Upper East Side #11

by Ashley Valentine

  Porsha stayed silent as she hung the dress back on the rack with a snap of her wrist and began manically flipping through a rack of tunics. “So,” she began, her voice casual as she turned to face her friend, “where were you yesterday? I called to see if you wanted to get your hair done with me, but I kept getting your voicemail.”

  Chanel looked at the floor, the windows, at the rows of shining expensive dresses surrounding them—anywhere but Porsha’s face. Did Porsha know what had happened between her and Kaliq? Had Kaliq said something? Chanel didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure either. She’d thought that if she and Porsha went shopping the way they used to, that everything would somehow magically go back to normal—in spite of the fact that absolutely nothing was normal anymore.

  Porsha had been in love with Kaliq for as long as Chanel could remember. The problem was, so had she. And after spending the entire day and night in bed together yesterday, Chanel was positive Kaliq loved her too. She tried to hide the ridiculous smile that was in grave danger of spreading across her face. She and Kaliq were finally, really, seriously going to be together soon—just as soon as Porsha left for Yale on Sunday. Chanel didn’t want to hurt her—that was the last thing she wanted to do—but she was ecstatic to have finally won Kaliq’s heart. Even if it meant breaking Porsha’s. Ugh. Why did she always have to choose between her best friend and her boyfriend?

  Um...because technically he’s Porsha’s boyfriend?

  “Yesterday? I don’t remember what I was doing,” she finally answered, looking up into Porsha’s impassive face and narrowed eyes. Porsha grabbed a black satin Dior dress and fingered the price tag. “I think I just forgot to turn my phone back on, and then by the time I got your messages, it was too late.”

  The haute couture department of Barneys was spare and intimidating. Light wafted in through floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the dark wood floor. Not a salesperson was in sight—Barneys prided themselves on their aloof, unpushy sales staff who turned out to be enormously helpful, but only when called upon. That was one of the reasons the girls liked the store so much. It was their home away from home.

  “Huh.” Porsha turned and walked at a brisk clip across the floor, her flat delicate Dolce & Gabbana sandals barely making a sound. “Talk to Kaliq lately?”

  “No,” Chanel answered quickly. “Not at all.”

  Porsha ran her hands along a pile of cashmere sweaters. Was it just her, or was Chanel acting a little jumpy? She wondered if Kaliq had told Chanel about not graduating and not going to Yale and otherwise ruining Porsha’s life. “You sure?” she pushed.

  “Not since, um, we did the slide-show stuff that day you caught us.” Chanel laughed awkwardly and turned to rifle through the colorful knit dresses behind her.

  Porsha squinted distrustfully at the back of Chanel’s head, trying to read her possibly evil, maybe lying, definitely-in-love with Kaliq thoughts. “Well, you missed Yasmine getting one hot makeover yesterday. You should really keep your phone on,” she finally said to her back. “I’m going back to look at the Prada dresses.”

  Chanel followed Porsha, trying to match her quick steps. “Yasmine got a makeover? How come?” Chanel asked, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. She stopped on the opposite side of the rack from Porsha and started flipping through the bubble dresses Porsha had already passed over.

  “Her sister’s getting married this weekend.” Porsha lifted her eyes from the white silk Prada dress she was fingering. “And, you know—sometimes people just need a change.”

  Chanel bent down and tried to make eye contact through a gap in the dresses. There was something else she was feeling guilty about not telling Porsha. “Speaking of changes...there’s something I need to tell you,” she said quietly.

  Porsha pushed her hair off her shoulders and straightened the straps of her white tank top. “I already know about Kaliq,” she snapped. “You don’t have to hide it from me.”

  “You do?” Chanel gripped a plush hanger with both hands. Porsha knew about her and Kaliq?

  “Of course I do.” Porsha squinted, irritated that Chanel would think for a second that Kaliq would not tell her, his girlfriend. “I cannot fucking believe he’s not going to Yale. Repeating senior year. He’s totally retarded,” she spat.

  “Oh.” Chanel looked at Porsha, her almond-shaped eyes wide. That was a close call. “Oh! I mean that’s...that is awful. But that’s not what I was going to say...” Her voice trailed off, her heart thumping hard against her rib cage.

