Bree was so preoccupied with the thought of his mother baking brownies on the cook's night off that she opened her mouth and gave his finger a good long suck.
Oh!
“Oops. I guess I'm interrupting something,” Elise observed from the kitchen doorway. “You guys are so cute,” she added hollowly.
The downstairs buzzer had rung only a few minutes ago, but after buzzing Elise in, Bree had become so preoccupied with Damien's brownie-making skills that she'd completely forgotten about her friend. She picked up the wooden spoon she'd gotten out to mix the brownie dough with in the first place. “Wanna taste it?”
Elise wrinkled up her nose. “Nah. I'll wait till they're cooked. Is Mekhi home?”
Bree shrugged. She hadn't noticed him leave. “I'm pretty sure he is, because I think I smell smoke.”
Elise headed down the hall to Mekhi's bedroom. “Call me when the brownies are done!”
Mekhi was lying on his bed, trying to think of a synonym for desire that rhymed with clock. Sock, mock, jock, rock. He hadn't gotten very far.
“Can I come in?” Elise asked from outside his bedroom door.
“Yeah.” Mekhi sat up and closed the little notebook he was writing in. Elise was wearing a black turtleneck sweater that made her look serious and older somehow. “What's up?”
“Nothing.” She sat down on the end of the bed. “What are you writing?”
Mekhi hopped off the bed and chucked his notebook on his desk. He reached for his pack of Newports and lit one, inhaling deeply as he shook out the match. “Quick, a word that rhymes with clock.”
“Tock,” Elise shot back.
Mekhi stared at her. “But that's not a real word. It doesn't mean anything without the ‘tick-tock’ part.”
“No, I guess you're right.” She stood up and went over to his desk, towering four inches over Mekhi. Her height definitely made her seem older. So did the careful way she dressed, with her T-shirt tucked neatly into her belted jeans and her cardigan all buttoned up. Instead of being prissy, it conveyed a sort of confidence, as if, “I am a woman and this is how it's done.”
She flipped open one of his notebooks. “So this is where you write everything?”
Mekhi's first impulse was to snatch the book away from her, but Elise wasn't Yasmine. She wasn't going to make fun of one of his lesser poems or push him to send one of his better ones off to a famous magazine. “Yeah. I don't like working on the computer because I wind up deleting stuff I might use.”
Elise nodded and rifled through the pages.
“Hey, I got you something.” Mekhi opened the black messenger bag he always carried and pulled out the book of writing exercises he'd bought for Elise earlier that day. “To thank you for the cookies.”
Elise took the book and examined it. “Wow, this is like homework. As if I don't have enough already.”
“But it's really not,” Mekhi said, taking the book back and turning to one of the exercises. “‘Avoid the obvious. Make a list of all the clichés you've ever heard of and never use them in your writing.’” He looked up. “See? It's fun!”
Elise looked at him like he was insane. “I guess it's probably more fun than watching your best friend suck brownie batter off her boyfriend's fingers.” She picked up a pen and turned to a free page in one of Mekhi's black notebooks. “What exactly is a cliché, anyway?”
Mekhi liked how unembarrassed she was about her ignorance. “You know, like ‘love at first sight’ or ‘hard as a rock’ or ‘blind as a bat.’ All those things you've heard a thousand times.”
“Uh-huh.” She sat down on the bed and wrote something. Then she passed the notebook to Mekhi. “Okay, your turn.”
He was going to write, What goes around comes around, until he saw what Elise had written: Why did you kiss me on the street today?
He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and gripped the pen hard to steady his fingers. Because of the cookies, he wrote. And because of the bread. Actually, he didn't know exactly why he'd kissed her. It had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. He handed the notebook back, and Elise read what he'd written without looking up. Then she wrote something underneath it and passed the notebook back.
Kiss me again?
Mekhi walked over to the door and pushed it closed. He tossed the notebook on the bed and turned to Elise, kissing her hard on the mouth as he yanked her T-shirt out of her jeans.
Elise let out a little cry and took a step backward. Mekhi let go of her. All of a sudden Elise didn't seem so old anymore. Her eyes were wide, and her smile was less a smile than a terrified grimace.
