Upper East Side #11

by Ashley Valentine

  “Chanel!” a young female reporter yelled out, scribbling furiously on a small white pad, her rectangular eyeglasses sliding down her tiny nose. “What are your plans? Any films in the near future?”

  The cameras clicked incessantly as Chanel cleared her throat and prepared to speak. Ken Mogul had said in his e-mail not to worry about the press conference, that he’d be there to take care of everything. But when Chanel had arrived, she’d been met by Jade, Ken’s assistant and wife, a stunning Afro-Asian ex-model with straight black hair to her waist, who’d informed Chanel coldly that Ken might be a little late.

  “Actually,” she answered with an apologetic smile, “I start college next week, so I don’t think I’ll be making any more movies for a while.” She crossed her legs and leaned back on the deck chair. She was glad she’d worn the black Bailey Winter sunglasses that were designed especially for Holly, the character she played in the movie. She’d thought they’d help her feel more in character, but she hadn’t realized she’d need them to shade her eyes from the sun—not to mention the flashbulbs.

  Chanel folded her hands over the skirt of her simple white dress and pulled a stray silky hair away from her face. With her white Hermès lace-up sandals and the cream-and-black Fendi bag at her feet, she was the picture of New York glamour. Now she just needed to make sure she acted that way. She was okay with the sitting-there part. It felt sort of...right to be there, flashbulbs exploding in her face every five seconds. It was the speaking part—knowing that people were hanging on her every word, writing every syllable down and possibly hoping that she’d make a dumb spoiled-starlet mistake—that made her feel quivery inside. She’d grown up having people look at and talk about her, but this was the first time anyone had asked for her own original thoughts.

  Agh!

  “Which college, Chanel?” another reporter yelled out, startling her from her moment of reverie.

  “I’m heading to Yale on Sunday, actually,” she replied, a bit more confidently than she actually felt. She pushed her hair off her shoulders and continued. “I just want to be a normal girl for a while. You know, go to school, be like everyone else.”

  As if that were even remotely possible.

  She still couldn't wrap her head around it. The countdown had officially begun: in just five days the most recent graduates of Manhattan’s most exclusive private schools were headed to college. Pretty soon she'd be settling into her dorm room on her Ivy League campus, the first fallen leaves crunching beneath her new, camel-colored riding boots as she strode purposefully to classes with names like Explorations in the Romantics and Chaos Theory. No more back-to-school coffees on the steps of the Met, no more sneaking out of AP French class for a cigarette, and no more itchy poly-blend uniforms.

  “Normal girl? Ha! Not if I can help it!” a deep male voice rang out.

  Reporters turned to see Ken Mogul making his way toward the terrace through the suite, balancing a bottle of champagne and two crystal champagne flutes in his hands. His bulging eyes looked like they might rocket out of his face, and he was trailed by Jade, who towered over him in her ridiculously high Jimmy Choos. Just when it seemed he was going to take a seat, Ken jumped onto the outdoor coffee table which was covered with champagne glasses, sending them crashing.

  Chanel shook her head slightly, feeling a little dazed. Between the constant snap and glitter of flashbulbs, the champagne, the close proximity of Thad, and now this weird performance, her head was spinning and she felt like she needed to go back into the AC.

  Little Miss Demanding. She really is becoming a Hollywood star!

  From his high perch, Ken poured Chanel a flute of wine and clinked his full glass against hers. “Chanel Crenshaw is the greatest talent of the twenty-first century, and though some of you may think I’ve sold out by shooting Breakfast at Fred’s entirely inside the mainstream zeitgeist, it is Chanel who is my greatest independent work of art.”

  Okay. What exactly did he just say?

  He hopped off the table and laid himself flat on the ground at Chanel’s sandaled feet, murmuring, “I’m not worthy,” over and over again.

  Chanel blushed. She certainly didn’t feel like an independent work of art—far from it. She was just a confused high school graduate who was going to college because she wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. She looked up and saw Ken Mogul’s gorgeous wife looking at her coldly, arms folded across her chest. Chanel shrugged shyly, as if to let her know that she wasn’t really into all this ass-kissing star-worship stuff.

