Or not think.
His father swallowed and set his tumbler down on the armrest of his chair. “And there’s something else.”
Something else? What other torture could his father possibly inflict on him? What could be worse than not graduating with the rest of his friends? Military school? Reform school? Prison?
Nope, repeating senior year would be far more humiliating and way less exciting.
The Captain’s face was so somber that Kaliq had to lower his eyes to his father’s nautical-striped dress shirt in order to keep from completely panicking. Once a year his mother ordered a complete custom-made wardrobe from one of the exclusive men’s boutiques on Jermyn Street in London—new suits, ties, and dress shirts—all fitted to the Captain’s proportions.
“I want you to meet my friend, Captain Chips White,” his father continued. “I obviously haven’t gotten through to you, but if anyone can, it’s my old navy mentor.”
Kaliq slunk down further in his chair. Not only did he have to get chewed out by his father, but this scary Captain Chips guy his dad was always going on about would be in on his demise too? Chips would probably use some old-fashioned navy torture technique to teach him a lesson—hold him underwater until he nearly drowned, or take him sailing, cut off his nuts, and then throw him overboard to swim back to Manhattan through the polluted Hudson. Kaliq would probably grow an extra arm or a tumor on his back, and he’d go from being happy-go-lucky, easygoing Braxton to a hunchbacked, three-armed, no-balled freak. Porsha would be all over him then.
Captain Braxton raised his glass with a smug smirk, and Kaliq felt his chin begin to quiver as he gripped the roach in his pocket.
Prison’s not looking so bad now, is it?
TO:undisclosed-recipients
FROM:[email protected]
Subject: Mekhi’s gay—hooray!
Dear recent graduates of Riverside Prep: I hope you don’t mind my abusing your school yearbook’s contact list, but I’m sure you’ll be happy when you find out why: I’m writing to invite you all to a momentous occasion, the coming-out party for your dear classmate and my dear son, Mekhi Randall Hargrove. After four years of going to school with Mekhi, I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for this big day!
Please be our guests in apartment #9D, 815 West End Ave., this Saturday (tomorrow!) at 2 p.m. Food and drink will be served, and it’s sure to be a merry time. But hush-hush—it’s a surprise! Whatever you do, don’t tell Mekhi!
Hope to see you all on Saturday! Please dress your colorful best for the occasion.
Love and rainbows,
Jeanette (Mekhi’s mom)
TO:[email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Subject: Get ready for your close-up...because it’s showtime!
Due to the fact that even the fuckhead critics love my film, the release date for BAF has been moved up to September. Sweetheart, you are about to be a star, thanks to me.
That freakworm Bailey Winter is probably peeing himself trying to sew you a choice of couture gowns for the NYC premier next month, lucky girl. You’ll have to wear your own clothes to the press conference, though. You and that queen Thad are scheduled to do press this Tuesday at 5 p.m. in one of those tacky penthouses at SoHo House. Don’t worry, I’ll handle all the questions—I just want you two to sit there look and pretty. Think you can handle it?
See you Tuesday.
KM
8
“So, why can’t you come over?” Porsha couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. She was annoyed. Actually, she was more than just annoyed—she was totally fucking pissed. At Kaliq, and at pretty much everyone else. Especially her stupid, traitorous, moving-to-L.A., dysfunctional mess of a family.
No, please, tell us how you really feel.
She sprawled out on her stepbrother Tahj’s old bed, rubbing her legs against the all-natural, organic hemp comforter cover he’d bought at some hippie supply store last winter. Even though Tahj had moved out of the room ages ago—he’d been on a road trip all summer doing God knows what, leaving his bedroom to Porsha, since hers had been turned into Yale’s nursery—it still smelled of boy sweat and Mookie, Tahj’s disgusting dog. Then, to make matters worse, Porsha’s cat, Kitty Minky, had decided to move in and mark her territory—spraying everything until the whole room reeked of cat pee, wet dog, and the herbal cigarettes Tahj was always smoking. Porsha loved her baby sister, but really, did she have to get displaced from her own beautiful bedroom and into this shithole?
“There’s um, some stuff I have to get done. It, like, can’t really wait,” Kaliq mumbled.
