Upper East Side #11

by Ashley Valentine

  “Wait—what?” Yasmine bent down to place the bottle of J&B on the floor, then she stood back up to put her arms around her sister. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Well,” Ruby sniffed, “he gave me this gift today—he said it was in honor of our future life together or some bullshit.”

  Yasmine wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Soooo?”

  “Yas, he bought me this Suzy Homemaker antique tea set for a fucking wedding present. He doesn’t fucking know me at all. I mean, if that’s what he’s expecting...” She trailed off and poured herself another shot, knocking it back expertly and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Does he think I’m going to be this perfect stay-at-home housewife? Because that’s not what I’m about at all, and he should know that!” Ruby filled her shot glass again, and this time Yasmine held her own glass out for a refill.

  When in Rome...

  “I mean, how can I marry a guy who obviously doesn’t even know who the hell I am?” Ruby shook her head in sadness and disgust. Behind them a couple stumbled out of the ladies’ room, looking around guiltily.

  “He knows who you are,” Yasmine heard herself saying, much to her surprise. “And I think he really loves you.”

  “Why do you say that?” Ruby asked suspiciously.

  “Listen.” Yasmine took her by the arm and was grateful when the music changed to a less noisy ballad. “I had a long talk with Piotr the other night at your gig.”

  “You did?” Ruby asked. “I mean, so what?” she added, as if reminding herself to be bitter and angry.

  “Just stay with me here,” Yasmine said impatiently. “He mentioned that, back when you guys first met, you’d told him about how we used to have tea parties when we were little. Remember?”

  Ruby nodded and Yasmine kept going.

  “You told him that we’d drink apple juice out of those pretty china cups mom had and pretend it was tea? Well, that’s where he got the idea to buy you an antique tea set.”

  Up on the bar, the red-stilettoed bartender was lining up one guy after another and forcing them to do shots, then dousing them with water as a chaser. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” Ruby responded quietly, filling her shot glass again, along with Yasmine’s. “I’m an asshole,” she declared, one lone tear spilling over her cheek. “I can’t believe I ever doubted him.”

  Yasmine brushed the tear away with her fingers, and Ruby held her glass in the air, her drunken hazel eyes shining in the dim light. “A toast?”

  “To your wedding!” Yasmine yelled, clinking glasses with her sister and then downing the contents of the glass.

  Twenty minutes and another shot later, the room was spinning. The Coyote Ugly girls were up on the bar line dancing, screaming insults into a megaphone, and Yasmine found herself unable to tear her eyes away as the girls worked the room. They were so confident. One gorgeous brunette in a tight black wifebeater, rhinestone-studded jeans, and a cowboy hat danced furiously on top of the bar, her body shaking with the music. A guy in front of the bar grabbed her leg. The brunette bent down, smiling wickedly, and doused him with a pitcher of water hidden behind the bar. The crowd erupted in cheers.

  Ruby grabbed Yasmine’s arm and slurred, “You should be up there, Yas. You’re hotter than any of those girls!” Then she pushed her from behind, shoving her toward the bar. “Get up there and show them how it’s done!”

  Yasmine looked down at her sexy outfit, enjoying the feel of the long hair swinging around her face as she moved. She pushed up to the front of the crowd and extended her hand toward the Daisy Duke brunette, who whooped and pulled her up onto the bar. Yasmine surveyed the crowd, feeling a sudden surge of power. She started swinging her hips, her platforms kicking shot glasses off the bar as she moved her feet.

  If only that cab driver who’d mistaken her for a guy could see her now—he’d beg for forgiveness. So what if Mekhi, the guy she’d thought was the love of her life, only liked her for her bald head? She was as much of a woman as anyone else in here. And now she freaking looked like it.

  “What’s up, hot stuff?” the bartender purred, grabbing her by the waist, pulling her close. The crowd went wild, cheering and whooping with raucous liquor-soaked shouts.

  “Hey baby!” A guy up front tried to get Yasmine’s attention while someone else shouted, “Shake it, girl!”