  The cameras went crazy, clicking away like mad. Ken sat up abruptly and held his stubbly hand in front of his face. “Gentlemen, please!” he shouted. The flashes stopped as quickly as they’d started, and the crowd grew silent again, waiting for Ken to speak. “Not only do we begin shooting the sequel to Breakfast at Fred’s next month, but I plan to shoot a new film this spring, in the style of the visionary director François Truffaut—a gritty, black-and-white exercise in emotional realism and the searing depravity of love and addiction.” He put his glass of champagne down dramatically. “And both films will star Chanel Crenshaw, of course.”

  Chanel’s mouth dropped open and Ken met her wide-eyed gaze. He gave her a quick wink, his scary eyes twinkling.

  “Our little Chanel is going to be a big, big star!”

  “I told you!” Thad broke in, grabbing her hand and raising it in the air.

  Chanel sat there in stunned silence as the reporters went nuts around her. “Chanel, Chanel! Does that mean Yale is on hold?” a male broke through the shouting.

  She looked at Ken and then at Thad, who both smiled back at her expectantly. She couldn’t not go to Yale...or...could she? Porsha and Kaliq would be fine—or better off—without her. But was she ready to leave them?

  The crowded terrace fell completely silent as Chanel turned back to the cameras, squaring her shoulders. “No comment.”

  Ditto.

  TO:psinclaire@emmawillard.edu

  FROM:caligirl90210@gmail.com

  Subject: We’re roomies!

  Dear Porsha,

  I was so excited when I got my roommate assignment in the mail this morning! Aren’t you just dying to get to Yale? I’ve been shopping all week (make that all summer!), since it’ll be a pain once we’re on campus—doesn’t it totally suck that freshmen aren’t allowed to have cars anymore?!

  I guess I better back up and tell you a little about myself: I live in Beverly Hills and my dad’s a cosmetic dentist. Which means my whole family has perfect teeth. Anyway, I’m not sure what I’m going to miss most about Cali—my parents, my convertible, my swimming pool, or the malls. But I guess Saks is only a train ride away.

  I’ve been skating all my life. I went to nationals in pairs skating with Ashton, my partner, who was also my boyfriend until I broke up with him last week. My favorite store is the Build-A-Bear Workshop. I have a huge teddy bear collection. My favorite color is white, which technically isn’t a color, but it’s the color of my ice skates and ice when it’s been skated on, plus my birthstone is a pearl, which is also white. When Ashton and I won regionals, I wore the most beautiful pearl tiara.

  So, you’re from New York? That’s all the housing slip said. Do you live in Manhattan? I’ve never been there. What was your high school like? Do you have a boyfriend? I was going out with Ashton for almost two years, but I thought it would be better to break up before college. Long distance relationships just don’t last...

  Anyway, I’m beyond excited to meet you! Please write back soon and tell me all about yourself. We’re going to have the best time this fall, and I hope we’ll become lifelong friends. Oh and my stuffed French bulldog CeeCee says hello too!

  xoxoxo,

  Alana

  TO:caligirl90210@gmail.com

  FROM: psinclaire@emmawillard.edu

  Subject: re: We’re roomies!

  Dear Alana,

  That’s so weird—my family is actually moving from New York to L.A. really soon. It will be cool
to know someone if I’m forced to spend breaks there.

  So...about me: I grew up in Manhattan on the Upper East Side and attended an all-girls school called Emma Willard. My mom married a moron and had a baby even though they’re like ninety years old. I named her Yale. My parents are divorced and my dad lives in a chateau on a vineyard in France. He and his boyfriend just adopted Cambodian twins. I can’t even talk about it.

  Yes, I have a boyfriend—his name is Kaliq, and we’ve been together forever. This past summer we borrowed his father’s yacht and sailed around for a month and fell totally in love all over again, and lucky for you he’s coming to Yale, too. Why so lucky? Because you’ll get the room all to yourself once Kaliq and I find a house together off-campus. It’s all working out so perfectly I could just scream with happiness.