Porsha could always tell when he was lying—he sounded even more incomprehensible than usual. She picked at the rough cloth of the comforter with her French-manicured fingernails. Porsha loved surprises, but somehow she didn’t think Kaliq was hiding anything fun.
“Well, I’ll just come over there then.” She rolled over onto her back and held a strand of shining shoulder-length hair in front of her face, mentally reminding herself to book an appointment at Warren Tricomi—she desperately needed a trim. The tips were parched from all the sun and salt water from when she was at sea.
Poor thing.
“No,” Kaliq answered quickly, “I mean, uh, you can’t come over here.”
Excusez-moi? They just spent a month together on a boat, totally in love, and now they’d been home for twenty-four hours and he didn’t want to see her? She sat up and impatiently switched the phone from one ear to another. She was probably going to get brain cancer from talking on her cell so much. Then Kaliq would be sorry.
He’s probably sorry now.
“I mean,” he stammered, “my bedroom’s being repainted and the fumes are killer.”
Porsha narrowed her eyes and remained silent. That was about the lamest excuse she’d ever heard.
“I didn’t even know it was scheduled to be done until I got home last night,” Kaliq offered weakly. “Really.”
“Let’s go to the Plaza, then,” Porsha suggested, doing her best to shrug off the nagging sensation that things were just not right between them. She knew Kaliq was lying, but why?
“Porsha, I can’t.” He was starting to get annoyed with her—she could hear it in his voice. “I told you, I have some stuff to do right now. Maybe later?”
“Fine. Whatever.” She closed her cell phone with a hard snap and threw it across the room, where it landed with a thump on a pile of clothes. Why was Kaliq being so secretive all of a sudden?
Porsha heard the low murmuring of voices in the hallway and her bedroom door flew open to reveal her mother, dressed in a silk blouse, black pencil skirt, and suede Manolo slingbacks. A woman in her early forties stood behind her carrying a red Hermès Birkin bag, her thin body encased in a tropical-print wrap dress. Her definitely-not-natural-red hair was pulled back in a neat chignon, and black rectangular-framed glasses perched on her nose. She sniffed the air delicately.
“Porsha, this is Diana Riggs from Sotheby’s. She’s the real estate agent in charge of selling our apartment!”
The real estate broker’s eyes swept the room. “Another great bedroom, Eleanor.” She attempted to wrinkle her Botoxed forehead and counted on her fingers, “One, two...” she muttered distractedly, “four beds total?” She grabbed Eleanor’s arm for emphasis as she spoke. “I know the perfect family for this apartment. They have the most gorgeous triplets!”
Porsha stared at her mother in horror as she cooed appreciatively at Diana. Triplets? She was being forced out of the only home she’d ever known so a bunch of test-tube infertility treatment triplet fuckfaces could slobber and vomit all over it?
“The Cartwrights—do you know them?” Diana asked. “Edie Cartwright? I believe she grew up in the city as well.”
“Oh my goodness, of course!” Eleanor squealed. “I attended Willard with Edie. Where has she been? I haven’t see her since, well...it must have been seventeen years ago!”
P
orsha jumped off her bed and pushed past her mother and the broker standing in the doorway. Who cared if Kaliq was busy? Fuck busy. Wasn’t he supposed to be there for her in her time of need? She was his girlfriend, and he was going to pay attention to her—whether he liked it or not.
She fumed all the way down in the elevator and into the bright Saturday afternoon, replaying the scene over and over in her mind as she marched determinedly toward Kaliq’s house. Triplets. Living in her house—some annoyingly perfect family taking over her space? She stomped along in her new ballet flats as cabs rushed by in the street. As she turned away from the park, she remembered how when she and Kaliq first got together, they’d meet in Sheep Meadow after school and make out for hours, lying in the grass. Maybe she’d yank him away from whatever the hell he was doing and they could go over to Sheep Meadow and repeat history.
Then, just as Porsha began crossing the street to Kaliq’s townhouse, a very familiar-looking girl in worn True Religion jeans and a black tank rounded the corner. With her huge black sunglasses covering half her face, Chanel looked like she was dressed for a stealth mission. And as she pushed open the heavy door to Kaliq’s townhouse, Porsha swore Chanel looked just the tiniest bit guilty.
