Upper East Side #11

by Ashley Valentine

  Jaylen flapped a hand, as if waving off the silly question. “I got the e-mail from your mom—everybody did. Subject line: ‘Mekhi’s gay—hooray!’ Anyway, is that your boyfriend?” Jaylen asked, pointing across the room at Gabriel. Gabriel was now standing next to Yasmine, who was laughing loudly with her head thrown back.

  Mekhi’s gay—hooray? Mekhi resisted the urge to climb out on the fire escape and throw himself onto the street below. He gave Jaylen a weak smile. “Um, Gabriel and I...we’re—”

  “You know, Mekhi,” Jaylen interrupted, one hand resting on his shoulder, “I never really had anything against you.” He looked meaningfully into Mekhi’s eyes. “I think we were both just feeling some unresolved...tension, if you know what I mean.” Jaylen smiled and casually let his fingers trail from Mekhi’s shoulder down his bare arm. Just then the monkey reached down and stuck its tiny brown hand in Jaylen’s drink, spattering the pink liquid everywhere with a high-pitched screech.

  “Bad Sweetie!” Jaylen exclaimed, dabbing at his Cosmo-stained tank top with his fingers. “Excuse me for a moment?” Jaylen flashed him an apologetic smile. “I have to go spank my monkey.” He laughed at his own perverse joke and moved toward the kitchen sink, chattering to Sweetie under his breath. Maybe Mekhi was losing his mind completely, but it sounded like Sweetie was actually answering Jaylen in some kind of crazed monkey-speak.

  Mekhi shook his head and wove through the crowded kitchen to the living room. His dad stood in the center of the room, holding court before an enraptured audience of middle-aged guys with straggly bushy beards. Rufus was dressed in a light-pink ‘70s leisure suit with a PFLAG pin on one insanely wide lapel.

  “Mekhi!” Rufus bellowed. “There you are!” He put his arm around his son’s shoulders and turned to the group of bearded Rufus clones surrounding them. “Mekhi, these are the members of my gastronomic society—they brought the pâté.” The group of men raised their glasses in greeting, and Rufus pointed to a plate of suspiciously lumpy brown pâté over on the battered wooden coffee table. “Try some, it’s fantastic. And Mekhi.” Rufus leaned in to speak more privately, “I was thinking about this whole transition you’re going through.” He stopped and scratched his mess of a beard. “Well, maybe its not so much a transition as it is a realization,” Rufus mused, stuffing a mushy glob of pâté into his mouth.

  “But I think,” he continued, the pâté sputtering out of his mouth in chunks, “that in the long run it will probably make you a better writer, like Oscar Wilde or W.H. Auden.” Rufus took a gallant swig from the Cosmo in his hand, washing down his meaty mouthful. “Just think of all you’ll have to say now!” he exclaimed. “I imagine that your marginalized position will be very productive for your writing.”

  Marginalized position? Mekhi didn’t feel very marginalized—more like completely overwhelmed. And curious. What else had his mother e-mailed? And to whom?

  He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Gabriel had taken a seat on the sofa next to Jaylen and his idiotic pink-Cosmo-stained monkey. They seemed to be giggling over the rims of their martini glasses. Just then Gabriel looked up, caught Mekhi’s eye, and waved, smiling happily. “C’mere,” he mouthed, gesturing with one hand.

  “I’ll be right back,” Mekhi told his father, who was chewing another massive slice of pita bread with some of the scary pâté smeared on it.

  Gabriel untangled himself from Jaylen and met Mekhi halfway across the living room. Some of the rainbow crepe paper was falling down, and it brushed Mekhi’s shoulders as he moved.

  “Listen.” Gabriel ran a hand through his hair. “Not now, but sometime soon, I’d really like to talk to you about some stuff.” He looked meaningfully into Mekhi’s eyes, and Mekhi took a sip of his Cosmo—fruit punch flavor be damned—and swallowed hard. What with Gabriel’s grandmother dying, Mekhi knew he had to be supportive—be there for him in his time of need and all that. But what if what Gabriel wanted was to make things between them more...official, just like everyone else?

