looked cute.

  Tahj thought Porsha looked better than cute. Her dark skin had deepened even more, and her thick hair was streaked with brown highlights from the sun. Her pink dress was loose, but the gauzy material clung to her body in all the right places. She looked like a chocolate goddess, but of course he could never tell her that. Tahj was so afraid he might say something inappropriate, he had become almost robotlike in his dealings with Porsha.

  “We’d better go over and sit down,” he said to no one in particular. “Your mom and my dad have some big surprise they want to tell us about. They’ve been waiting for you for almost an hour.”

  Porsha peered into the crowded dining room, where her mother and Cyrus and Brice were already seated at a table. “Oh God, I can’t wait. Please, can I just have one drink first?” she pleaded.

  “As long as you drink it fast,” Tahj relented.

  As if that would be a problem.

  Miles smiled at Porsha. “You look really pretty.”

  Silently Tahj kicked himself. He could have said that!

  Miles looked pretty fine himself, dressed in a black Armani dress shirt with white buttons, creamy white cotton pants, and leather sandals—a look that only guys with serious style can pull off. Porsha smiled back at him despite herself. She might be glad she’d come to the party after all. “Thanks.”

  Chanel adjusted the knot on her pareo and glanced around for any sign of Flow. Some of the tables in the dining room had been pushed into the corners to make room for a dance floor, and a stage equipped with 45’s instruments, amps, and microphones had been set up beside the pool. But the group itself was nowhere to be seen.

  “They don’t start playing until nine,” Tahj said, reading her mind. “I asked the bartender.”

  Chanel didn’t respond. That was only twenty minutes from now, and it wasn’t like she was desperate for Flow to make an appearance, anyway.

  Porsha polished off her vodka tonic and handed the empty glass to Tahj. “All right, I’m ready.”

  The restaurant at the Isle de la Paix was the place to be on Christmas Eve. On the far side of the room, the most famous supermodel in the world was feeding her toddler fish soup, and beside them a very pregnant actress was holding hands with her hunky Hollywood husband. The rest of the dining room was packed with bronzed people in designer resortwear picking at the restaurant’s special Christmas Eve dinner of whole snapper roasted with the head and tail intact, purple potatoes tossed in black caviar, and braised wild leeks.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Eleanor assured Tahj when they sat down. “We ordered you a special meal.”

  Cyrus ordered two bottles of Cristal, and the waiter returned with champagne flutes and began filling their glasses. Porsha’s mother giggled and glanced at Cyrus. He patted her hand reassuringly, and she cleared her throat.

  “All right. I don’t think I can bear to keep it a secret for a minute longer.” Eleanor took a deep breath and sat up very straight. “Cyrus and I are having a baby.”

  Porsha had been contemplating how to begin the first scene in her screenplay when her mother’s disturbing words jarred her brain, forever altering her universe. Her face twitched with a combination of disbelie
f and disgust as she looked up at her mother.

  Excuse me?

  “I know forty-seven is a bit old to be pregnant, even in New York, but the doctor assures me I’m perfectly healthy and fit and there’s nothing to worry about.” She giggled. “Except for me getting as big as a house!”

  For a moment, no one responded. Cyrus put his arm around Eleanor and gave her a squeeze. “Don’t all go talking at once,” he joked awkwardly, rubbing his fat stomach with his free hand.

  Chanel didn’t want to be rude. “That’s just so amazing!” she exclaimed, breaking the silence with as much gusto as she could muster. She jumped out of her seat and leaned across the table to give Eleanor and Cyrus congratulatory kisses on their cheeks, while also giving the rest of the room a good view of her bare midriff.

  Porsha felt like kicking her. Chanel wouldn’t have been so chipper if it had been her own mother, that was for damn sure.

  “When’s it due?” Chanel asked, sitting down again.

  Eleanor beamed back happily. “June 18th.”

  Porsha didn’t even try to think of something to say. She felt like she’d just been hit in the head by a flying palm tree, and there was a good chance she would never speak again.

  Tahj glanced anxiously at Porsha and then raised his champagne glass and smiled at his dad and Eleanor. “Congratulations,” he said, hoping Porsha would join in. But of course she didn’t, not even when he gently nudged her shin with his foot under the table.

  Next to Porsha, Miles drummed his long fingers on the table and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he could beam himself back to the bar. He’d been friends with Tahj since ninth grade, but this was all a little too intimate for him.

  Eleanor reached across the table and took hold of Porsha’s rigid fingers. “I hope you’ll reconsider taking Cyrus’s last name now, sweetheart,” she said. “We’re going to have quite a nice big family now.”