“I'm sorry.”
“It's okay,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I'm okay.”
Mekhi noticed a roll of pale baby fat hanging over the waistband of her jeans. She saw him looking at it and quickly tucked her T-shirt back in. Loser, Mekhi scolded himself. Elise was only fourteen, and he was nearly eighteen. He was worse than slimy. He was a total asshole.
Elise was still standing there waiting for him to kiss her again, and all of a sudden he felt sort of pissed at her, too, for even thinking this might be a good idea. He turned his back and sat down in front of the computer, jiggling the mouse. “I think the brownies are probably done,” he told her hoarsely.
Elise stayed put, so Mekhi started checking his e-mail. He kept his back turned until finally he heard her walking toward the door.
“I thought you wanted to be my boyfriend,” she mumbled, her throat choked with tears. A moment later, Mekhi heard the front door of the apartment slam shut.
He picked up his notebook and turned to a fresh page. Because of the cookies and because of the bread, he wrote, and then stopped.
It was a little difficult to feel inspired.
23
“I know you're working on a paper right now and we just saw each other last night, but do you want to go get dinner?” Yasmine practically shouted into the phone.
“What, like right now?” Jordan asked.
“Yes. Now.” Tantric chanting emanated from the living room, where Yasmine's parents were hosting a gathering of artist friends for an evening of “sparking the creative flint.” Whatever the hell that meant. “I can meet you somewhere in your neighborhood,” she offered. “Anywhere is fine.”
“Wow,” Yasmine said when she arrived. Despite its name, Bubba's—an Italian place near Columbia—was actually nice. She'd expected tables covered with red-and-white-checkered plastic tablecloths and sides of fries served with every dish. Instead, the tablecloths were white, and there were candles and old jazz playing. It was only five-thirty, and the restaurant was empty. But even that was that romantic, in a very traditional way.
Jordan was already seated at a table and had ordered a bottle of red wine. The waiter took Yasmine's black wool jacket and helped her into her chair. “I feel so mature.”
Jordan shrugged like he was used to this. After all, he was in college. “I like your lipstick.”
Yasmine couldn't tell if he was joking or not. Jordan wore a constant pleasantly arrogant expression, making it extremely difficult to gauge his emotions. If only his nose acted as some sort of barometer, getting longer or shorter depending on his mood.
Not that she really wanted his nose to get any longer.
“My parents are having some sort of freak-fest chanting session with a bunch of other so-called artists in our apartment,” Yasmine told him, scowling as she opened her napkin and put it on her lap. “I can't wait for them to leave.”
Jordan took a sip of wine, pressing his lips together as if he really enjoyed the taste of it. His expensive glasses were on the table, and Yasmine saw for the first time that his eyes were golden brown, like a lion's.
Way to notice a boy's eye color after you've already kissed him!
“I think your parents are amazing,” he said. “I mean, it takes a lot of effort and courage to be that…out there.”
Yasmine's thick eyebrows shot up. “I'll say.” She scraped her chair forwa
rd and put her elbows on the table. “You know, when I was little I was a scab-picker. Any little nick or insect bite I'd pick away at until it bled and bled. And you know what my mom said? She said I ought to save the scabs so my dad could make a piece of artwork out of them. Isn't that just the most insanely twisted thing you've ever heard? I mean, most moms would be worried about scarring, or they'd take their kid to a docotor. My parents, all they care about is themselves and their ‘work.’”
Jordan shrugged. “Maybe she was joking.”
Yasmine frowned and opened her menu. Joking? She'd never heard her mother be remotely jocular. “I don't think so.”
Jordan watched her as she scrutinized the menu. “Still, I really admire them. I mean, the way they're letting you and your sister live on your own. Not many parents would do that.”
“No. Not many would,” Yasmine agreed with a scowl.
“I'd kind of like to go up to Vermont and see how they live,” Jordan added eagerly.
Yasmine looked up from her menu in alarm. “Why?”