  Mekhi’s head was still spinning with the discovery that he was gay—and that he’d probably always been gay. But if he was going to be gay, shouldn’t he at least find a boyfriend who made him feel something besides awkward and nervous? His eyes scanned the room, finally landing on Yasmine, who was talking to his mother and nodding like she actually had some clue as to what Jeanette was talking about. She caught his eye and winked, and Mekhi instantly felt a little bit better.

  “Yeah,” he replied weakly. “That’d be good.”

  A look of relief swept over Gabriel’s face. “Thanks. You’re the best.” He gave Mekhi’s hand a little squeeze before returning to sit next to Jaylen, who was feeding his monkey pâté, its fingers covered with the soft brown goo. Mekhi watched in horror as the monkey screeched, throwing its furry head back and smearing the pâté all over the freshly washed white wall.

  So much for redecorating.

  10

  “Oh my God, you have to burn this one!” Chanel held out a picture of her first-grade self in a fuzzy alligator costume and dug her feet into the butter-soft sheets covering Kaliq’s bed. His bed was always unmade, despite the fact that his family had a maid who bulldozed through his room every day, washing everything in sight. Chanel and Kaliq lay side by side on their stomachs, a worn leather photo album between them.

  “I don’t even remember wearing that,” she mused, tossing the aging photo onto the already messy floor. Even though he’d only been home for one day, his room was a total disaster. Piles of clothes were strewn everywhere, and his huge wooden desk was completely covered with notebooks, magazines, and PlayStation games. A broken lacrosse stick leaned dejectedly in one corner.

  “I do.” Kaliq laughed, retrieving the photo. “It was Halloween. We’d just gone to the Bronx Zoo on some field trip, and you became obsessed with alligators.” He smiled lazily at her. “You ran around telling everybody you were going to live with the alligators.”

  Chanel’s bare foot was right next to Kaliq’s, and she moved it a fraction of an inch closer, feeling the heat from his body as he turned the pages of the photo album. She bit her lip. She needed to focus on the job they’d come there to do—to choose the pictures for the slide show at Porsha’s graduation party.

  Porsha. Kaliq’s girlfriend. The love of his life.

  She looked down at the tan leather photo album again and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. There was Porsha’s happy face, her arms entwined around Kaliq’s neck as she pulled his face closer to hers, grinning into the camera. They’d probably kissed moments after they took that picture. Because they were in love. Her heart sank with the thought.

  “This is so weird,” Kaliq said, turning the page.

  “What is?” Chanel asked, hoping Kaliq hadn’t suddenly developed the ability to read minds. She twirled a lock of hair around one finger, waiting for him to finish his thought. “Oh, no way!” she exclaimed, pointing at the photo album as he turned to the next page. There was Kaliq, blissfully passed out between a smiling Chanel and Porsha, the words BUCK NAKED scrawled in red marker across his bare hairless chest. “I didn’t even know we had this! I’ll let you keep the alligator one if you promise never to burn this one.” She looked up and gave him a mischievous smile.

  “Deal.” Kaliq stuck his hand out, and she shook it, slowly drawing her hand away.

  Looking down at eighth-grade Kaliq, so peaceful and sleepy, Chanel couldn’t help remembering how warm his skin always was, and how, on the night they’d lost their virginity to each other, she hadn’t needed a blanket at all—sleeping with Kaliq was like sleeping with your own personal furnace.

  And just as dangerous.

  “What were you saying though before—what’s weird?” Chanel looked down at the ends of her hair again, afraid of his answer.

  “I don’t know.” Kaliq flipped the page and pointed to a picture of Porsha on the steps of the Met with Chanel, their arms wrapped around each other, tongues sticking out at the camera
. “Things seemed so much easier back then. No college. No worries. No responsibilities.”

  “Like taking the Charlotte for a month without asking?” she said, grinning. “It must’ve been amazing.” She cleared her throat and rolled over onto her back, her hands on her belly. Her stomach dipped and rolled in anticipation and nervousness. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know the answer to that question, but at the same time, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from asking.

  “It was.” Kaliq closed the photo album and looked at her. “Being out there with no parents, nothing to worry about, just me and Porsha...it was probably the best month of my life,” he said, although he was really thinking about how kissable Chanel’s lips always looked—the way they were always a little parted, with just a trace of a smile.

