Upper East Side #7

by Ashley Valentine

The Parris library was decorated in chocolate brown with hints of navy blue and gold. Three crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and four leather club chairs stood around an ornately painted antique card table.

  “There I am in Hamlet.” Mr. Parris pointed to a large black-and-white photograph hanging over the mantel. Chanel expected to see a young Mr. Parris in a full suit of armor, looking fierce and haughty. Instead, a beautiful young girl with a thin face and distinctive dimples lay with her long-lashed eyes closed and her hands folded across her chest, a chain of daisies entwined in her hair.

  “That's you?” Chanel asked in amazement.

  The old man chuckled. “I was a pretty boy back then. They made me play Ophelia.”

  Chanel stared at the photograph. “You were kind of cute.”

  Mr. Parris patted her hand. “I like to think so. And I was so much better at dying than the other fellows.” He went over to the wet bar in the corner, filled two crystal tumblers full of scotch, and set them on the card table. Then he pulled a worn green album off the bookshelf. He flipped through the pages of the album and pointed to one of the leather club chairs. “I've got hundreds of photographs,” he warned Chanel.

  Chanel sat down and took a sip of scotch. Then she scooted back in her chair, tucked her feet up underneath her, and reached for the album. She felt cozy and comfortable and genuinely interested in looking at Stanford Parris III's old Yale pictures. And as she slowly turned the pages examining the wonderful black-and-white images of a young Mr. Parris and his handsome Yale acting buddies rehearsing onstage, she realized she hadn't really thought about acting at college. She could even imagine playing Ophelia just like Mr. Parris had, fluttering her eyes closed and folding up like a flower when it was time to die.

  “Here I am in Kiss Me Kate.” Mr. Parris pointed to a photograph of the same long-faced beauty glaring at the camera, her dark eyes flashing, her chin raised disdainfully. “What a witch, that Kate.”

  Chanel studied the photograph. Mr. Parris as Kate reminded her of someone she knew, but she just couldn't place her.

  Let's give her a hint. Her first name starts with P.

  She continued to flip through the photographs, her mind racing. Yale was the only school that hadn't stalked her with perky e-mails and overzealous fan mail. Even the Whiffenpoofs—Yale's all-male acapella singing troupe, whom she'd met last month, had the decency not to e-mail her every day asking her when she was planning to arrive on campus so they could help her with her bags or take her out for coffee or whatever. And they certainly hadn't asked her about Kash from the Raves, whom she'd never even met.

  Mr. Parris tapped Chanel on the knee. “You have the face of a leading lady,” he added. “Yale knows what they're doing.”

  “You think so?” Chanel replied enthusiastically. Suddenly, ditching the Yale party to check out the Raves concert seemed totally unnecessary. And out of respect for old Mr. Parris, she almost wished she'd actually worn the entire gray-and-blue outfit her mom had laid out on her bed. She was going to be Yale University's greatest leading lady since Stanford Parris III. New Haven was so close to New York, she could still model, and with a bit more acting experience under her belt, she might even get a film deal! Porsha would be totally thrilled if they went to school together—not that she was going to say anything until Porsha found out she was off Yale's wait list. Porsha could be kind of unreasonable when Chanel had something she wanted for herself.

  Kind of?!

  18

  “Brave soul.” A tall, brown-skinned boy wearing an open-collared oxford shirt greeted Porsha as she stepped off the elevator alone and into Stanford Parris III's country club of an apartment. “Everyone else was dragged here by their parents. One guy even bagged, so his parents had to come alone.”

  Wonder who that was?

  “I'm Stanford Parris the Fifth, by the way.” The boy extended his hand and flashed her a proud smile that seemed to say, “As if you didn't know that.”

  Porsha grinned back. She loved boys with titles, especially tall handsome ones with cute dimples, and especially ones who were going to Yale next year. “Porsha Sinclaire,” she said, shaking his hand. She fingered the custom-engraved Cartier pendant at her throat—the very same one she'd stolen from her baby sister. It was a simple nameplate, just the word Yale in gold cursive, tied with a light blue satin ribbon around her neck. “So where are your parents?” she demanded.

  “In Scotland. We have a castle there,” Stan boasted casually.

  Porsha giggled. “So do we! My aunt lives there.”

