Upper East Side #5

by Ashley Valentine

  “Well, fuck me. Have a good one, then.”

  “You too,” Mekhi said earnestly before hanging up. Rusty Klein was crazy and intimidating and kind of a bully, but he would miss her all the same.

  He ducked into the donut shop behind him and ordered an extra large black coffee and a jelly donut, dialing Yasmine's number as he waited. His hands shook as he carried the huge, hot cup of coffee outside. He set it on the ground, lit a cigarette, and waited as the phone rang and rang.

  “Hey,” he said when her machine picked up. “I sent you something. I was wondering if you got it.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, trying to think of what else to say. “It's Mekhi, by the way. Hope you're okay. Um…bye,” he added, and hung up.

  Well, it wasn't exactly “Sorry and let's get back together,” but at least it broke the ice.

  35

  Damien was standing in front of the black metal gate, waiting for her. “Hey,” Bree said, her brown cheeks flushed with the notion that she had invited herself over.

  Damien fumbled with the lock on the gate. He nodded at the bike learning against the metal trash cans in the entryway. “Dad rides that around the park a few times every morning. He's really fit for his age.”

  Bree had never even heard Damien mention his father. She'd always imagined him fatherless and lonely in his mother's huge pink-and-white Park Avenue spread, watching TV and brushing that spoiled dog of hers with a gold hairbrush while his mom was out spending the millions she'd received in the divorce settlement on designer dog jackets and dinners with younger men.

  “Hey guys, I'm home,” Damien called into the apartment as he opened the door. “Here,” he told Bree, taking her black parka and hanging it over his. “Come on.”

  Bree followed him down the dark narrow hallway. The apartment smelled of stale popcorn and Pine-Sol. The white paint on the walls was cracked and peeling, and the plain burgundy rug was worn and linty. It reminded her of her house, only worse.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Brianna, the girl I've been telling you about.”

  Bree's jaw almost dropped to her sneakers when she got a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Berensen. They were wearing matching gray sweat suits and eating microwave popcorn, their feet propped up on a rattan coffee table as they watched TV in their tiny, dark living room. Mrs. Berensen was petite, with short white hair and eyes surrounded by tiny smile wrinkles. Mr. Berensen was at least eighty, with white hair, long bony limbs, and a dark leathery face. They were both so skinny, they looked like they lived on a diet of only popcorn and water.

  “It's really nice…to meet you,” Bree faltered. She stepped forward to shake their hands.

  “Oh, aren't you a doll,” Mrs. Berensen declared.

  “We were just watching some old James Bond flick,” Mr. Berensen said. “Sit down and watch if you like.” He grunted as he shifted over on the burgundy velour couch to make room for them.

  Bree didn't know how he could possibly make it around the park on a bike. It looked as if he was going to kneel over and die right there.

  “That's okay.” Damien touched Bree's elbow. “Come on, I'll show you my room.”

  Bree bit her lip as she followed him into the adjoining room. She hated herself for feeling disappointed. Why should she care if Damien wasn't a prince living in an exclusive doorman building on Park Avenue?

  Because a guy's gotta have something more than a sweet disposition and a cute chipped tooth!

  Damien's room was even more depressing than the rest of the apartment. Just a single bed pushed up against the wall with some kind of synthetic yellow-and-green-plaid cover on it that looked as if it belonged in a motel circa 1979; plain white walls; a linty brown rug; and a scratched wooden desk with a giant Mac on it. The computer was very definitely the newest, most expensive thing the Berensens owned.

  Bree perched on the edge of the bed and sneezed violently. She was having an allergic reaction to this entire situation. Who wouldn't?

  Damien sat down on his stiff wooden desk chair and jiggled the mouse until the computer sprang awake. “This is what I do most of the time I'm not in school or with you.”

  “Oh?” Bree wondered if he was about to show her some weird chat room he went to to pretend he was somebody else.

  “Come here and I'll show you.”

  Reluctantly she stood up and went over to look, expecting to have to read through a bunch of annoying e-mails. Instead, it was a painting, an exact replica of Marc Chagall's Birthday, with some little flourishes that were all Damien's own.