  Porsha pulled a tunic over her head and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Chanel stood behind her, standing almost a full head taller and looking nervous. She twirled a long lock of hair around her finger. Porsha wondered if Chanel was finally going to confess to her about her love letter to Kaliq. Well, it was about time. Then Porsha could forgive her and they could go off to Yale, best friends forever, and put all this behind them. Even if Kaliq had to stay in the city, at least she’d have Chanel—and at least Chanel would be far, far away from him. Porsha took a deep breath and prepared herself to try and forgive her best friend.

  “What is it then?” She moved on to the Diane von Furstenberg dresses Chanel was practically hiding behind.

  “I’m not going to Yale either,” Chanel admitted sheepishly as she fingered a wildly patterned wrap dress, avoiding Porsha’s eyes. “I’m going to defer for a year so I can do some more acting.”

  Excuse me? Porsha felt like her brain was on fire. Not going to Yale, not going to Yale—the words spun around and around in her head until she thought she might pass out. First Kaliq, now Chanel? She dropped the yellow chiffon gown she’d been holding. The light silk fluttered soundlessly to the floor.

  “You’re what?” Porsha demanded in disbelief, shaking her head from side to side like she had water in her ears.

  “I’m just...not going.” Chanel shrugged. “I’m going to stay in New York and shoot the sequel to Breakfast at Fred’s.”

  Chanel was staying in New York? With Kaliq? Porsha felt the ground start to wobble beneath her.

  Just then a group of tourists passed by, squealing and pointing at Chanel, cameras hanging around their necks. The crowd engulfed both girls, and Porsha was rudely shoved out of the way by a sharp jabby elbow. They surrounded Chanel in a mob.

  “Thank you.” Chanel blushed as she signed one of the tourist’s matchbooks from Fred’s, Barneys’ ninth-floor restaurant, about to become even more famous because of her new film.

  Porsha watched as Chanel signed one autograph after another, bowing her head humbly and graciously without so much as a glance in Porsha’s direction. How could Chanel drop a bomb like that and then move onto her worshippers, completely ignoring her? Porsha seethed, manically twirling her ruby ring around her middle finger, as the crowd around Chanel grew. A man dressed in a suit kissed Chanel’s hand, and a suburban mom took her picture with her digital camera. Next year Porsha would be just another freshman at college, and Chanel would be...a movie star. A movie star living in the same city as her boyfriend. How could she ever compete?

  Her sandals hit the floor with a rude slapping sound as she turned her back on Chanel and her idiotic adoring fans. Damn Barneys. Damn Chanel. She was getting the hell out of town, but no fucking way was she leaving Kaliq behind.

  That’s what we’ve always loved about her—the angrier she gets, the more ingenious she is.

  24

  Porsha sat in the half-packed bedroom, surrounded by overstuffed trunks and clutter so deep that the pee-stained sea-grass mats on the floor were only a faint memory. She stared at the mess, her whole body shaking. Chanel wasn’t going to Yale with her. She was staying here in New York for another year with...Kaliq? No way was Porsha was going to leave both of them alone in the same city next year—she’d rather stab herself in the eye with the stiletto heel of one of her new Louboutin boots.

  Ouch.

  A pile of T-shirts fell off of the bed and landed on the floor with a soft
thud as she angrily flailed around. She yanked her shoes off and threw them angrily at the wall, needing to hear an even louder sound. How could Kaliq resist Chanel when she was a huge star, and right here in the same city with him? No. It simply could not happen.

  She reached for her cell and held down speed dial number 4. Number 1 was 911 for an emergency, which this was, but whatever; number 2 was for Chanel—definitely not who she was looking for right now; and number 3 was for Kaliq, the completely effed-up love of her life.

  “H-Hello?” the male voice sounded waterlogged with sleep.

  “Daddy, it’s me,” Porsha spoke tentatively. If she was going to get what she wanted from him, she’d need to tread lightly. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?” She made her voice small. There was a long pause, and she could hear sheets rustling and the click of a light being turned on halfway around the world.

  “Of course you woke me, Porsha Bear—it’s four a.m. here.” Her father sounded slightly annoyed—not to mention sleep-deprived. The sound of the two babies wailing in the background reached her ear. She rolled her eyes in disdain.

  “Well, it’s important,” she whined.

