Upper East Side #11

by Ashley Valentine

  She wiped the tears from under the dark lenses and ran her hands over her head the way she always did when she was upset. As her fingers touched her prickly scalp, she stopped dead in her tracks. The most disastrous thought of all bubbled up in her brain, and before she could stop it, it spilled out. Did Mekhi only go out with her in the first place because of her shaved head? Was it possible that he only liked her hair because it made her look...manly?

  Yasmine suddenly felt like she was going to be sick all over the corner of 11th and Broadway. Almost before she knew what she was doing, she grabbed her cell and began punching keys in total panic. She needed to feel feminine and sexy immediately, and there was only one person who could really help her.

  “Helllllooo?” Porsha’s voice sounded like it was trapped in a wind tunnel or something.

  “Hey Porsha, it’s Yas.” There was a pause in which Yasmine could hear the sound of giggling in the background, and then a loud whooshing noise. “I need...help.” Yasmine took a deep breath, wondering why the next words were so hard for her to say. “I need...a makeover,” she blurted out, putting her index finger in her mouth and gnawing violently on her nail.

  “Actually, you’ve got perfect timing. I’m at Warren Tricomi getting extensions right this very minute,” Porsha responded enthusiastically. Yasmine realized that the wind was the sound of hair-dryers in the background. “Come on over immediately”

  Twenty minutes later Yasmine sat in a stylist’s chair next to Porsha, watching as a thin Frenchman named Louis with a pointy nose threaded strands of golden brown hair into Porsha’s already thick mane.

  “Iz like a buuuuutiffffful mermaaaaid,” Louis told Porsha, who looked back at him in the gold-framed salon mirror approvingly. “Et pour ton ami”—Louis pointed at Yasmine with a long skinny finger—“vee vill make mageek! I vill return!”

  Yasmine looked around. The spa looked like a European palace, its dark oak floors covered with Persian carpets and walls with gold mirrors. The chair she sat in was plush burgundy velvet. She crossed her legs uncomfortably, placing her hands on her calves to hide their prickliness. Light streamed in through the giant plate-glass windows at the front, and a row of copper sinks and shampoo chairs lined the far wall. The salon was filled with tanned, manicured, designer-clad ladies, reading Vogue or leaning back with their eyes closed as stylists pampered them with head massages. Places like this always made Yasmine feel like she had three heads—all of them begging for a makeover. Porsha, of course, looked right at home as she sat there, a stack of magazines on her lap, her legs crossed high on her thigh, barking orders to the assistants flitting around her.

  “So what happened?” she turned to Yasmine as soon as Louis walked away.

  “I just need to look more like a girl,” Yasmine mumbled, slouching in her chair.

  “Well, obviously.” Porsha wrinkled her perfect little nose and gestured at Yasmine’s slumped form with her perfectly pink fingernails. “Finally you realize you are a girl.”

  Yasmine looked in the mirror at her sweaty bald head and dusty black boots. Then she looked over at Porsha’s completely feminine form: her pink toes peeped out of a pair of light aqua sandals and gold bracelets tinkled on her slender graceful arm. Yasmine sighed heavily, slumping down even further in her chair. She was absolutely hopeless.

  “I know I’m a girl,” she finally answered. “But I need to be a girl that’s more like...” She gestured at Porsha’s body. “More like you.”

  “Done and done.” Porsha smiled. She was starting to feel more like herself again. After Kaliq’s little announcement, she had come to the one place she knew would make her feel better—the salon. And it had worked, of course. The only thing that had kept her from losing her mind was Louis’s soothing murmur as he threaded new long locks into her roots and told her how lucky she was to have such healthy strong hair. There was just something totally calming about sitting in a stylist’s chair. It was like Audrey Hepburn said about Tiffany: nothing very bad could ever happen to you there.

  Now that she had calmed down, Porsha wanted to talk to Kaliq and make sure he didn’t do anything stupid, like think they were broken up and throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge or take some poison to end his suffering—although to be honest, Kaliq had never been much of a Romeo.

  She began punching the keys on her cell. She’d been calling his phone every five minutes but had gotten voicemail every time. She tried Chanel’s, too, hoping for someone to commiseratewith, but she wasn’t there either. Where were they, anyway?