“I don't know. I haven't met that many people who are…you know…different. I'm just curious, I guess.” He took a sip of wine and did that thing with his lips again. “So, my mom kind of mentioned that you had a pretty serious boyfriend. Is that, like, all over, or what?”
Yasmine flipped her menu closed without deciding on anything. She wasn't really hungry, anyway—she'd just wanted to get out of the house. “Yeah, it's over. We're not even friends anymore.” Normally her voice had a bitter fuck-you bite to it, but just now it had quavered with emotion. “Not that I mind,” she added tartly.
The waiter came and Yasmine ordered a salad. She felt like one of those girls in her class at Willard who only ate dry lettuce and Jell-o.
Jordan ripped a piece of bread off the hunk in the basket on the table. “So did you break up with him, or the other way around?” With long, delicate fingers he dunked the bread in the little bowl of olive oil.
She'd never really thought about who'd broken up with whom. In fact, there'd never been an official breakup. After she'd caught Mekhi fooling around with that Mystery Craze person on stage in a poetry club, she'd refused to return his phone calls. If anyone had broken up with anyone, she'd broken up with him. But did that mean that maybe he hadn't meant to break up with her at all?
It was almost too confusing to think about.
“I-I guess I sort of inadvertently broke up with him,” she stammered. “I mean, he was cheating on me.” It felt weird talking to another guy about her relationship with Mekhi. It felt weird talking to someone else period, since the only person she'd ever really talked to was Mekhi himself. But Jordan's arrogant sincerity was just that: sincere. And it was kind of hard to cop an attitude in the face of all that sincerity.
Yasmine felt her lower lip begin to tremble as tears welled up in her big hazel eyes. Oh God. She hated it when she cried, especially in public. What was wrong with her?
There, there. It's happened to the best of us.
Jordan put his glasses back on. “I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to. I was kind of only asking for selfish reasons, anyway.” He took off his glasses again and set them carefully on the table next to the olive oil. Then he lifted his gaze, his golden eyes gazing straight into hers. “I really like you, Yasmine.”
Miles Davis was playing and the candles flickered. All of a sudden Yasmine felt like she was starring in one of those badly made romantic films that most girls cried over and she couldn't stand.
“I like you, too,” she sobbed, mortified. If she were with Mekhi, she would have suddenly burst out laughing and told him to go fuck himself for making her cry. But Jordan wasn't Mekhi. If she told him to go fuck himself, he'd probably do it.
Well, not literally. But we know what she means.
She wiped her damp face on her white linen napkin, smearing Ruby's lipstick all over it. “Sorry. I guess my parents are really stressing me out.” She put down her napkin and took a gulp of water. “So tell me something about Columbia. Like, what's your favorite course?”
As if she genuinely cared. It was pretty obvious now that Jordan was only interested in her because her parents were alternative, and she was only interested in him because he was so completely unalternative. Besides, her mind was too occupied with its most recent download to pay attention to a word of Jordan's reply. And the information her mind was so busy processing was that she was still in love with Mekhi.
24
After a full day of skiing, followed by an hour of watching the Dutch Olympic snowboarding team tear up the half-pipe, the group retired to the lodge at the base of the mountain for some well-deserved happy-hour pitchers of beer. The lodge had a roaring fire, a piano player, and cocktail waitresses wearing denim vests with nothing underneath.
Chanel sat down next to Jan, one of the seven snowboarders. The whole team was athletic and handsome, but she'd chosen Jan because when he boarded he stuck his thumbs out in a very peculiar cute way, like he was giving the entire mountain the thumbs-up.
“Are all the girls in New York as beautiful as you and your friends?” he asked with his charming Dutch accent.
Chanel giggled. She was a sucker for charm. “You guys are so lucky—getting to do this every day.”
Jan laughed and took a swig of dark amber beer. “We are not always snowboarding. I go to university in Minsk. I'm studying to be a dentist.”
“Oh.” Chanel had imagined that the whole team lived together in a cabin on top of a mountain in the Alps somewhere, snowboarding all day and getting drunk together every night. She'd thought it would be cozy, being the only girl in the group. She could cut their hair for them and make French toast for breakfast. At night they'd curl up by the fire and tell ghost stories. “What about the others?” she asked, wondering if she'd just chosen the wrong guy.