  Yasmine shook her hips and two-stepped her way down the slick surface of the bar, winking at frat guys and flipping her long black hair as she went. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t the most mature way to deal with Mekhi rejecting her, but hearing all the encouraging whoops and hollers sure as hell felt therapeutic.

  So that’s what those Girls Gone Wild videos are about—healing.

  A drunken guy with a buzz cut held out a fistful of dollar bills in his hand, gesturing to her and shouting loudly. Without a moment’s thought, Yasmine bent at the waist and grabbed the sleeve of his blue Abercrombie T-shirt, pulling him closer as if she were about to kiss him. Then she grabbed a pitcher of water from behind the bar and dumped it over the poor guy’s head. She wasn’t just doing this for herself—she was doing it for girls with gay ex-boyfriends everywhere.

  The crowd went wild, screaming and cheering, and through her alcoholic haze Yasmine could hear her sister’s drunken voice holler over the noise, “Yeah! That’s my sister!”

  Aw. Wouldn’t mom be proud?

  FROM: trentdawg_87@yahoo.com

  TO: kbraxton@st.judes.edu

  Subject: Whassup?

  Kaliq dawg!

  Looks like it’s going to be you and me next year, dawg. And you know our room will be the place to be for all the fine bitches. I can’t wait to get me some of that Ivy League tail—some kinky librarian shit. Yeeeeeeh, dawg!

  Truth is, dawg, I won’t be round the crib too much this fall, so you can hit the library honeys in peace. What up! See, I’m a swimmer and coach makes us eat, like, all of our meals together and practice until players start dying. Seriously. And if that ain’t enough, there are all sorts of wicked brutal pranks and shit the seniors pull on us freshies. It’s going to be gnarly.

  So here’s the dizzle: you get the girls through November, and then you’re going to have to fork over some of those hotties. Hook it up, dawg!

  Holla back,

  T

  TO: trentdawg_87@gmail.com

  FROM:kbraxton@stjudes.edu

  Subject: re: Whassup?

  Hey T,

  Enjoy the single, dude—I’m not coming.

  Later,

  Kaliq (dawg)

  22

  Mekhi sat on the lumpy brown leather sofa, resting his arms on his knees and staring pensively at the night sky framed by the open window. The cool thing about the city was that the sky was never really totally dark—the glare of streetlights cast a glow on the whole city no matter what time it was—so that even if you were awake at say, three in the morning, like he was now, you didn’t feel so lonely. Mekhi was usually comforted by the city lights and sounds of people out and about, but tonight it was having the opposite effect. It was as if everyone else was out doing something fun while he was stuck here all alone.

  His mom and dad had gone to bed at nine-thirty after drinking two bottles of wine and looking through his mom’s slide show of her life with her count. Mekhi had decided to skip that one, thanks very much. Six hours later he was still wide awake, his laptop open across his knees, the screen blank. It was weird that Yasmine hadn’t come home yet, and he was starting to get a little worried—not that he was waiting up for her or anything.

  Uh-huh. Sure he wasn’t.

  He had tried to go to bed just after midnight, but he just couldn’t seem to fall asleep. After a couple hours of staring at the ceiling, he’d decided sleep was out of the question and that the couch was a better bet. Too many unanswered questions were floating around in his head, and they were starting to make him dizzy.

  Mekhi was glad he’d figured stuff out with Gabriel, but after realizing that Yasmi
ne was the inspiration for his poem, he was more confused than ever. If he was gay, then why was he writing a love poem inspired by a girl? Maybe when Yasmine came home, he’d nonchalantly ask her what she thought about this whole gay thing as she was getting ready for bed, and then he could let it slip that he wasn’t too sure of it. Then he’d hug her and they’d sit down and really talk, just the way they used to. If she ever came home, that is...

  His chest ached thinking of the possibility that Yasmine had met someone else and was at this very moment in some hipster’s smoky messy apartment, doing bong hits and peeling off her clothes in front of some indie band asshole with too much wax in his hair and not enough rocks tumbling around in his head.