  She really doesn’t want to know...

  Porsha surveyed Yasmine’s dusty black shorts and grit-streaked tank top. She could definitely benefit from some quality time in the stylist’s chair. Porsha was happy to help—she’d always liked a challenge, and God knew she could use the distraction.

  Yasmine was beginning to wonder who Porsha thought it was so important to call every five seconds when a cell phone started to blast Rihanna's “Work.” Yasmine turned around and spotted Imani Edwards and Alexis Sullivan seated next to each other under the dryers, their heads sporting matching strips of aluminum foil. Alexis talked loudly on her cell, holding her palm against her other ear to block out the roar of wind. She was wearing some kind of frilly pink sundress that hung from her body like a sack, and Imani wore the exact same thing—but in a nauseating shade of green. Imani looked up and spotted Yasmine sitting in a stylist’s chair. She elbowed Alexis, who burst into a fit of laughter.

  “Getting a new look?” Alexis yelled out, holding the phone away from her head.

  “Obviously,” Yasmine mumbled, before turning back around and facing the dreaded mirror.

  Porsha was leaving yet another message. “...so I’m still here at the spa, and you need to call me when you get this. Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?” She crankily snapped her cell shut and sighed.

  “Where’s Kaliq?” Yasmine asked as a blond assistant dressed entirely in white spandex placed a glass of ice water with lemon slices on the countertop in front of her. Yasmine grabbed the glass, swallowing the cold water greedily.

  “Fuck if I know.” Porsha sighed. “And it’s not like I don’t need help, getting ready for Yale and everything.”

  “I know what you mean,” Yasmine said sympathetically, placing the empty glass back on the countertop. “It’s not like I’m spending a lot of time with Ruby now that she’s getting married. Or Mekhi,” she added. “He’s so busy with his job and his new boyfriend that I might as well not even exist.”

  Porsha turned to her in surprise, a smile moving across her lips. “I’m going to ignore the Mekhi-being-gay info in favor of the much more interesting news here—your sister’s getting married?” she asked, her eyes lighting up. “When, when, when?”

  Shit. Yasmine should have known better than to mention the M-word in front of a girl like Porsha. “Um, the bachelorette party is tonight and the wedding’s on Saturday afternoon.”

  “Okay, this is more serious than I thought.” Porsha sat up in her chair as if energized with the mission, her posture stick-straight. “You have to look amazing for the wedding.” Porsha pointed at Yasmine’s bald head. “Louis! Louis! Give her something really dramatic. Hair to her waist!” She turned to Yasmine again. “Oh, and by the way, after the wedding you should come by the Met—my mom’s throwing a goodbye party for me. Plus you’ll already be all dolled up from the wedding. Bring whoever.” She waved a hand as if renting out one of the largest and most opulent museums in the world wasn’t a big deal at all.

  Yasmine nodded. “Oh, okay. Maybe I will. Thanks.”

  Louis quietly circled Yasmine’s chair, touching her scalp with his long cool fingers. “Zer iz not too muuch to vork vith,” he observed, foraging in the roots of Yasmine’s troubled head.

  “That’s okay,” Yasmine replied dejectedly. “I’m beyond hope,” she added dramatically.

  “Ah!” he cried, snapping his fingers. “Ve have some fabooluuuuuuus hummus-har wigs, long and black.
”

  Long black hummus hair? Yasmine stared at her bald scalp in the mirror and tilted her head to the side.

  “Very Nicki Minaj.” Porsha held up the Us Weekly on her lap and pointed at the cover. “Brilliant!” She clapped her hands together excitedly.

  Normally, the mere thought of trying to look like someone on the cover of Us Weekly would force Yasmine to dry heave. But these were desperate times. Another eruption of giggles emitted from Alexis and Imani's end of the salon. Yasmine peered thoughtfully at herself in the mirror. She was ready for a change.

  “Bring it on,” she nodded confidently to Louis, smiling into the mirror.

  Oh dear. Remember girls, it’s always better to stick to what you were born with. Anything stuck on might...fall off.