  “I’m sure that it is,” Harold Sinclaire said with a sigh. “But important things are happening over here too. Giles has been up all night with the twins—just the nastiest case of colic. We tried this fabulous new vaporizer, but nothing is working.” There was a pause, and Porsha could hear the guttural cooing of a baby over the line. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the twins before now, honey. But it was kind of a spur-of-the-moment acquisition.” He chuckled, and Porsha could hear one of the sniveling brats cooing again. “But let me tell you, it was the best one I’ve ever made.”

  Burberry baby bib: fifty dollars. Hermès Pacifier: six hundred dollars. Cambodian babies: priceless.

  “Porsha,” her father cooed over the din of baby-speak, “Ping would like to say hello—say hi to your new little brother!”

  She heard a rustling sound as the little monster was held up to the phone, and then a series of gurgling noises that sounded like the baby was drowning in its own spit.

  “Pong is still sleeping, but when she wakes up she’ll say hi too.”

  Porsha rolled her eyes. Ping and Pong?

  Isn’t it technically called table tennis?

  “Daddy,” she snapped. “I need to talk to you!”

  What happened to treading lightly?

  “There’s no need to get snippy about it,” her father replied, rather snippily himself. “Just let me put the baby down.”

  Good. Maybe now he could pay some attention to his firstborn.

  “You know how Kaliq and I were going to Yale together?” Porsha plowed ahead, not waiting for her father to respond. She could hear the sound of him whispering in French to someone in the background. “Well, Kaliq didn’t get his diploma from St. Jude’s, and now it looks like he can’t go to Yale in the fall. They want him to repeat senior year instead.”

  “Oh, honey.” Her father’s voice was sympathetic now. “I’m so sorry. You must be devastated.”

  “Well, I was.” Porsha picked up her hairbrush and whipped it through her smooth black-and-gold locks. “Until I remembered that you’re on the board of trustees. Isn’t there something you can do about it? Maybe talk to the dean of admissions and put in a good word for Kaliq or something? Everyone respects you so much, Daddy,” she said, back to her original plan of kissing ass. Her father sighed, and then there was more rustling.

  “It’s not so easy, Porsha-Bear...I can’t just make a diploma magically appear.” He whispered something in French to Giles, and Porsha momentarily wished she’d actually learned the language in her AP French class. “I’d really like to help, but I can’t just snap my fingers and make Kaliq’s problems go away. Besides, with the new twins and all, this isn’t the best—”

  “Daddy, you owe me,” Porsha cut him off midsentence with an exasperated sigh. “First you move to France during my formative years, and now you’ve replaced me with these twins.” She took a deep breath and tried to stop herself from completely losing it. Had everyone gone totally insane? First her mother had announced the family was moving to Los Angeles, next Chanel and Kaliq had told her they were staying in New York, and now her dad was going to bail on her when she needed him most?

  Porsha heard footsteps in the hall, and suddenly the door swung open to reveal her stepbrother, Tahj, wearing yellow board shorts and a burgundy Harvard T-shirt, followed by his disgusting boxer, Mookie—who immediately bounded up to Porsha and began covering her crotch in dog drool.

  “Get off me!” she yelled, rubbing the wet goopy places on her legs where Mookie had licked her. The dog trotted over to the corner where Porsha had tossed her dirty laundry, picked out one of her pink thongs, and lay down, the lace hanging from his jowls.

  Well, at least someone’s interested in getting in her pants these days.

  Porsha rolled her eyes to the ceiling and threw a pillow at Tahj. He sat down on the floor next to the boxer and lit one of his foul herbal cigarettes, chuckling as Mookie ripped Porsha’s expensive underwear to shreds. His normally mocha face was tan, and his dark short dreadlocks were streaked with copper, like he’d been living on a beach all summer. Tahj was annoying, but at least he didn’t look anything like his dad, Cyrus, who was the most revolting human specimen of a stepfather Porsha had ever encountered.

  “Daddy, are you still there?”

  “I’m here, Porsha Bear—and I’ll try. But no promises, okay? I want you to be realistic about the situation. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.” The babies started wailing again, and her dad offered a quick “Love you, see you in a few days!” before signing off.

  Oh, it was meant to be, all right, Porsha thought as she tossed her phone down on the bed. You couldn’t stop destiny—and she and Kaliq were destined to be together forever.

