“Porsha, darling.” The Captain slipped an arm around Porsha’s tiny shoulders. “I was just telling my ungrateful son here that he doesn’t deserve you.” He cracked a smile. Kaliq hated it when his father tried to be charming—especially when it was at his expense.
“That’s true.” Porsha’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But he knows that.” She slipped her arm through Kaliq’s and rested her head on his shoulder. It occurred to Kaliq that she’d come to rescue him from his father. He really didn’t deserve her.
“This calls for a toast,” Captain Braxton announced jovially, picking up two champagne flutes filled with golden liquid from the bar and handing one each to Kaliq and Porsha before raising his own glass. “You’re Yalies now.” The Captain motioned in their direction with his full glass. “Here’s to the navy blue!”
Kaliq opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. A Yalie? He certainly didn’t feel like one. “You know, Dad,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “I wanted to thank you for introducing me to Chips—er, Captain Chips.” He paused to swallow a gulp of champagne. “He really taught me a lot about being a man...and uh...thinking with your...you know.”
Porsha nodded distractedly, and Kaliq followed her gaze—she was staring at Jaylen Harrison, of all people. Kaliq was about to be jealous when he noticed that Jaylen was standing with a Hispanic spectacled kid in a too-small tux, his monkey-patterned socks exposed above his scuffed loafers. Jaylen was holding his chattering, screeching monkey up to an enormous ancient mirror so the monkey could admire his tuxedo and hot pink bow tie identical to Jaylen’s. Wow. And Kaliq thought he had problems.
Kaliq turned away and searched his father’s face for some kind of recognition or understanding, but Captain Braxton seemed oblivious to what Kaliq was trying to say.
His father smiled and clinked glasses with Kaliq again. “I’m glad it helped, son. You certainly are one lucky kid,” he repeated, looking at Porsha appreciatively.
Porsha giggled and squeezed Kaliq’s hand. Kaliq just buried his nose in his champagne.
Glug, glug, glug.
“Kaliq!” He heard someone call from behind him and turned around to see his mother approach from the neighboring Egyptian exhibit. She wore bright red lipstick, a red poppy in her dark hair, and a sweeping red gown that looked like it had come straight from the set of Carmen. “Darling,” she cooed in her French accent, kissing her son on either cheek. “Your father’s told me the good news. I’m so glad. But I’m afraid we can’t stay to celebrate—we’re off to the opera.”
Throughout Kaliq’s life, his mom had spent more time shopping and attending the opera or a gala to benefit the opera than she had with her only son, leaving little to talk about. Once a year, at Christmas time, she met him for a drink at the bar in the Carlyle Hotel, where she’d attempt to pry into his love life. It was totally embarrassing.
“I’m so...glad you’re glad, Mom,” he responded lamely.
“Congratulations, mon cherie.” His mother gave him another kiss, squeezing his hand before she dragged the Captain away to their waiting town car.
Kaliq turned to Porsha, ready to confess to her how confused and freaked out he felt, but she was chatting with the bartender while he tried pathetically to get her number. Maybe Porsha had bigger balls than he did, but she couldn’t figure this out for him. No one could.
Except maybe that joint in his pocket.
34
Eleanor Sinclaire Campbell stood on the landing of the Met’s great staircase, a tiny silver microphone in one hand. The gold sequins of her gown glittered in the spotlight, casting a disco-ball effect across the Met’s Great Hall. Porsha thought she looked like a seventies-era Statue of Liberty.
“Hello everyone,” she chirped, beaming at the collection of partygoers who had been shuffled from the Ancient Greek room into the Met’s impressive entryway. “I hope you’re having a good time!”
“We are!” Cyrus cheered from his perch on the steps below. He raised his nearly empty glass, his eyes bulging idiotically. Porsha sank a little lower in the thronelike seat Davita had provided for her next to a table adorned with special gold-flecked cupcakes. She could tell things were about to get extremely embarrassing.
“I can’t believe all of you wonderful children are leaving for college tomorrow,” Eleanor gushed into the microphone. “It seems like just yesterday that we were dropping you off at preschool! And now you’re all grown up.”