  See you soon!

  Sincerely,

  Porsha

  P.S. But seriously, we can’t have cars on campus?

  16

  Porsha surveyed the various Louis Vuitton trunks that surrounded her, the endless LV monograms multiplying and making her feel dizzy. She grabbed a stack of sweaters and held the soft material to her cheek for a minute before throwing them into an empty trunk. Looking around at the half-packed trunks and suitcases, at Tahj’s old smelly room in a state of total disarray, she still couldn’t quite believe her family was really moving to California—or that she had to bring every single piece of winter clothing she owned to Yale with her, since she’d never be able to wear it in L.A. anyway. The whole process of packing some things for college and some things for California was made all the more obnoxious by the fact that she had to ship the trunks to Yale since she wouldn’t be driving her beautiful BMW to school. Why the fuck did Yale have to change the rules about bringing a car the very year she was going there?

  Porsha sighed, flopping down on the ugly hemp bedspread. She couldn’t imagine anything more depressing than having to take the freaking train to school.

  Well, she could hitchhike. That might be fun.

  Porsha closed her eyes and tried to picture what Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks would be like in Los Angeles. There would be no sledding in Central Park or walking up Fifth Avenue at Christmastime with Chanel, making fun of the tourists gawking at the Saks windows. No more ice-skating at Rockefeller Center with Kaliq under the enormous tree, a cloudy December sky threatening snow overhead. It was painfully sunny almost every day of the year in Los Angeles, and there was practically no ozone layer, for God’s sake. She’d have to slather herself in SPF 40 just to open a fucking window.

  She sat up, grabbed a trunk, and began filling it with armloads of silk underwear. If she and Kaliq couldn’t share New York anymore, at least they’d have the perfect home together in New Haven—maybe a little stone cottage close to campus with ivy climbing gaily up the gray stone walls. They would sit facing each other in front of a roaring fire, drinking gin and tonics and studying. She’d make flash cards to help him study for his economics exams, and they’d cook dinner together every night, moving carefully around each other in the cozy kitchen. Kaliq would stop in the middle of carving the venison from the deer he’d shot himself on last weekend’s hunting trip and take her in his arms, covering her with kisses until, dinner forgotten, he would lay her down on the bearskin rug—from a bear he had killed and skinned—slowly peeling her clothes from her body...

  Porsha dropped the pair of black cropped Gucci jeans she was holding and grabbed her cell, hitting speed dial number 3. Kaliq’s phone went straight to voicemail...again. She threw the phone onto the cat-pee-stained, sea-grass-mat-covered floor and it went skittering into the corner. Where was he?

  Then the door opened and Kaliq walked in, as if on cue. Porsha jumped to her feet and threw herself into his arms, purring against his chest. “I just called you!” She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight, breathing in the scent of summer and his slightly sweaty armpits. But Kaliq didn’t seem to be hugging her back. She pulled back ever so slightly and looked up into his face. He looked serious—and Kaliq never looked serious.

  Uh-oh.

  “What’s wrong?” Porsha demanded, her brow furrowing. Without waiting for an answer she turned around and began folding pairs of jeans, working methodically. If she kept busy, maybe she wouldn’t have an aneurysm. What the fuck was going on?

  “I have to tell you something, Porsha.” Kaliq’s voice was shaking. “There’s something important I’ve been keeping from you.”

  Porsha’s heart bumped crazily in her chest. Seeing him so obviously upset made her even more nervous. She sat down on a closed trunk and waited. Had Chanel finally told Kaliq she was in love with him? Did he love Chanel back? Were they going to run off to France together to adopt Cambodian twins?

  “I didn’t get my diploma,” Kaliq blurted in a rush, as if hoping she might not catch the words. “I have to repeat senior year at St. Jude’s.”

  Porsha grabbed the edge of the trunk she was sitting on with her fingers, staring at him uncomprehendingly.

  “I can’t go to Yale with you,” he clarified. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What?” Porsha screeched in disbelief. She stood up, fingers clenched into fists at her sides. “What did you say?”