  Chanel’s heart plummeted in her chest. She wanted so badly to have been the one out there with him, totally alone, nothing around but the endless expanse of blue water and their half-naked bodies. She wondered for the millionth time if he had found her letter and read it. Somehow, she doubted he had. If he’d found the letter, he would’ve said something, right? But there was probably no point in asking anyway. He loved Porsha. There was no question. She felt dizzy at the thought. How could she go up to Yale with them in a week and watch as Kaliq and Porsha stared into each other’s eyes for four long years? She didn’t think she’d be able to stand it.

  Kaliq’s phone rang, breaking the peaceful silence. He grabbed it from the floor and as he reached out, his T-shirt rode up a little, exposing the smooth, caramel skin of his back. Chanel swallowed and tried to look away. Kaliq pushed the speakerphone button and a gravelly, decidedly grumbly voice was released into the air.

  “Kaliq? Is that you?”

  Kaliq looked over at Chanel in confusion, wrinkling his forehead.

  “Uh, yeah,” he said cautiously. “This is Kaliq.”

  “Well, this is Chips,” the voice growled menacingly. “Meet me at the New York Yacht Club in half an hour.” There was a click, then the sound of a dial tone.

  “Fuck,” Kaliq mumbled under his breath. After a moment he jumped to his feet and slid them into a beat-up pair of Jordans. “I’m sorry,” he said, putting his cell phone into his pocket. “But I’ve gotta go.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a hot date.” She winked and waited for his sly comeback, but he only gave her a halfhearted smile. Chanel searched his eyes, trying to figure out what was going on.

  Kaliq turned and started digging through one of his desk drawers, pulling out some rolling papers, a stick of deodorant, and some random unicorn stickers Porsha had probably given him in, like, seventh grade or something.

  “But before you go, I just wanted to tell you that they’re pushing up the release date for Breakfast at Fred’s...”

  “Seriously?” He turned to look at her again, producing his iPod from the drawer and throwing it into his navy blue backpack along with his keys. “I guess you’ll be a real movie star soon.” He grinned, closing his backpack. “Sure you’ll still have time for us little people?”

  “I’ll always have time for you.” Her voice was small but serious. As she held his green-eyed gaze, Kaliq leaned over and kissed her softly on the forehead, his lips lingering for a moment on her skin. He stroked the top of her head briefly with one hand and then walked quickly to the door. Before the door swung shut, he looked back at her—a kind of wordless question swimming in his green eyes. And then he was gone.

  Chanel sat there in a daze, one hand tracing the path of his lips on her face. Her forehead felt strange and electric, like her skin had just been branded by the soft pressure of Kaliq’s mouth. She could still feel the silky warmth of his lips, and all she wanted was to chase him out the door and kiss him back.

  But not on the forehead this time.

  11

  “Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs here!”

  Porsha perched on a fire hydrant directly across from the Braxtons' townhouse on 82nd Street. A hot dog cart was parked on the sidewalk a few feet from her, and the salty aroma of hot dogs, sauerkraut, and golden pretzels was making her feel slightly insane, and very hungry. Her stomach growled and she rolled her eyes in annoyance. Even though she was totally starving, she wasn’t going anywhere or eating anything—especially not a greasy, disease-filled hot dog—until Chanel came out and explained to her what the hell was going on and why she was hanging out at Kaliq’s house. Rumbling stomach or not, right now the only kind of dog Porsha was interested in was her lying, cheating boyfriend.

  Woof!

  She crossed her arms over her chest, her Kate Spade tote resting in her lap. She pushed her tinted blue Prada aviators up on her forehead and watched as the heavy wooden door to the townhouse swung open. Kaliq came tumbling out, shoving his white headphones in his ears and practically running down the street. Where was he off to in such a hurry? Maybe the “paint fumes” had gone to his head. Moments later, Chanel appeared, looking right, then left, her black leather tote swinging from her shoulder, sikly hair gleaming in the sunlight.

  Aha!

  Porsha watched as Chanel proceeded to practically tiptoe down the street toward the park. As she reached the corner, she stopped suddenly, pulling her cell from her bag. Who was she calling now? Did she need to call Kaliq only seconds after parting to plan their next rendezvous? Porsha leaned forward on the bench, trying to make out Chanel’s expression as she held the phone to her head.

  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

  Porsha jumped as her cell began to vibrate and ring from the confines of her tote. She grabbed it and looked at the caller-ID screen. Well, of course.