  Just then Mekhi heard the scraping sound of a key in the lock and the creaking noise the front door always made as it opened. Finally. His heart fluttered, but he didn’t want Yasmine to think he’d been up waiting for her. He closed the laptop and lay down flat, trying to look like he had simply fallen asleep on the couch, writing. He heard the sound of footsteps tiptoeing across the room and felt a pair of warm hands on his face. He smiled sleepily, turning over. Yasmine’s hands were so soft...but she kind of smelled like those peanuts, the ones you get on airplanes.

  Mekhi opened his eyes and yelped, sitting up quickly as he focused on his sister’s hazelnut face just inches from his own. Bree Hargrove stood above him, wearing a purple PINK sweat suit and navy Pumas.

  “Surprise!” she whispered loudly, reaching over and messing up his hair. He swatted her hand away.

  “You know I hate when you do that,” Mekhi hissed. Despite his rude welcome, he found himself grinning stupidly. He was glad to see his sister—it felt like ages ago since she’d left for Europe to study art for the summer. He’d missed having her around to talk to.

  “I know you hate it. That’s why I do it.” Bree grinned and sat down on the couch, shaking her curly black hair back from her round cheeks. She leaned back in for a hug, and Mekhi wrapped his arms around his little sister, breathing in her familiar comforting scent of bubble gum and perfume.

  “Seriously, though, what are you doing here? You almost gave me a heart attack.” Mekhi leaned back on the couch and gazed at his sister, still unable to believe she was really here.

  “Hello, I’m going to school in a few days too.” She dropped a bulging dark green duffel bag on the floor. “And, besides, it was kind of sad to be so far away when the family was all together for the first time in, like, years. I wanted to come home and be here while Mom was around.”

  “So how was Europe?” Mekhi ran his hands through his twists so that they stuck up in mousy black clumps all over his head. He knew he should be mad at Bree for telling his mom he was gay, but all of his anger dissolved the second he saw his little sister’s sweet angelic face. “Have any beret-wearing European lovaaaahs?”

  Bree stuck her tongue out at her brother and reached down to pull off her sneakers. “Nope, but if I meet anyone who fits that description I’ll be sure to pass him along to you,” she retorted. “I didn’t know that was your type.” She smirked at her own wit. “Seriously though—how’s it feel to be gay?”

  Mekhi, realizing he was naked to the waist, grabbed a dirty gray sweatshirt from the other side of the couch and pulled it on. “It’s...I’m not sure,” he said, his head getting stuck in an armhole. “I’m kind of confused about the whole thing,” he added once he finally got his head out.

  “Well, duh!” Bree exclaimed, repositioning herself on the couch. “Shove over!” She pushed his body with her hip. Mekhi noticed that her face seemed a little more grown-up to him—or maybe it was just that he hadn’t seen her in a while. It seemed less...round. “I mean, that’s normal, right?” she asked.

  “How should I know?” Mekhi flopped back against the arm of the couch, exasperated. “It’s not like I have a lot of experience with this whole thing.” He turned his head toward the window, his voice wistful. “I just wish I could find someone to just be with, you know?” He wasn’t even sure what he meant by that—he was with people all the time. All he knew was that he’d felt really...lonely lately. Sure, every man was an island, but this was getting ridiculous.

  “Don’t worry,” Bree said quietly, reaching over and patting her brother’s hand. “You’ll find someone. I mean, any guy would be totally lucky to have you.”

  It was sweet of her to say that, but Mekhi wasn’t entirely sure it was true. “Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled.

  “Well, what kind of guys do you like, anyway?” Bree reached up and pulled her relentlessly curly hair into a knot. “I’m pretty sure it’s not the ones who wear berets.”

  Mekhi laughed despite himself. “I don’t know.” He picked up the TV remote from the floor and fiddled with it. “How many kinds are there, anyway?”

  “Uh, a lot,” she giggled, pulling off a thin purple sock, balling it up and throwing it at his face. “What about the hip-hop guys who hang out by the Christopher Street PATH station?” Bree held up a hand as if she was going to start counting the types on her fingers. “Or the Chelsea dudes with too many hair products who always wear those fantastic Marc Jacobs shirts? Or the nerdy intellectual-but-still-cute-hipster Brooklyn guys girls always wish were straight? That’s probably more your scene.” She smiled knowingly and stretched her arms over her head.