  “Thanks for the friendly welcome, Sis.” Tahj grinned and leaned up against Mookie, throwing his arm around the dog’s neck in a half nelson. Good. Maybe he’d strangle the thing by accident. Mookie offered him a wet lick across his face.

  “Oh, right. Welcome back,” she said irritably. “And I told you to stop calling me that. Just because my mom married your dad doesn’t mean I’m your sister.”

  “Uh, no offense, Sis, but that’s exactly what it means.” Tahj smoothed down Mookie’s gross slobbery fur with one hand and chuckled.

  “Whatever.” Porsha inspected her French manicure, which was now chipped. As if she needed one more fucked up thing in her life.

  Poor baby!

  “So, you getting psyched for Yale?” Tahj asked, lying back on the floor. Mookie promptly got up and sat on his chest, obscuring his face so that all Porsha could see was his dreadlocks, and Mookie’s grinning drooling muzzle. It was like they’d become one giant dog-dreadlock monster. Before Porsha could answer, Tahj’s muffled voice continued. “Remember when I drove you up for your interview, and we stayed at that gross motel?”

  “Oh God, how could I forget?” Porsha laughed bitterly. At the time, she’d thought her luck couldn’t get any worse. After a night of drinking too much beer and eating too much junk food from their motel vending machine, she’d overslept for her Yale interview, which had wound up being a total disaster. Now that she was into Yale, she could look back and laugh. If she hadn’t gotten in, Tahj wouldn’t be alive now to remind her of the story. “Anyway, how was your road trip? Pick up any interesting, homicidal hitchhikers?”

  He laughed. “No hitchhikers. It was good—I pretty much didn’t want to come back. But I guess I should probably pack up a few things before I leave for Harvard.”

  “Yeah, before the movers come and we become homeless,” Porsha added angrily. She kicked the trunk at the foot of her bed for emphasis.

  “Well, I guess that tells me how you’re feeling about the move.” Tahj inched a little farther away, as if afraid she was going to kick him next. “What, are you worried you’ll miss all the g
ood sales at Barneys?”

  “Yeah, actually.” Porsha crossed her arms over her chest.

  He nodded his dreadlocked head sympathetically and took another puff from his herbal cigarette, which smelled like boiled broccoli and Lysol. “So, how’s everybody been while I was gone?” His voice was muffled by Mookie, who was practically sitting on his face at this point. “How’s Yasmine?”

  “Can you move that disgusting mutt so I can see you?” Porsha pulled her newly long hair back into a ponytail. Tahj shoved Mookie off of his chest. The dog whimpered and slid reluctantly onto the floor.

  “So, how’s Yasmine?” he asked again, sitting up and crossing his legs Indian style. “Is she coming to the Met party?”

  “I think so.” Porsha picked up a nail file from the floor and began furiously filing away at her ring finger. “But she’ll be coming from her sister’s wedding in Brooklyn, so she’ll probably get there late. Why do you care anyway?”

  “Who said I care?” Tahj raised one eyebrow and grinned mischievously. “Maybe I’m just curious.”

  True love never lies, part two?

  25

  “Your lemonade, Miss Crenshaw.”

  A crisp, British-accented voice woke Chanel from her light slumber. She looked up to see a handsome waiter leaning over her, a gleaming silver tray with a tall frosted glass of lemonade balanced perfectly on one hand. The turquoise water of the SoHo House pool sparkled behind him, casting a tint of blue on his entirely white uniform.

  Chanel sat up in her deck chair, tying up the straps of her white, barely there bikini so that she wouldn’t flash him by accident.

  That’s one way to tip!

  “Thank you.” She smiled, pushing her white sunglasses to the top of her head. This was the life.

  “Please let me know if you desire anything else,” the waiter offered with a polite little bow before leaving.

  Chanel smiled to herself as she leaned back on her pristine white deck chair, taking in the scene around her. The entire poolside area was furnished in white, with white lounge chairs, oversize white umbrellas, and white monogrammed SoHo House towels. The stylish guests had taken it upon themselves to match the scenery, clad entirely in white bikinis, wraps, and linen pants. The pool was strikingly turquoise against the bright white, and the tops of Manhattan’s Financial District skyscrapers glittered in the distance.