  “You did that?” Bree asked, when she had found her voice. It was very good.

  “Yeah, but it's not finished yet. I have to do something about the windowpane. It's a little too bleak.” He started opening menus of color palettes and shading techniques. “I could outline it in gold…” He glanced up at Bree. “What do you think?”

  Bree walked back to the bed again because there was nowhere else to sit. She bounced up and down on it a few times in an effort to clear her head. “I really thought you lived in that fancy apartment on Park. I thought Daphne was your dog.” She stopped bouncing, looked down at the rug, and swallowed.

  “I guess I sort of wanted you to think that. That's why I took you there.”

  Bree looked up. Damien looked a lot less dashing and handsome slumped at his desk chair in his hideous room. “But Elise said she heard you were at that benefit at the Frick. And you have that nice leather jacket.” She tucked her hands under her thighs. “I thought that's where you lived,” she repeated.

  Damien shook his head. “I walk Daphne for Madame T after school. She invites me to things like the party at the Frick and gives me memberships to the museums 'cause she knows I like art and her kids are all grown. It's pretty nice of her, actually.”

  Bree nodded. Why was it so hard to accept what she already knew? Damien was just a normal boy who walked dogs after school. And had really old parents and lived in a really dark, depressing apartment. Sure he was into art and so was she, but there had to be more…something.

  Suddenly she scooted off the bed and lunged for the phone. “Let's do something crazy and romantic! We can steal a bottle of wine from your parents and take it to the park and sit out under the stars and get drunk!”

  Damien looked dumbstruck. “Maybe you're the mysterious one,” he remarked with a confused smile. “My parents don't have any wine, and besides, it's a school night. I have to cook dinner and do my homework. You're welcome to stay and eat with us.”

  Dinner with Damien's emaciated, thousand-year-old parents who didn't even drink wine? There was nothing crazy or romantic about that!

  Bree didn't know what was wrong with her, but if she didn't bust out of Damien's tiny room very soon, she was going to explode.

  “I think I have to go now,” she muttered, practically running for the door. Her face was hot, and she couldn't possibly stop to say goodbye to his parents. The front door was only eight feet down the hall. She lunged for her coat, already anticipating the cool air on her cheeks and the soothing bus ride across town.

  “Wait!” she heard Damien call after her, but she was already gone.

  Elise had told her to figure out if the real Damien was someone she could like. Now she had the answer. And it wasn't pretty.

  36

  “It's so wonderful to see you home!” Porsha's mother gushed when Porsha stepped out of the elevator, wheeling her Louis Vuitton suitcases. Mookie, Tahj's dog, waggled up to her and rubbed his butt against her knees.

  “Fuck off,” Porsha hissed at him under her breath, even though she was kind of glad to be home. She took off her coat and tossed it onto the antique settee in the corner of the foyer. “Hi, Mom. Where's Kitty Minky?”

  Eleanor waddled over and kissed Porsha noisily. Then she handed her the phone. “It's your father, dear. We've been having the most wonderful chat.”

  As far as Porsha knew, her parents hadn't spoken to each other—civilly, that is—in over a year. “Dad?” she said, taking th
e phone.

  “Porsha Bear,” her dad's cheerful, wine-infused voice darted over the airwaves from his chateau in France. “Ça va bien?”

  “Sort of,” Porsha replied.

  “Haven't heard from Yale yet?”

  “Nope.” Porsha hadn't given her father any inkling that her chances at Yale—his alma mater—were almost completely destroyed. She wandered down the hallway to her old room and stood in the doorway. “Not yet.”

  “All right. Well, be nice to your mother. She's absolutely glowing, isn't she?”

  “I guess.” Porsha walked into the room and sat down on the floor. “I miss you, Dad.”

  “Miss you too, Bear,” her father said before clicking off.

  “So what do you think?” Her mother walked into the room behind her, breathing heavily. Her stomach seemed to have expanded about twelve inches while Porsha was away, but her face was nicely bronzed from the Hawaii trip, and she looked kind of pretty in a dark green maternity dress. Even her black velvet headband didn't seem so bad.