  Kaliq’s face was an infuriating blank. The whole room seemed to go red. Seriously? Was this seriously happening? First her best friend betrayed her, then her family abandoned their fucking home, then her car was practically ripped away from her, and now the supposed love of her life was making her go off to college without him because he was stuck in high school? Was this seriously fucking happening?

  “WHAT THE HELL, KALIQ!?” she screamed, throwing a pair of black alligator Manolos across the room, narrowly missing his head.

  Love hurts!

  Porsha’s head filled with static. Kaliq wasn’t going to Yale with her—he was staying right here in New York—in the city where very soon she would no longer have a home. He might as well have told her that he was in love with Chanel; the end result was still the same. She and Kaliq would be apart next year, living totally separate lives. How were they supposed to live happily ever after the way they were destined to if he was still in high school? Porsha was breathing so fast her head felt light and dizzy.

  “I’ll, um...I’ll call you later,” Kaliq said uncomfortably, looking down at the carpet. His shoulders rose in a deep, shuddering sigh. “When you’re a little more calm.”

  Which might be never.

  “What do you want me to say, Kaliq? Congratu-freakinglations? Hey, at least you can call me to help you with your homework?!” Porsha screamed as he opened the door and closed it softly behind him.

  Don’t go giving him any ideas.

  TO:caligirl90210@gmail.com

  FROM:psinclaire@emmawillard.edu

  Subject: re: We’re Roomies!

  Dear Alana,

  P.P.S. Forget every fucking thing I just said. I hope you’re at least a semi-fucking normal human being, because no one else in my life is.

  See you soon.

  Porsha

  17

  Kaliq walked out of Porsha’s apartment building and onto Fifth Avenue, grateful for the anonymous noise and clamor of the busy street. At least no one was yelling at him out here. He knew that she wouldn’t take the news that he wasn’t going to Yale with her well or anything, but he hadn’t expected it to be that bad. He stopped on the corner and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was tempted by the tightly rolled emergency joint he’d shoved in the back, but pulled out a cigarette instead and lit the tip, his hands shaking.

  He was trying to think with his balls like Chips said. He’d thought that if he just came clean to her, everything would just fall into place. Sure, he’d be in Manhattan for an extra year, but they’d see each other every weekend. It wasn’t like he wanted to stay behind in the city while Porsha and Chanel—his girls—were up in New Haven.

  Kaliq exhaled a cloud of smoke and started walking uptown, not knowing or caring where he was
headed. Thinking with his balls was totally overrated. All he really needed was to talk to someone who actually cared about him, someone who knew him better than anyone. The problem was, that person had just thrown a pair of shoes at his head.

  He stopped in his tracks and looked up at the tall stone building in front of him at 81st and Fifth Avenue, almost across from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. His feet had led him right to Chanel’s doorstep. As he stared up at the gauzy white curtains covering the windows of the top-floor apartment, Kaliq wondered if she was home. He walked into the lobby and raised his hand to the doorman, who smiled and waved him through.

  As he rode up in the wood-paneled elevator, Kaliq wasn’t sure what he would say to Chanel if she even was home. All he wanted was to chill for a while and forget everything that had just happened in the last torturous hour, but knowing Porsha, she’d probably already told Chanel the news. He strode purposefully to the Crenshaws’ door and knocked.

  Chanel opened the door to her apartment almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting for him. She was wearing a crisp white cotton dress, like she was about to go play tennis, except that her silky hair was messily piled on top of her head with a paintbrush sticking through it. “Hey.”

  Kaliq grinned. “Want to hang out for a while?”

  She smiled slowly, then opened the door wide, grabbing his T-shirt and pulling him inside.

  A few minutes later they sat cross-legged on the floor by the edge of her frilly white bed, the leather photo album spread out in front of them. Chanel leaned forward to turn to a new page, her hair falling across Kaliq’s shoulder. He breathed deeply. His pulse was finally slowing. All it took was Chanel’s signature scent of patchouli and lilies to calm him down.