  Mekhi shook his head in disbelief. He felt like he’d just landed on Planet Strange. Who was this person pretending to be his baby sister? “Since when do you hang out on Christopher Street?” he muttered, completely astonished. Even his little sister knew more about being gay than he did. It was totally depressing.

  “Never mind about that.” Bree giggled, reaching down and unzipping her bursting-at-the-seams duffel bag. “Is Mom in your room?” she whispered, gesturing toward the closed bedroom doors on the other end of the apartment.

  “Yeah,” Mekhi replied, sitting up and scratching his arms sleepily. Bree had apparently cured his insomnia. “Me and Yas are sharing your old room.”

  “Then I guess it’s sofa city for me.” His sister sighed, pulling out a bulging floral toiletry case from her bag. Mekhi stood up, raising his arms over his head and yawning loudly. As weird and unexpected as it was to have both his mother and Bree home, it felt kind of nice to have everybody under one roof.

  Well, almost everybody...there’s one roommate still missing.

  Just then, the door to his room creaked open, and their mom shuffled out, picking sleep from the corners of her eyes. Her voluminous pink robe billowed out behind her as she moved, her fuzzy slippers scraping the floor. Mekhi watched as her eyes focused on her youngest child, and her face lit up with surprise.

  “Bree!” she exclaimed rushing over and folding her daughter into her arms, “You’re here! You didn’t burn my apartment down, did you?”

  “Nope. I just wanted to be with you guys.” She squeezed her mother back.

  Mekhi watched as his mom smoothed back Bree’s unruly nest of hair and kissed her on the forehead. He couldn’t help but be touched at Bree’s optimistic, girlish enthusiasm. If his being gay had brought his family together, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  “Such a sweetheart.” Jeanette touched Bree’s face with her palm. “I’ll make some tea.” She breezed past Mekhi, stopping to smooth his hair like a mother who’d been smoothing hair all her life.

  Tea? That probably meant girl talk. And Mekhi wasn’t sure he was ready to be one of the girls. “I’m going to bed,” he announced, shuffling toward his room.

  “See you in a few hours,” Bree replied with a yawn, stretching as she followed their mom into the kitchen.

  “Night, baby!” Jeanette called out from the kitchen sink, where she was busily filling the kettle with water.

  Mekhi walked into his room and shut the door, then climbed into the empty bed. He could hear his mom and sister chattering away in the kitchen, whispers mixing with the occasional giggle. How could they have so much energy this late at night? He’d nev
er understand women. But then again, he barely understood himself.

  Mekhi sighed and watched the night change from purple to gray in the early morning light as he finally drifted into sleep, still wondering sleepily where Yasmine was and if she was okay.

  Aren’t we all.

  23

  Chanel held an ivory silk dress up to her slender shoulders, her silky hair falling over her back in a beautiful tangled mess. The slick material draped over her perfect body like running water. Porsha had tried that dress on earlier in the week, but it had looked like shit on her.

  Jealous much?

  “What do you think?” Chanel turned to face Porsha, her face flushed and glowing despite the unspeakably horrible fluorescent light of the dressing room. Porsha didn’t answer. Shouldn’t Chanel know by now that everything looked good on her? If she didn’t, Porsha certainly wasn’t going to tell her.

  “Ugh.” Chanel placed the dress back on the hanger. “It’d probably look better on you anyway.”

  Porsha rolled her eyes and stomped out of the dressing room. Chanel had been tiptoeing around her since they’d met up in front of Barneys half an hour ago. First of all, she had brought her an iced latte and a fudge brownie—Porsha’s favorite combination—and now there was all this ass-kissing talk about the dress. Why was Chanel being so nice all of a sudden? Not that she wasn’t always nice—but this was overly, cloyingly nice.

  Porsha grabbed a green-and-gold print dress and held it up to her body, fluffing her newly extensioned hair with one hand. Her new golden streaks looked amazing against the metallic thread of the dress. Chanel came thwacking out of the dressing room, her tanned legs extending from a short white miniskirt, turquoise flip-flops on her feet.

  “Hey!” she exclaimed, walking up to Porsha. “That’ll look incredible on you!”