  “Hello?” she answered shrilly, unable to keep the iciness from her voice.

  “Hey.” Chanel’s voice was bright and casual. “What are you doing?”

  “Hey. Nothing. Contemplating killing my family.” And you? Porsha added silently.

  Chanel laughed. “What’d they do this time?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Porsha sighed. She watched as Chanel stopped walking and held onto a streetlight, kicking one foot against the metal base.

  Oh-kaaay...

  “So, where are you right now?” Chanel asked, her voice questioning. Porsha watched as she leaned against the pole, crossing her legs at the ankles.

  “You know, just out and about.” Porsha kept her voice neutral. An ambulance rushed down the street, siren wailing, and the sound echoed through both phones.

  “That’s so weird, it sounds like you’re right next to me.” Chanel sounded confused...and maybe the slightest bit nervous?

  “It’s funny you should say that.” Porsha’s tone was icy as a January frost. “Because I’m looking right at you.” She watched as Chanel whirled around, checking the crowd frantically.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, spotting her. “I’ll be right over.”

  Now this should be a fun reunion!

  Ten minutes later, they sat side by side on the cool stone steps of the Met, smoking cigarettes, iced vanilla lattes sweating in their hands. The sun beat down on their heads and shoulders like a reprimand, and brightly colored banners hung from the entrance to the museum, advertising the latest Picasso and Van Gogh touring collections.

  “So,” Porsha’s voice was cool and measured, “what were you doing over at Kaliq’s?” She glanced at Chanel’s low-cut black tank top. “Because it certainly doesn’t look like there was any painting going on.”

  “Painting? What are you talking about?” Chanel knew it must be weird for Porsha to have caught her and Kaliq hanging out without her, but the iciness in Porsha’s voice felt totally wrong, especially here. The two of them had met on these steps countless times. They’d drunk hundreds of coffees and smoked probably thousands of cigarettes here. Usually they would gossip wildly until the sky grew dark and it was time to head home, linking their arms and walking down Fifth Avenue. But now it didn’t feel calming or familiar to have Porsha sitting next to her—it felt tense. Chanel shifted on the hard stone, trying uns
uccessfully to get comfortable.

  “Kaliq told me earlier he couldn’t hang out because they were painting his room and the fumes were too much to bear. But clearly you were able to handle them,” Porsha accused, looking straight ahead.

  “Listen, I think you’ve got things all wrong. Please don’t freak out before I tell you what’s really going on.” Chanel snuck a glance at Porsha, whose eyes were hidden behind enormous blue aviators. She seemed mad, but Chanel couldn’t really be sure, since cranky was kind of Porsha’s natural state. She hadn’t wanted to ruin the surprise of the slide show, but she knew Porsha would never trust her again if she didn’t explain what she and Kaliq had been doing.

  Um, maybe she should’ve thought about that before writing her best friend’s boyfriend a three-page love letter?

  “So you know the party at the Met?” Chanel took a gulp of iced latte and looked out at the street below. A tired-looking mother was attempting to strap her writhing toddler into a stroller while her husband looked on helplessly. “Well, your mom asked me and Kaliq to go through all these photos to make a slide show for the party: a ‘This Is Your Life, Porsha Sinclaire’ kind of thing. That’s why we were hanging out today.” Chanel reached into her tote and rummaged around at the bottom. “She asked us to keep it a secret, but clearly you’re too much of a sleuth for us,” she joked, hoping to lighten the mood.

  “Seriously?” Porsha perked up. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that Chanel and Kaliq might be getting together to do something nice for her. And she loved surprises, as long as she knew about them.

  That makes sense.

  “Uh-huh,” Chanel replied excitedly. “Look at these.” She pulled some old photos from her bag and handed them to Porsha.

  Porsha stared down at the picture of Kaliq sleeping, the words BUCK NAKED scrawled across his adolescent scrawny chest in black magic marker. She’d written the “BUCK” part, and Chanel’s wavy script had filled in the “NAKED”—they hadn’t even talked about it, they’d just had the exact same thought at the exact same time. Porsha laughed, running her fingers over the slick surface of the photograph. “I can’t believe you found this! What were we, like, thirteen? We were so freaking immature!”