“That sucks,” Porsha said sympathetically. “Believe me, I know.” She decided to leave it at that. Peer group might have been a place for sharing, but she wasn’t about to go into the details of her father’s affairs with other men while he was still married to her mother.
Chanel nodded vigorously. “I was just telling them how all families are totally fucked up. Actually, Porsha, your family is a perfect example,” she added cheerfully.
Porsha bristled. “Thanks a lot,” she shot back. “But I don’t think everyone needs to hear about my problems right now.”
Bree bit a cuticle and banged her foot nervously against the leg of her chair. She’d been fretting all morning that as soon as peer group started, Elise was going to dive right in and start talking about same-sex kissing. Thank God Elise had other things on her mind.
“Anyway, we don’t have to talk about our messed-up families if it’s going bother you,” Porsha told Elise, trying to be supportive.
Elise nodded unhappily. “Actually there was something else I wanted to talk about.”
Bree winced.
Oops.
Porsha nodded encouragingly, “Yes? What is it?”
Vicky Reinerson waved her hand in the air. She was wearing a red wool cape similar to the one Chanel had modeled in the Les Best show, except hers was a little used looking, like she’d borrowed it from her grandmother or something.
Guess she didn’t get the message that capes are back in style this fall, not this spring.
“Oh, but after she’s done will you please tell us all about the Les Best show, Chanel?” Vicky pleaded. “You promised.”
Chanel giggled as if she had tons of crazy stories to tell. Porsha wanted to smack her. “The craziest thing was that I had a snowball fight with Les Best himself and I didn’t even know it was him!” Chanel glanced at Porsha, who was glaring at her. “Anyway, I’ll save it for the end, if there’s time.” She turned back to Elise. “What was it you were saying?”
Elise’s light skinned face turned purple as a plum. “I-I wanted to talk about kissing,” she stammered. “About kissing girls.”
Bree kicked the legs of Elise’s chair. Mary, Cassie, and Vicky snickered and nudged each other’s elbows. This was going to be good. A rumor had gone around awhile back that Porsha and Chanel had kissed each other in the hot tub in the hotel suite Jaylen Harrison's family kept downtown in the Tribeca Star.
“I think anyone should be able to kiss anyone,” Chanel replied. “Kissing is fun!”
Porsha forked a giant piece of chocolate cake into her mouth, trying to come up with something to top what Chanel had just said. “Guys like to watch girls kiss,” she declared with her mouth full. “They do it all the time in the movies, just to turn guys on.” This was true. They’d even talked about it in Mr. Beckham’s film class.
“So Chanel, what was it like to wear all those cool Les Best clothes?” Bree asked, desperate to change the subject.
Chanel stretched her long, lithe arms over her gorgeous silky head and sighed happily. “You really want to know?”
Everyone in the group except Porsha and Elise nodded eagerly.
“Okay, I’ll tell you.”
Porsha rolled her eyes, daring herself to shut Chanel up by announcing the news of her torrid affair with a married thirty-eight-year-old man, which was a hell of a lot more interesting than prancing around on a runway in dumb clothes no one wanted to wear anyway. She glanced down at the table where Elise was furiously scribbling her name over and over on a sheet of notebook paper. Elise Wells. Miss Elise Wells. Miss Elise Patricia Wells. E.P. Wells.
Suddenly Porsha felt the entire contents of her stomach do a back walkover into her throat. Wells? That was Owen’s last name. And Elise had just said she thought her father was having an affair. Owen hadn’t said anything to her about a daughter, but now that she thought about it, Elise had his same eyes, and on the stoop Elise had lit two cigarettes exactly the same way Owen had Friday night in the bar. Christ. For all Porsha knew, Owen had ten children that he’d just happened to forget to mention. Fuck!
Porsha scraped her chair back and bolted for the nurse’s office behind the cafeteria, getting there just in time to spew chocolate cake all over Nurse O’Donnell’s rug. It wasn’t pretty, but it was the quickest way to get sent home sick from school.
As soon as she left, the cafeteria began to hum with the sound of girls trading versions of what was wrong with Porsha Sinclaire.