The crowd cheered wildly. The anticipation of being at college in only a day or two was getting to them. Eleanor nodded at Davita, who was in the far corner of the room, murmuring instructions into her headset.
“But before you go forward into your new lives,” Eleanor continued, “I thought it might be fun to take a look back and see just how far you’ve all come!” she crowed. She stepped back and the lights dimmed. A huge screen was lowered from above, as if it had come from the heavens.
Porsha picked at an uneaten cupcake, steeling herself for “Lean on Me” or whatever cheesy-ass song her mom had chosen to set the slide show to.
What you gon’ do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk?
Suddenly the first notes to the Black Eyed Peas’ “My Humps” filled the air. Had her mom seriously picked this old ass song for the slide show of Porsha’s life? Wasn’t it a song about boobs? Or butts? Or vaginas? What in hell was she smoking?
And where can we get some?
Photographs began flashing over the screen. First came Porsha’s kindergarten class picture, Porsha and Chanel holding hands and kneeling in the front row wearing matching dorky white turtlenecks. She remembered that they’d had to take the class picture five times, because every time the photographer got to “cheese,” Porsha and Chanel had promptly stuck their tongues out, not caring that all the other girls were getting fidgety and annoyed—that had made it all the more fun.
Next came a photo of the two girls at tennis camp, the one summer Chanel’s parents had forced her to go. Both girls wore their hair in ponytails, their skin glowing against their tennis whites. Chanel was playing her racket like a guitar, her eyes closed as she strummed the strings in a rock-star pose, while Porsha was doubled over laughing right next to her, tears in her eyes.
Porsha looked up at the enormous photograph, and much to her surprise, her own eyes began to fill with tears. She wiped them away hastily, trying not to ruin her makeup. Looking up at their smiling happy faces, she couldn’t help really missing Chanel—and how simple things used to be. She couldn’t believe that as of tomorrow they’d be in two totally different places, living totally different lives. Porsha looked over at Chanel, who was sitting at a table next to Jaylen and his disgusting primate. On the other side of the table were Alexis and Imani, Imani perched on a chalky white, fake-statue model’s lap.
At least someone’s enjoying the party!
Chanel turned and caught Porsha’s eye. She grabbed a plate from the table in front of her and pretended to strum it like she’d played the tennis racket in the picture, putting it back down again and giggling. Then she blew Porsha a kiss.
Porsha laughed, then sniffled. For the first time in their lives, she and Chanel wouldn’t be able to walk over to each other’s houses whenever they felt like it, or sit on the steps of the Met gossiping for hours. Soon she and Kaliq would be at Yale, living together like real grown-ups, and Chanel would be here in the city, busily becoming the next big thing. Porsha shook her head, bewildered by how much things had changed in what really was so little time.
With only a day left before she departed for the institution of higher learning, it was time to figure out who she was going to be next. The options were endless. And while her and Chanel were busy reinventing themselves, there would be a whole new set of gorgeous girls in their school uniforms and cashmere cardigans trying on oversize sunglasses at Barneys after school. It was hard to believe, but they'd soon be—sigh—replaced by the girls who had been carefully studying th
em from afar.
Chanel watched Porsha’s foxlike profile as the slide changed in time to Eleanor’s completely ridiculous music selection. On-screen, Chanel, Kaliq, and Porsha were ten years old, eating Fudgsicles in Central Park on Porsha’s favorite navy blue Yale blanket. Kaliq sat cross-legged while the girls perched precariously on each of his knees. Chanel’s eyes filled with tears at the realization that even back then, they were sharing him.
Sharing is caring, right?
As much as things had changed, some things had always been the same. She looked around for Kaliq and spied him standing near the Met’s front doors, his gaze locked on the screen. She raised her hand and waved, trying to get his attention, but he didn’t see her. She grabbed the snowy white tablecloth in her fist and squeezed the material between her fingers as Jaylen’s white monkey climbed onto her arm and began picking at her hair.