Porsha stopped in the middle of the street, not even caring if a taxi rammed into her. She felt like she’d been punched in the chest. All the air rushed out of her lungs. What was Chanel doing at Kaliq’s? And why was Kaliq lying to her? Why wouldn’t he rather see his own girlfriend than that two-faced fake, Chanel?
Good question.
Queasiness overcame her. In fact, she thought she might be sick right there on the pavement. She took a few steps back until she found a fire hydrant to steady herself on. She’d kill them both, except then they’d be together in the afterlife and that would kill her.
A bus drove by, burping clouds of stinky black exhaust in her face. Porsha began coughing furiously, and through the hot tears in her eyes, she saw Chanel’s gorgeous airbrushed face in front of her, larger than life, staring out from the side of the bus, the words BREAKFAST AT FRED’S in pink rolling script above her gleaming silky head, and below, in hot-pink letters TRUE LOVE NEVER LIES.
Apparently, that depends on your definition of true love.
9
“Surprise!”
Mekhi walked into the Hargroves’ apartment after a long day of stacking musty books at the Strand and blinked in shock as the lights snapped on. Multicolored balloons hung from the ceiling, and rainbow crepe-paper ribbons twirled from one end of the room to the other. Rainbow flags hung from the doorway, waving in the early evening breeze that wafted through the open windows. What the hell was going on? He smiled as he looked around the room, crowded with so many familiar faces—his parents, Yasmine, his dad’s Beat-poet friends, even the crazy old lady from apartment 5F who liked to take her mangy cat for walks around their crumbling apartment building’s hallways. And wait, weren’t those dorky guys in the corner from his calc class at Riverside?
“Are you surprised!?” His mother sang, pulling Mekhi into the room. She was wearing a candy pink shirt that said PFLAG over a white floor length skirt. Her electric blue toenails peeked out from the straps of her battered Birkenstocks.
“What’s PFLAG?” Mekhi demanded, staring at the front of her shirt. “And what’s all this... for?” There were so many rainbows it made him nervous.
“PFLAG, my darling, stands for ‘Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays,” Jeanette began.
“And it’s a party—to celebrate your coming out.” Yasmine appeared at Jeanette’s side, holding a hot dog festively slathered in mustard in one hand and a small digital video camera in the other. She was wearing a black tank top with the words HE’S MY GAY BOYFRIEND printed on it in hot pink lettering. “Happy Gay Day!” she called out from behind the camera.
For a second, Mekhi couldn’t help feeling a little touched at how supportive she was being. Maybe they could be like Harper Lee and Truman Capote—he’d be the gay, brilliant star of the New York literary scene, and she could be his grounding, stabilizing force and literary muse, all rolled up into one cute, bald-headed package. Then he remembered where he was—apparently at his own surprise coming-out party. He tried to focus.
“I thought I’d video your journey into gaydom,” Yasmine told him with a smirk. “Your mom thought it was an excellent idea.”
“Come with me, Mekhi.” Jeanette pulled him toward the kitchen. She handed him a glass of bright pink liquid. “I know I’ve missed a lot of things in the last couple years. I wanted to do something special for you right now.”
Couple? Try ten...
Mekhi stopped walking and stared at his mother’s not-entirely-familiar face. The truth was, he’d gotten used to her being away a long time ago, but he’d always felt especially bad for Bree, growing up without a mom and all.
“But really, teenagers all just hate their parents anyway, so I’m sure it wasn’t much of a problem.” Jeanette sniffed dramatically. “And this summer, I was really able to reconnect with Brianna when she was in Prague,” she went on, her voice warbling as though she were about to cry. “And then when this opportunity to support you came up...well, it just seemed like the right time for a visit.”
Mekhi nodded, not sure what to say. It made him happy that things were right between Bree and their mother, but did that really mean she had to fly to New York and ruin his life? “Well, um, thanks,” he finally stammered.
“Now!” Jeanette blinked her eyes rapidly and grabbed his hand. “Your darling boyfriend was just teaching me how to make Cosmopolitans!”