  20

  Chanel purred happily, snuggling closer to Kaliq’s warm naked body. Lying in his arms felt so incredibly right. When they’d lost their virginity to each other, more than two years ago, it had been amazing, their every curve a perfect fit. This time was no different; they’d sunk into the soft sheets and each other’s bodies like they had been made for one another. Chanel couldn’t believe how comfortable she felt with Kaliq—how comfortable she’d always been with him. She never, ever wanted to get out of bed. Couldn’t they just stay wrapped in each other’s arms forever, ordering Chinese takeout every few hours and feeding each other greasy spareribs?

  Nothing says romance like pork-fried rice!

  She buried her nose in his ear and he pulled her close, wrapping the sheet around their naked sweaty bodies. Chanel reached up, twining her arms around Kaliq’s neck.

  The minute his lips had touched hers and their clothes had fallen away, Chanel knew she’d been right all along—she really loved him. She felt like she was going to burst with it, and had been holding the words in for so long that all she wanted to do now was repeat them over and over again.

  “Chanel?” Kaliq asked, rolling on his side and propping his head up on one hand.

  “Yes?” She rolled him back over and placed her head on his chest, snuggling under his armpit. She loved the sound of her name when he said it.

  “I have something to tell you.” He traced his fingertips along her bare shoulders. It felt electric.

  Chanel sat up, pulling the sheet with her to cover her smooth skin, her silky hair falling over her bare back. “What?” she whispered, trying to stay calm.

  “I didn’t get my diploma,” he said quietly. He grabbed her kilted teddy bear from the corner of her all-white canopy bed and hugged it. “I’m not going to Yale next year. I’m going to have to stay here in New York and repeat senior year.”

  Chanel opened her eyes wide with surprise. Not going to Yale? Did Porsha know? She looked at her teddy, as if he might convey some answers, and pulled the covers up higher around her torso, shrugging off the thought of Porsha, because with it would come guilt, masses and masses of guilt.

  “I wish I could just take off.” Kaliq pulled a faded green T-shirt over his head, his voice muffled inside the soft cotton. “Just sail away and never come back.”

  His head popped through the cloth, and he pulled the material over his tanned chest. He ran his hands through his hair and flopped back down next to Chanel. Her eyes were so brilliantly dark that it was hard for him to imagine ever looking anywhere else. He looked at her gorgeous face, and he knew that he’d never forget the way she looked right now—her cheeks flushed, her long body wrapped up in white sheets—as long as he lived.

  If Porsha finds out, that might not be for long.

  “What are you going to do?” Chanel asked, pushing her hair from her face.

  “Stay here, I guess,” Kaliq answered dejectedly. “It’s not like I’ve got much of a choice.”

  Chanel stroked his hand, wishing she could kiss him and make this all better. The late-afternoon sunlight filtered in through the open windows, and she looked out at the wide blue sky outside. She could hear the faint sounds of the city below, the buses rumbling by with the posters of her face on their sides. Suddenly her pulse began to race. “You know...I’m not so sure about going to Yale either,” she said quietly.

  “What?” Kaliq demanded, his green eyes glittering. “Why?”

  “Well, I keep trying to picture it...but I just can’t.” She had been about to say, whenever Porsha talks about it, but then she stopped herself. “And then at that press conference yesterday, the director announced that he’s filming the sequel to Breakfast at Fred’s in New York in a month and...I don’t know. I just...I think I need to stay here.”

  The minute the words left her lips, Chanel knew they were true. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever really wanted to go to Yale, but she knew for certain she didn’t want to go to Yale without Kaliq. And from the way he was staring at her, it looked like the feeling was completely mutual.

  “Really?” Kaliq asked. He’d been picturing himself as the only guy with a five o’clock shadow taking Algebra I at St. Jude’s. But with Chanel here, maybe he wouldn’t feel so out of place after all. It would be just like always—except without Porsha. Wait, Porsha.

  Remember her?

  But maybe he could still go visit Porsha on weekends. People did that, didn’t they? Like having an apartment in the city and a house in the country. When he thought about it that way, it all seemed so simple. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He could spend weekdays with Chanel and weekends and holidays with Porsha, and everyone would be happy.