“I heard she has some rare disease. She lost all her hair. That’s really a wig,” announced Laura Salmon.
“I heard she’s pregnant with some old guy’s kid. He’s married to a member of the royal family and he wants to marry her, but his wife won’t give him a divorce,” Rain Hoffstetter explained.
“Oh my God. So she and her mom could like, have babies at the same time!” Alexis Sullivan shrieked.
“She’s not pregnant, stupid. It’s her eating disorder,” Imani Edwards told the girls at the same table in a confidential whisper. “She’s been struggling with it for years.”
At the peer group table, Chanel unwittingly set the record straight. “She’ll be fine just as soon as she finds out she’s into Yale.”
32
“Happy Valentine’s Day, loverboy,” Zeke Freedman greeted Mekhi as fourth-period U.S. history was about to begin. He handed Mekhi a pink paper shopping bag. “Aggie asked me to give this to you. A messenger just brought it to the front desk.”
The handles of the bag were tied with red satin ribbon. Mekhi tugged on the bow and emptied the contents of the bag out onto his desk: a small white box and a slim red leather book. Inside the white box was a stubby silver pen on a silver chain. A card inside the box described it as an antigravity pen, the kind used by astronauts in space. Mekhi put the chain around his neck and opened the leather book up to the first page where someone had scrawled a note: Kick gravity’s ass, you charmer. Dig?
Mekhi reread the note, completely dumbfounded. It was too bizarre for Yasmine, which meant it was definitely from Mystery. The final bell rang and Mr. Dube strode into the room and started erasing the blackboard. Mekhi tucked the bag of presents under his seat and opened his notebook, pretending to listen to what Mr. Dube was saying about Vietnam and apathy. School seemed so lame and insignificant when a big-time agent like Rusty Klein wanted to represent him, and an obviously brilliant, intriguingly sexy poet had sent him those exquisitely clever Valentine’s Day gifts.
Then Mekhi remembered Yasmine and his hands began to tremble. He hadn’t sent her anything for Valentine’s Day—not that Yasmine was at all into such a “commercial bullshit holiday,” as she called it, but he hadn’t even called her. Actually, his biggest problem was...he’d cheated on her. And not just kissing cheating either. Cheating cheating.
Whoops.
It was all Mystery’s fault. With her see-through slip and crooked yellow teeth she’d made him feel like he was living inside of one of his poems, kissing an odd girl he’d created at a raucous, screwball party he’d invented. He hadn’t been able to help but let his imagination run amok, sending him stumbling across the snowy landscape to her ramshackle Chinatown studio apartment and making love to her in all sorts of odd yogalike positions on her uncomfortable futon bed as the sun was rising over the bleak, snow-covered city. It was almost as if none of it had actually happened. It was fiction.
Except it wasn’t fiction. He’d cheated.
Mekhi had been dreadfully hungover for the remainder of the weekend and too deeply mired in existential guilt and self-loathing to answer Yasmine’s countless messages on his cell phone.
He flipped to the back of his history notebook. What if he wrote Yasmine a poem and e-mailed it to her during lunch next period? That would be more meaningful than flowers or chocolate or a corny Valentine’s Day card. The best thing about it was that he wouldn’t have to talk to her and possibly admit that he’d cheated on her, because he’d never been any good at telling lies.
; Mr. Dube was writing on the board now. Mekhi pretended to makes notes in his notebook.
Chalk angels, he wrote. Making meaning.
Then he thought about something Mystery had said when they were drinking their fourth or fifth Red Bull cocktails. Something about how she was tired of writing obscure poems that skirted around what she was really trying to say. Subtle was out. Direct was in.
Kiss me. Be mine. Mekhi wrote, imitating the little slogans on those candy hearts girls were always passing around on Valentine’s Day. Hot stuff!
He reread the words without really seeing them. His mind was still too full of his night with Mystery to process anything else. Her stringy weave had smelled like toast and when she’d touched his bare stomach with her cold, clammy hands, his whole body had rippled. He’d never even asked her what she meant by premature death or how his poem “Sluts” had saved her life, but he’d been so intoxicated by the taurine in the Red Bull and by her appallingly yellow teeth, he probably wouldn’t have remembered anyway.