  Aw, isn't that cute? If they got married and honeymooned in Scotland, they could go castle-hopping!

  “Anyway, this is Granddad's party. I'm just here to…” Stan paused and cleared his throat, as if he'd momentarily forgotten why he was there. Or maybe he'd just drunk too much scotch. “To get our class excited for next year,” he explained finally.

  Porsha rubbed her well-glossed lips together. Stanford Parris's grandson. She'd stumbled upon the youngest member of one of Yale's most influential black alumnae families without even trying! If anyone could get her off the wait list and into Yale, he could.

  Stan pointed to the Yale pendant at her throat. “That's unusual,” he observed. “Guess you're really excited about next year, huh?”

  That's one way of putting it. Porsha blushed fiercely. She had prepared herself for this sort of question. “My parents had it made for me right after I found out I was in,” was what she'd planned on saying. But now she opted for the truth. She stood on tiptoe and cupped her hand around Stan 5's ear. “I'm not actually in yet,” she whispered. “I got wait-listed.”

  “Well, we'll just have to see what we can do about that,” Stan chuckled sympathetically. He snatched two flutes of champagne off a passing tray and handed her one. They clinked glasses and a little thrill ran up Porsha's spine. She was about to get lucky, she could just tell.

  In more ways than one!

  Suddenly there was a rustle of tulle and Kaliq's mother enveloped her in a Chanel No. 5-soaked embrace. “Darling, where is Kaliq?” Mrs. Braxton demanded in her dramatic, Anglo-French accent.

  Good question

  Porsha didn't want to have to explain to Stan who Kaliq was, and she didn't want Kaliq's mom to think she couldn't keep track of her own boyfriend. But she also didn't want her to suspect that she was hiding something. After all, she was dying to find out where Kaliq was too—so she could kick the shit out of him.

  “I've been staying at the Plaza, so I haven't had a chance to check my messages at home,” she responded vaguely. “I think maybe his cell phone broke or something, because he never answers.”

  “I know.” Mrs. Braxton pursed her fiery red lips. “The gardener found his cell phone on the roof.” She raised her severely penciled eyebrows suspiciously. “You are sure he is not staying at the Plaza with you?”

  Porsha glanced self-consciously at Stan 5 and then shook her head, refusing to answer the question out loud. How embarrassing to have to admit to your boyfriend's mom that actually no, you hadn't managed to lock him up in a hotel room for days of wild passionate sex. In fact, that plan had totally backfired.

  “Well then.” Mrs. Braxton kissed her on both cheeks and smiled tightly as if to say, “I don't believe a word you're saying, but I'm late for the opera, so c'est la vie.”

  “If you do see him, darling, tell him his mother and father are quite cross with him, and have gone to La Bohème.”

  Porsha clasped her hands behind her back and nodded dutifully. Where the fuck was Kaliq anyway? She watched Kaliq's father help Mrs. Braxton on with her beaded silk capelet and then escort her to the elevator. She thought of going over to say hello, but Mr. Braxton was famous for his bad temper, and if he was angry with Kaliq, it was probably best to stay out of his way. Besides, she had more important things to do. Like flirt with Mr. I-Can-Get-You-Into-Yale.

  Porsha noticed that he was wearing what looked like an antique Yale insignia ring. “It's my grand
dad's,” Stan explained. “He gave it to me when I got in. Yale is like Granddad's whole life. I'd introduce you, but he disappeared into his study with this beautiful tall girl, and who knows when they'll come out. Not that he's a pervert or anything. He's probably just boring her to death with his Yale stories.”

  Porsha's eyes swept the room. The “beautiful tall girl” sounded suspiciously like Chanel. Old Mr. Parris was an actual trustee of Yale, and far more influential than his grandson. How typical of Chanel to monopolize the one person in the room who could probably get her into Yale once and for all.

  A man in a catering uniform took their empty champagne glasses and handed them each a fresh one. “To Yale,” Stan said, before clinking his glass against hers.

  Porsha fingered the pendant around her neck and downed her drink, wondering if she should demand an introduction to his grandfather. Stan took a step toward her and lowered his chin. “Don't worry,” he murmured reassuringly, as if reading her mind. “Granddad and I are very close.”