  Sounds like he’s thinking with the whole package.

  “Really.” She smiled and he pulled her closer.

  Then, with his breath tickling her ear, he whispered, “I love you too.”

  Aw. So cute. Unless you’re a certain girl with newly implanted extensions.

  21

  “Yeeeeehaaaaaaaw!”

  Yasmine shook the long hair from her face and squared her shoulders before opening the bar’s heavy black door. Coyote Ugly was basically a frat-boy bar ruled by Amazonian female bartenders in cowboy hats. The bartenders were also fond of line dancing across the surface of the heavy wooden bar, dousing the crowd with water—or beer. It wasn’t exactly Yasmine’s kind of place, but it was the perfect location for Ruby’s bachelorette party. Ruby thought the bar, which had been made legendary in the totally watered-down film bearing its name, was hilarious—in a totally ironic way, of course.

  Of course.

  The bar was packed with people, elbow to elbow, mainly drunken frat guys in pastel polo shirts and loafers. Three stunning female bartenders worked the crowd furiously, throwing bottles in the air and knocking back shots along with the guys. The screech of country music filled the room.

  Yasmine stomped across the sawdust-covered floor in her black Prada platforms—Porsha cast-offs—and looked around. Ruby was leaning against the wall wearing a short red dress and combat boots, doing shots with a group of obviously intoxicated girls. Yasmine walked up and elbowed her sister in the ribs.

  “Watch it!” Ruby yelled, an annoyed look on her face. “Bitch,” she muttered.

  Yasmine grabbed her sister’s arm and leaned in closer. “Ruby, it’s me.”

  Ruby’s face went blank with shock. She reached up, touching the strands of long black hair framing Yasmine’s face, staring at her eyes, carefully outlined with dark pencil and expertly shadowed—courtesy of Ms. Porsha Cornelia Sinclaire, of course—and promptly began laughing like a lunatic.

  “Oh my God,” she laughed, downing another shot of amber liquid, “I really am wasted.” As soon as she drained the glass, shivering slightly as the liquor hit her chest, she grabbed Yasmine’s arms again, looking her up and down and taking in the short black skirt and tight, beaded corset top Porsha had practically shoved into Yasmine’s messenger bag. “Seriously, Yas, you look ridiculous. But also kind of...sexy!”

  “Really?” Yasmine reached up to touch the wig. She was still a little uncomfortable in this getup—not to mention sweltering. The room was the temperature of a sauna, and her cas
cading wig of human hair wasn’t helping any.

  “Do a shot!” Ruby yelled, shoving a glass in her hand.

  Yasmine tilted her head back, momentarily afraid her wig might fall off in the process, and downed the shot, which tasted like gasoline. She shook her head from side to side like she was trying to chase her impending hangover away.

  Fat chance.

  “What the hell are you guys drinking?” she croaked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “J&BwithaJ&Bback!” A girl Yasmine recognized as one of the bartenders from the Five and Dime, one of Ruby’s favorite Brooklyn hangouts, slurred, shoving another shot glass into Yasmine’s hand. “Drink it!”

  As if she had a choice.

  The liquor burned Yasmine’s throat. She shook her shoulders and tried to regain her eyesight. “C’mon, sissy, I want to talk!” Ruby yelled into her ear.

  “You want to walk?” Yasmine asked, pointing to a bartender wearing a tight Western shirt unbuttoned to her belly button, ridiculously short jean shorts, and red stilettos, strutting on top of the bar as though it were a catwalk.

  “No!” Ruby pulled her into a darkened corner near the ladies’ room. At least it was slightly quieter. She clutched Yasmine’s arm like a drowning woman. “I said, I need to talk.” Ruby had to shout over the frantic fiddle of “These Boots Are Made for Walkin'” “I don’t think I can do this!”

  “Do what?” Yasmine asked, pouring another shot into her glass from the half-empty bottle of J&B Ruby clutched in her hand. “Drink?” She held up the bottle to her sister’s face. “Cause you seem pretty good at it to me.”

  Ruby waved the bottle away impatiently. “I don’t think I can marry Piotr. I don’t know if I can go through with it.” Ruby’s face crumpled like a used Kleenex.