  Porsha attempted a half-smile from where she sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room. “You look nice.”

  “No, I mean the room.”

  Porsha shrugged and went back to studying the room. The familiar white walls had been repainted the palest yellow-green, with celery green trim and a stenciled daisy border. Instead of her rose-colored Oriental carpet, a creamy yellow shag rug covered the floor. A bassinet stood in the corner, covered with white lace, and inside it was a folded yellow blanket, stitched intricately with white daisies. Along the far wall stood a changing table and an armoire, both painted pale yellow. To Porsha's right was a wooden rocking chair with daisies stenciled on its back. Kitty Minky, her cat, lay curled up on a cushion on the seat of the chair, fast asleep.

  Her mother waddled over to the armoire and ran her hand over the drawers. “We wanted to monogram all the furniture, but we haven't decided on a name yet.” She smiled brilliantly at Porsha. “Your father suggested that you come up with a name. You've always been so creative, darling. I think it's a wonderful idea!”

  “Me?” Porsha blanched. This baby had nothing to do with her. Why on earth would they want her to name it?

  “Don't worry about it being a formal name or anything. Cyrus doesn't care. We just need a good name.” Her mother smiled encouragingly. “And don't rush into it. Think about it for a while.” She walked over to the bassinet, shook out the yellow daisy blanket and refolded it again. “Cyrus and I are going to the 21 Club now for a wine tasting. Let Myrtle know what you want for dinner, and she'll fix you something.” She bent down to kiss Porsha on top of her head. “Just a good name,” she repeated before leaving the room.

  Porsha stayed where she was, contemplating the color scheme and her new role of Big Sister, Namer of Babies. Her room didn't even smell the same. It smelled new. New and full of promise.

  “I've been pushing for Daisy,” Tahj said, ambling into the room in a pair of maroon flannel Harvard boxers and nothing else. His dreadlocks had grown past his ears again, and his bare mocha chest was dark from his week in Hawaii. He would've looked good if he wasn't so annoying.

  “How was Hawaii?” Porsha asked, although she really didn't care.

  Tahj's slanted eyes widened excitedly. “Even better than I thought. I met this girl who's like, even more into being a vegetarian than me. Her parents are Haitian refugees. From Berkeley. She taught me to surf. We had some trippy times.”

  Porsha raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. “But now you're back,” she remarked.

  He nodded. “So, what do you think of Daisy—for the kid's name?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Duh, Harvard Boy, that's way too obvious.” She twirled her ruby ring around and around on her finger. “So what was that Haitian girl's name, anyway?”

  Tahj frowned. “Yael. She said a lot of people say it like ‘Yai-elle’ or something, but she pronounced just like the school: Yale.”

  “Yale.” Porsha stopped twirling her ring, the corners of her mouth curving up into a smile. “Yale.”

  Of course.

  37

  With Porsha out of the apartment, there was no reason not to invite Kaliq over.

  “Hey,” he said when she greeted him at the door. It felt kind of strange seeing Chanel back in her old surroundings. But it was also kind of nice.

  “Hey.” She kissed his cheek and helped him out of his rain-soaked trenchcoat, hanging it neatly in the coat closet. His gray T-shirt looked worn and soft, and she couldn't wait to get her hands on it.

  “Sorry things got so weird at the party,” she said. Thinking about it now, she didn't know why she hadn't kissed Kaliq back in Sun Valley, after he'd rescued her from the ditch and she was already naked and everything.

  Well, she'd just have to get naked again, wouldn't she?

  “That's okay.” Kaliq seemed to be waiting for something, like an explanation for why she'd summoned him there.

  She took a step toward him, her bare feet cold on the hardwood floor. She was wearing only a thin white cotton undershirt and shorts, and she shivered, partly from the chill, but mostly out of nervous anticipation. Kaliq reached out and rubbed her bare arms.

  “Kaliq?” Chanel asked, collapsing into him. She could feel his breath on her face. Oh, Kaliq. “You know how we're always such good friends and we understand each other perfectly and we're always there for each other, even when things get really messed up?”