  Porsha clutched the stem of her champagne flute and batted her eyelashes. How lucky she was to have nabbed the younger, finer Stanford Parris while Chanel was stuck with the old moldy one!

  “I kissed my Yale interviewer,” she confided before she could stop herself. It wasn't exactly something she was proud of. But she wanted him to know what he was up against.

  Stan smiled delightedly. “Granddad keeps a room for me down the hall. I've got his whole collection of vintage Yale catalogs in there. Want to take a look?”

  Porsha giggled giddily. How wonderful to meet a boy who was as crazily enthusiastic about Yale as she was. Eagerly, she followed Stan into his room. She couldn't wait to kiss his catalogs.

  Kiss?

  Why not, when she had more in common with Stanford Parris V than she did with any other boy she'd ever met, including her lame-ass, no-show boyfriend, who was already into Yale anyway and was totally unsympathetic and useless?

  Well, then. Guess she meant kiss after all.

  19

  “Oops, I think I'm winning.” Lexie giggled and popped another Oreo half into her mouth.

  “Nice one,” Kaliq responded, not even trying to fend off her chocolaty lips.

  It had been Lexie's idea to smoke another joint and play checkers with Oreos, so she'd made up the rules: Every time she nabbed one of Kaliq's white-faced Oreo halves with her whole Oreos, she got to eat the Oreo half and kiss him on the lips.

  Kaliq really wasn't that into the game, which meant he was sort of letting Lexie win, but kissing her on deck where everyone else was hanging out seemed safer than sitting alone with her up in the crow's nest, where one thing could have led to another and…

  Not that he would have actually let anything major happen. Right?

  As usual, Kaliq was suffering from the Curse of Porsha. Whenever he fooled around with another girl, all he could think about was Porsha and fooling around with Porsha, making him feel sort of guilty and horny at the same time, which made it simultaneously kind of hard to take and kind of hard to stop.

  He kept his eyes open as Lexie kissed him, making eye contact with Jeremy on the other side of the deck, who was kissing some girl with long braids whom he had never seen before. All of a sudden Kaliq felt like he was in seventh grade at one of those parties where everyone just lay around kissing because they thought that was what they were supposed to do, even though it was kind of nasty to suck on some girl's tongue for like, an hour, without having a drink of water or anything.

  Except for that time with Porsha in Chanel's closet at a party back in eighth grade—or was it sixth? They'd kissed and talked for so long Chanel had had to drag them out so they wouldn't miss the entire party. If only Porsha would suddenly draw up alongside the Charlotte in a little dingy and shout up at him to grow the fuck up in that sexy, bitchy tone she used when she was only mildly infuriated with him. Where is Porsha anyway? he wondered in stoned, sleepless confusion. Why wasn't she with him?

  Hello? Anyone home? Wake up!!!

  Lexie had her eyes closed and was breathing heavily as she sucked on his lips. Her tongue tasted like chocolate and beer, which was kind of a bad combination. Kaliq could hardly wait to push her off his lap and head below decks to gulp a few glasses of cold water. He also could also hardly wait to tell Porsha that despite this bumpy little interlude everything would turn out all right once he got back from Bermuda, or New Jersey, or wherever the fuck they were headed.

  His gaze shifted to the starboard side of the boat. The sun was going down, and they'd finally made it into the ocean. The dark water was quiet and a few fishing boats twinkled on the horizon. Kaliq hadn't checked the boat's navigational system in a few hours. The Charlotte had been cruising on autopilot ever since they'd headed out, but since he was the only one who knew how to sail her and was kind of responsible for the safety of everyone onboard, he thought maybe he'd better check it out.

  Yeah, maybe.

  He pulled away from Lexie and whispered hoarsely into her ear. “I gotta go steer the boat.”

  She slid off his lap, popped another Oreo into her mouth, and gave his bicep a squeeze. “Vhat a stud. You know, I always vanted to go to Ber-mooda.”

  Kaliq headed off to the captain's cabin, stepping over the prone bodies of his stoned, high, and half-asleep shipmates. Some kid from his world religion class was wearing one of the Charlotte's life vests while he played the harmonica and sang some old song.

  Kaliq was creepily reminded of the movie Titanic—which Porsha had made him watch not once but four times—right before the boat sinks.