“Sorry,” Jaylen whispered, removing the monkey from her shoulder and placing it in his lap. “If you don’t behave”—he wagged his index finger in the monkey’s face—“I’m sending you to the zoo. And I think we both know they don’t have cupcakes and champagne there.”
Yasmine watched the screen, surprised to see her own enormous face smiling down at her as an image of her Williamsburg apartment appeared. Her shaved head was tilted toward Porsha’s shining thick mane, their tongues stuck out at the camera, near-white polish gleaming on Porsha’s nails as she held one hand up in the peace sign. Yasmine smiled, still clinging to Mekhi’s hand as she waited for the next slide.
“It’s so weird that you guys were roommates,” Mekhi muttered.
“For real,” Yasmine whispered. But even though they still had nothing in common, Yasmine was glad she and Porsha were friends. As different as they were, they’d accepted their differences and painted each other’s toenails. And wasn’t that what true friendship was about? Yasmine nearly gagged at her own sentimentality, but it was all true, so fuck it.
Mekhi stared up at a large photograph of Chanel at the Raves show, suddenly noticing himself up on stage in the background, sweat dripping from his black T-shirt, his hair flying as he jumped into the air, mike cord wrapped around one skinny arm. He laughed at his own idiotic antics and squeezed Yasmine’s fingers for reassurance. Yasmine had been with him through every bizarre moment over the last year—from back when he was just a nerdy guy scribbling in a shabby notebook all the time, to a published poet in the New Yorker, to an almost rock star.
Almost. Except for the whole puking-on-stage part.
And now, on the verge of a road trip out West that would lead him God knew where, she was still here—and still holding his hand.
You love my lady lumps. Check it out!
The screen flicked to an ad for Chanel’s Tears. Chanel stood in Central Park in a skimpy yellow dress, one lone tear glistening on her smooth perfect cheek. Next came a shot of Porsha, starring in her fourth-grade production of Annie, an enormous grin on her face. She’d refused to wear a wig and had chosen pigtails instead, calling it artistic license.
Next Kaliq recognized a photo he’d taken of Porsha sun-bathing on his roof, one eye closed in an adorable wink. Then there was a picture of Chanel on the set of Breakfast at Fred’s, wearing an enormous wide-brimmed hat, a triple strand of creamy white pearls around her throat, blowing the camera a kiss. And finally came a photo of Porsha’s and Chanel’s faces pressed together, beaming at the camera, the frame so tight that there was nothing else in the picture but their two gorgeous faces.
Kaliq ran his fingers through his hair. The only thing missing from the photo of Porsha and Chanel’s smiling faces was his own face wedged between them. He’d always been there, in between them—coming between them.
Kaliq watched as Chanel got up from her seat and hurried across the room to Porsha’s table. The two girls stood in front of one another for a moment and then Chanel opened her arms, pulling Porsha in for a hug and resting her shining silky head on Porsha’s shoulder. Porsha turned her head to the side, and Kaliq could see the tears streaking her face, even in the dim light of the darkened room.
As he watched the two girls he loved holding each other and crying, a smile crept across his face. It slowly grew and grew and the rest of his face brightened. He pushed through the glass doors of the Met just as the lights went up and slipped out into the warm August night, running down the stone steps. They were the same steps he’d sat on with Porsha and Chanel a million times, their perfect legs extending from their short itchy Willard uniforms, cigarettes and coffees in their hands. At the bottom of the steps he stopped and looked back at the imposing stone building with its brightly colored banners. He was going to think with his balls once and for all.
Uh-oh. Is he going to steal more Viagra?
35
Tick-tock, tick-tock . . .
Porsha stood beneath the giant clock atop the information booth in the middle of Grand Central Station, searching the crowd impatiently for Kaliq. The main hall of Grand Central was mass pandemonium. Travelers rushed to their trains, suitcases dragging behind them, seemingly oblivious to the train station’s elegant beauty. Grand Central was so much nicer than any other station in the world, with its marble floors, gold leaf molding, and beautiful sea green mural of the constellations on the ceiling. When Porsha was little she’d loved searching for the scorpion, her zodiac sign.