Mekhi frowned. Boyfriend? He looked across the room and was shocked to see Gabriel at the kitchen counter wearing a pair of brown cargo pants rolled just past the knees, rainbow suspenders, and a crisp white T-shirt, vigorously shaking a chrome cocktail shaker, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Mekhi lifted a hand in a tentative wave, trying to look cheerful, and walked over with his mother at his heels.
“Hey!” Gabriel grinned widely as he approached, putting down the martini shaker. He opened his arms to give Mekhi a hug. “Sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming back. I wanted it to be a surprise, and I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” he whispered, his breath tickling Mekhi’s neck. “My parents didn’t do anything half this nice when I came out to them last year.” He gave Mekhi an extra squeeze before releasing him.
“Thanks,” Mekhi said, stepping back from Gabriel’s arms. “It was, uh, sweet of you to come back for this. How did my mom, um, find you?” He took a nervous sip of his way-too-sweet drink. As a rule, he liked bitter drinks—truly lousy black coffee and vodka straight from the bottle. This punch was way too...fruity.
Better learn to love it!
“Oh, I just went through your e-mails,” Jeanette piped in. “Your Gmail was open when I borrowed your computer. What a writer this Gabriel is!” She patted him affectionately on the head, and Mekhi noticed that Yasmine had followed them into the kitchen and was now zooming in on Mekhi’s face.
“I’ve been showing Gabriel here the most adorable pictures of you, Mekhi!” Jeanette linked her arm through Gabriel’s and grabbed a worn manila envelope off of the kitchen counter with her other hand. Mekhi watched in horror as his mother released Gabriel and proceeded to spread out a bunch of creased old photos of Mekhi as a kid on the kitchen countertop. “I was just telling Gabriel how funny you were as a little boy. Whenever you played dress-up, you always raided my closet. Dresses and jewelry, the sparklier the better!”
Mekhi stared down uncomprehendingly at a photograph of himself at five years old, dressed in a frilly purple cocktail dress, his hips cocked defiantly.
“And you see!” Jeanette continued, tapping a sloppily painted rainbow nail against the photograph. “He was always stealing my lipstick, too!”
Gabriel and Jeanette chuckled together, lightly touching each other’s arms.
“I did the exact same thing when I was a kid!” Gabriel giggled. �
�And yet my parents were somehow surprised when I came out—can you even?”
“Oh, we always suspected things might turn out this way.” Jeanette smiled admiringly, reaching over to smooth down Mekhi’s messy twists.
Mekhi looked up to see if Yasmine was still filming, but she seemed to have headed back into the living room, probably to do some interviews on who had known he was gay when. He sighed. Mekhi knew his mom’s heart was in the right place, but he couldn’t help but feel squeamish seeing himself as a girl-boy and having it implied that his gayness had been practically predetermined. Had everyone known all along? Looking at the photographs of him wearing dresses and tap shoes, hugging plush stuffed animals, his mother’s lipstick ringing his mouth, the evidence seemed undeniable.
Suddenly Jaylen Harrison appeared from the direction of the bathroom. What was he doing here? Jaylen was dressed in a white tank top that showed off his ridiculously tan and buff summer body, and a pair of flowered Hawaiian shorts. A rainbow-colored lei hung around his neck, the petals bright against his butterscotch skin. His ever-present white snow monkey, Sweetie, was perched on his shoulder, pulling at strands of Jaylen’s over-producted blonde hair. The monkey screeched loudly, waving its furry white arms in the air.
“Congratulations!” Jaylen raised his Cosmo. “It’s about time!”
The small crowd murmured their agreement, holding up their glasses and clinking their cups against Mekhi’s untouched drink. Great—even a complete moron like Jaylen had known Mekhi was gay before he did. Was it, like, stamped on his fucking forehead or something?
As if it wasn’t weird enough that he was here, Jaylen suddenly pulled him by the elbow into the corner so that they were out of earshot of the rest of the group.
“Jaylen, what are you doing here?” Mekhi blurted out before Jaylen could say anything.
Upper East Side #11 Page 5