“Conrad is married to an Italian girl—they live in Bologna. Franz is my roommate at university. Josef, Sven, Ulrich, and Gan all live in Amsterdam.”
Amsterdam was supposed to be a really cool city. Chanel looked across the table at the four boys. They were all equally sexy and athletic.
“In the gay student housing,” Jan added.
“Oh,” Chanel replied, forcing herself to smile.
Better luck next time.
“Would y'all like anything else?”
“I'll just have another Coke, please,” Kaliq told the cute, Ugg-wearing cocktail waitress after Jaylen had ordered another three pitchers of Sun Valley ale for the table. Mercedes had already drunk an entire pitcher on her own. He would probably have to carry her home.
“I can't believe I made it all the way down a double black diamond without falling,” Porsha gushed for the forty-fifth time. She sipped her beer delicately and grinned at Cairo. “You're a much better teacher than any of those ski instructor guys.”
The truth was, she'd slid sideways down almost the entire run, screaming the whole way, but at least she'd managed to keep her bare cleavage free of snow. That was the important part.
“You just kept getting better and better,” Cairo replied. Porsha had buttoned her cashmere cardigan over her bikini top but her jeans were low slung, and with the way she was sitting up straight and sort of leaning into the table, he could see the top of her ass. It was nice.
“I'll bet you a hundred bucks I can chug my beer faster than you can chug yours,” Mercedes dared Chanel.
Now that there was no one to flirt with, Chanel was happy to have something to do. She pulled her long, ski-wild hair back behind her and tied it in a knot. Then she picked up her glass. The rest of the table watched in gleeful anticipation.
Well, most of the rest of the table.
Kaliq crunched an ice cube between his teeth. He could just imagine where this was going. Both girls were going to get completely wasted, throwing up all over everybody, and then they'd be out of commission with hangovers for the next couple of days. His sexy lips drooped forlornly over the rim of his Cok
e glass. No more skiing. No more fun.
Plus, he'd heard that this was definitely not the first encounter between the infamous Greenwich heiress and the notorious Upper East Side model. The two were apparently fast friends at Hanover their junior year but had a fight over a boy in France the summer before they were both kicked out. Kaliq was pretty sure there was more to the story, but instead of making up a lot of nonsense, he'd rather wait for the skeletons to come tumbling out of the closet.
“Show her how it's done, Mercedes!” Jaylen goaded them on.
“Oh yeah?” Chanel lifted her glass to her lips. Then she noticed Kaliq shaking his head, and she moved it away again. “What am I doing? You're, like, bred for this. Your whole family is full of famous alcoholics.”
“Thanks a lot!” Mercedes cried. She nudged Chanel with a bony elbow. “Go on, drink!”
Chanel set the glass down. “It's not worth it. If I chugged this I'd puke all over the table. And you'd totally beat me, anyway.”
Mercedes shrugged, then threw her head back and downed the whole pint of beer in one go. “Fuck you, I won,” she burped when she was done.
“Good for you,” Kaliq breathed. Everyone turned to look at him.
“Kaliq's just mad because we haven't had a chance to do it yet,” Mercedes crowed. “I'm always too fucked up!”
There was an awkward silence. It was hard to know how to respond to that.
Porsha looked at her watch. “Maybe we should get back to the lodge so we can have a sauna before dinner.” She wasn't sure if the sauna in the lodge was coed or not, but the idea of being in a hot, steamy room with Cairo, dressed only in towels, was very appealing. He could rub her back with lavender-scented oil and—
“Yeah, my quads are in pretty rough shape,” Kaliq agreed, rubbing his thighs. He glanced miserably at Mercedes. “I could really use a soak in the tub.”
Mercedes clapped her hands together, her eyes shining giddily. “Let's all go back to my place and get in the tub!” She was so hyper all the time, Kaliq wondered if the rehab clinic had her on some kind of antidepressant or something he didn't know about. All he knew was that the beer didn't seem to slow her down.
Upper East Side #5 Page 9