  Charlie and Anthony had locked themselves into the cabin and were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharing a bong. They'd taken off their shirts and were trying to see who could stick his stomach out the farthest—a ridiculous contest, since both their stomachs were so flat they verged on concave.

  “Hey,” Anthony greeted Kaliq. “We were wondering—is there surfing in Bermuda?”

  “Because we should have brought our boards,” Charlie added.

  Kaliq shook his head, ignoring them. The air in the cabin was so full of smoke he could barely read the monitors. From what he could tell, though, they were nearing Cape May, which meant that if they traveled at a normal cruising speed instead of .5 miles an hour, it would only take a little over three hours to get back to New York Harbor. He'd dock the boat and head straight for the Plaza.

  Only a whole day late.

  Kaliq checked the incoming messages screen where the Charlotte picked up text messages—mostly communication from other boats or ports. There were thirty-seven text messages from his father's cell phone.

  KALIQ, YOUR MOTHER AND I ARE AT THE OPERA.

  KALIQ, TURN THE BOAT AROUND. I'VE ALERTED THE COAST GUARD AND THEY'VE BEEN INSTRUCTED TO ARREST YOU.

  KALIQ, YOUR MOTHER IS VERY UPSET. TURN THE BOAT AROUND, SON.

  And so on.

  “Shit.” Kaliq could imagine his mother crying in her black evening attire in their box at the Metropolitan Opera while his father stabbed furiously at his cell phone. Then again, his mother always cried at the opera; it was part of her whole dramatic-French-princess act.

  The messages had all been sent within the last two hours, so it wasn't like his parents had been freaking out for that long. Normally his father's surly tone would have scared the shit out of him, but he'd been looking for an excuse to abort the mission and get back to Porsha. Now here it was.

  He went back to the navigation screen and punched in the longitudinal and latitudinal points for the harbor at Battery Park City, which were written on the blackboard on the wall of the cabin. He hit enter and immediately the boat's motor shifted into neutral. Then the bow dipped and swung around until the boat had done a complete hundred-and-eighty-degree turn back in the direction of New York Harbor. He typed the command to increase speed to thirty-three miles per hour and glanced at the clock: 8:29 P.M. He'd be back in bed with Porsha by midnight.

  “Yo, what up, bro?” Anthony
demanded from his spot on the cabin floor. “Are you doing homework or something?”

  Kaliq grinned and shook his head, enjoying the buzz from their secondhand smoke. Porsha would be so thrilled to see him again she'd have to forgive him. And he wouldn't have any trouble making her forget.

  Presuming she was there waiting for him. And presuming she was alone…

  20

  “Remove your shoes! Remove your shoes! Ree-moove your shoo-oo-ooes!” Kash screeched into the mike. It was the final chorus of “Japanese Restaurant,” the latest hit single written by Mekhi Hargrove and the last song on the Raves' playlist.

  “If we slip out now,” Elise murmured, “we can probably get a cab before anyone else.”

  Who said anything about leaving? Bree lit another cigarette, ignoring her. She wanted to hang out until the crowd thinned, and get a better look at Kash. See if his red-blond hair stood up on end all on its own or if it was crusty with hair gel. See if his teeth were really as perfectly white and straight as they looked from where she sat. Hear that Irish twang he was so famous for. And those arm muscles! The Raves' drummer was still cute, but she had to admit Kash was totally sexy. He had this incredible energy about him, like he'd been wound up. If she stuck around, maybe Mekhi would even introduce them, and she could casually slip in that she was friends with Chanel, and find out if they were actually together or not.

  That is, if Mekhi was still alive.

  Zoing! Kash struck the last chord on his guitar and threw his instrument into the crowd, as he was known to do. Then he climbed up the fireman's pole hand-over-hand, flexing those fantastic arm muscles, and disappeared.

  “Show off,” the drummer scoffed. He stood up stiffly, grabbed a bottle of beer from beneath his drum set, and chugged it. Then he set the bottle down and craned his neck, like he was looking for someone in the crowd.

  Bree's skin tingled. Her? Wait, wasn't she over him already?

  “We should get going,” Elise repeated. She stood up and tugged on her shirt. “Everyone's going to be fighting for cabs.”