  “Uh-huh,” Kaliq replied hoarsely, still rubbing his hands up and down her golden beige arms.

  “Well, why can't we just be together?”

  Kaliq stopped rubbing. It was impossible even to think of saying no to the most gorgeous girl in his entire universe when she was already one of his best friends and was practically throwing herself at him. Maybe if he just gave her a little kiss and told her gently that it wasn't meant to be…

  He leaned in and kissed her, very tentatively, on the mouth. A nice, sweet, innocent kiss. But Chanel wasn't looking for sweet and innocent, she was looking for true love, and she kissed him back hungrily, like someone who had been waiting for this for a long, long time. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into her bedroom.

  “Hey,” Kaliq said, stopping in the doorway. “Is Porsha still staying here?”

  “Hey,” Chanel said back, dropping his hand. How could it be true love if Kaliq was in love with someone else? She sighed and fell back on her bed, smiling sadly up at the ceiling. “Porsha moved back home.”

  “Oh.” Kaliq went over and sat down on the bed next to her. He touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Chanel grinned. Even if he wasn't her one true love, Kaliq was still her sweetie. “Porsha and Cairo didn't go all the way,” she told him, because she knew he'd want to know.

  “How do you know that?” Kaliq asked suspiciously. He hadn't missed the fact that Chanel and Porsha were fighting.

  She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in her arms like a little girl. “I asked him?” Her voice was muffled. “He is my brother, you know.”

  Kaliq didn't say anything. He was relieved, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

  She propped herself up on her elbows. “You know I love you, Kaliq. But I think we both know who you really want to be kissing.”

  He nodded and turned his head to look out the rain-spattered window. A big bird was perched on the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He wondered if it was one of those peregrine falcons that were always flying around Central Park, surprising people by not being pigeons. The falcons were elegant and beautiful, and seeing them every now and again was somehow reassuring.

  He lay down next to Chanel and wrapped his arms around her in a brotherly embrace. “I love you, too,” he whispered in her ear.

  Chanel smiled and closed her eyes. She could imagine herself and Kaliq lying like this in her dorm room at college—wherever it was she wound up. They would never be a couple, but every once in a while, they would get together and h
ug and kiss, just like this. It would always be completely harmless, and Porsha would never have to know. And eventually they'd stop doing it, when Chanel finally found true love.

  If that ever happened.

  38

  When Yasmine arrived home, Ruby, Gabriela, and Arlo were huddled around the television, eating raw soybeans and drinking warm sake.

  “What's going on? I thought you guys were leaving today.” Yasmine set down her heavy bag of camera equipment and peeled off her jacket. She'd been caught in a sudden downpour and was soaked through.

  “They're leaving soon.” Ruby clicked off the TV, and the three of them flashed the fakest smiles Yasmine had ever seen. “How was your day, dear?”

  Yasmine untied her Doc Martens and kicked them off. From the corner of the living room, Ruby's parakeet, Tofu, squawked inside his cage, as if to warn her, Something's up! Something's up! Gabriela stood up and brushed the wrinkles out of the elaborately printed Japanese kimono she was wearing. Her gray braids were pinned on top of her head, Heidi style.

  “What're you guys still doing here, anyway?” Yasmine asked. “I thought you were going home today.”

  Her father blew his nose noisily in response. He was wearing a red wool sweater that had very obviously been made for a woman, because the three-quarter-length sleeves pouffed out at the shoulders. Yasmine walked toward him, squinting. His face was all splotchy and his eyes were red.

  “Dad, are you sick?”

  Arlo Richards shook his head and blew his nose once more. Fresh tears spilled down his cheeks.

  “Hush, sweetheart,” Gabriela whispered, although it wasn't clear to whom.

  “It's your films,” Ruby finally burst out. She'd never been able to keep quiet about anything. “I showed them your films.”

  Excuse me?

  Yasmine glared at her older sister, too furious to say anything. Then Arlo blew his nose again, his chest heaving with sobs. Yasmine was sort of worried he might be having a heart attack or something. “Dad?”