Not that she was really in any mood to appreciate the beauty of the old train station today. As the impatient commuters streamed past her, Porsha felt like the only person standing still in the whole place. She checked her watch again—not that she needed to, considering she was standing under the biggest fucking clock in the world. Their train was leaving in less than ten minutes, and Kaliq wasn’t there. She hadn’t seen him since she’d toasted the good news about Yale last night with his dad. He’d disappeared at the end of the party, presumably to go home and pack. Of course, he was bound to bring all the wrong things and forget his lacrosse stick. He was so totally helpless when it came to packing.
Porsha grabbed her cell from her black Balenciaga bag and held down the number three again, sighing as it rang and rang and then went to Kaliq’s voicemail. Again. What was the holdup? She couldn’t wait to just get on that train and watch the landscape change as they sped away from the city—and everything that she knew.
She straightened the hem of her fitted black Prada dress, which she wore with black ballet flats and gold hoop earrings, a chic white hat in her purse. The outfit reminded her of Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina, on her triumphant return home from a year in Paris. Sabrina had left her home in the suburbs of New York a brokenhearted and shy girl and had returned a stylish, sophisticated, and mature woman. Porsha had always been stylish and mature, but at Yale she would become even more so.
She threw her cell back into her bag, tapping one of her ballet flats against the floor as she waited, and waited, for her Humphrey Bogart.
Chanel hurried through Grand Central, her yellow flip-flops slapping the marble as she ran. She’d planned on getting to the train station at a quarter to ten to say one last goodbye to Porsha, but of course she’d overslept—the result of one too many flutes of Dom Perignon last night. She’d thrown on her white sundress and her largest pair of vintage white sunglasses. Getting stopped for autographs would only slow her down and make her even later than she already was.
Tough life.
Finally she spied Porsha standing in the middle of the main hall, tapping her foot impatiently and checking her watch. Seeing her all alone, looking so small amidst the bustling throngs of people, Chanel felt horrible for not getting there earlier. Porsha looked so worried, craning her head to look over the crowd.
But where was Kaliq? Chanel had assumed he’d be there already to say goodbye to Porsha. She smiled brightly as she approached. “Hey! I’m so glad I caught you!”
“Hey.” Porsha’s forehead wrinkled in surprise when she saw her. “What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to say one last
goodbye.” Chanel threw her arms around her friend and hugged her tightly.
Porsha’s tense shoulders relaxed in Chanel’s arms. “Thanks. That’s really sweet of you.” She frowned and glanced at her watch again. “I shouldn’t even still be here right now. Kaliq’s fucking late as usual.”
Poor Porsha. It was just like Kaliq to keep her waiting one last time. Chanel pushed her sunglasses farther up on her head. “You must be excited to finally be leaving though, right?”
Porsha craned her head and looked over Chanel’s shoulder, searching the crowd nervously. “Yeah, but I just want it to get on the train and go already!”
Even though Porsha was being impatient and crabby, Chanel smiled. No matter how much things changed, Porsha would always be the same. “So, did you ever end up getting in touch with your roommate?”
“Yeah, she wrote me an e-mail. She seems okay.” Porsha pulled a black MAC compact from her bag and checked her makeup. “She’s from L.A. Her dad’s a dentist.”
“That’s convenient.” Chanel smiled. Maybe Porsha would be okay at Yale on her own after all. “You can hang out with her on breaks and stuff.”
“I seriously doubt I’ll be going to L.A. for break.” Porsha slid her compact back inside her bag. “Kaliq and I will probably spend vacations together.”
Chanel felt a little sick. Porsha really thought she and Kaliq would still be together come Thanksgiving.
Porsha pulled her cell out of her bag and looked at it, checking her call log before tossing it back in her bag again. “Knowing Kaliq, he’s probably still packing.”
“Huh?” Chanel demanded, totally bewildered. “What for?”
“For college?” Porsha looked through her bag distractedly, pulling out her train ticket. “I mean, I know he wears about the same five shirts over and over again, but I seriously hope he’s bringing something.”
Upper East Side #11 Page 18