Lost my virginity again, Mekhi wrote, which was the truth. Doing it with Mystery was like losing it again. Was it possible that every time he made love to a new woman it would feel that way?
Before he could imagine who the next lucky girl would be, the bell rang and Mekhi snapped out of his reverie, slapping the notebook closed and tucking it under his arm. “Hey,” he called to Zeke. “I’ll buy you some sushi for lunch if you wait for me to whip off an e-mail in the lab.”
“Okay.” Zeke shrugged, trying not to look too excited that his old friend was actually deigning to pay attention to him again. Since when did Mekhi Hargrove, king of cheap egg rolls and bad coffee, eat sushi?
“Heard you got lucky Friday night!” Jaylen Harrison shouted Mekhi’s way as they passed each other on the stairwell. Jaylen was wearing his Riverside Prep uniform navy blue V-neck sweater with nothing on underneath it. “Nice work.”
“Thanks,” Mekhi muttered, hurrying upstairs to the computer lab. He was kidding himself if he thought Yasmine wasn’t going to find out about him and Mystery, but as soon as she received his latest poem he was convinced she’d forgive him. Just as Mystery had written in her note—he was a charmer.
33
Yasmine felt a little ridiculous hanging out with the desperate girls in the packed, overheated Emma Willard computer lab, all checking their e-mail for the hundredth time to see who’d sent them a pathetic e-card for Valentine’s Day or posted a message on their Secret Admirer page, the alarmingly uncreative new tradition the school had started last Valentine’s Day. But Mekhi usually logged on at least once a day, and since he’d been so busy this weekend meeting Rusty Klein at the Better Than Naked show and hadn’t had a chance to call her back all weekend, she figured he might try to e-mail her today, especially since it was Valentine’s Day—not that either of them really bought into that commercial holiday bullshit.
“Hey,” she heard someone say. It was Mekhi’s little sister, checking out her Secret Admirer page at the next terminal.
“Hey Brianna.”
Bree rolled herself backwards on her swivel chair and then pulled herself forward again. Her curly black hair was blow-dried straight and she looked older and more sophisticated than usual. “So you and Mekhi must have had fun at that fashion show. He didn’t get home until like, Saturday afternoon. My dad was grumbling about how spoiled and irresponsible we both are, but then he completely forgot to yell at Mekhi. As usual.”
Yasmine smoothed her hand over her practically shaved head. “Actually, I didn’t go to the same show he went to. I got invited to another one.”
Bree looked confused. “Oh.”
In the back of her mind Yasmine sensed that something was wrong. What had Mekhi been doing out all that time anyway? But then again, everything had gotten screwed up in the snow. Maybe he’d spent the night at Zeke’s house or something. Zeke lived downtown.
She logged on as hairlesscat, password meow, and clicked on her inbox. Sure enough, there was a message from Mekhi, and—big surprise—it was a poem. Yasmine read the poem eagerly, grimacing when she recognized that Mekhi had put absolutely no effort into it at all. Hot stuff? What was that all about? And what was up with “I lost my virginity again”? Who was he fucking kidding?
She hit reply and wrote back: Ha ha. I laughed. I cried. What’s your deal anyway? We’re supposed to be making a film together, remember?
As she waited for Mekhi to respond, she logged onto her Secret Admirer page. To her surprise there were four messages:
I can’t stop raving about you to all my boyfriends. No one mixes form with meaning the way you do, milady. —prettyboy
You give this fucked-up world a new kind of beauty. Keep your freak on. —d.
Happy Valentine’s Day to my very special sister on a special day. —Ruby Tuesday
Can you make it to Cannes? Let’s talk over coffee in Brooklyn Thurs. eve? —the filmmaker who discovered you
Yasmine rolled her eyes as she read the last one. She appreciated everything Ken Mogul had done for her, but he hadn’t exactly discovered her. She’d been there all along.
She clicked on her inbox again but there was no response from Mekhi so she logged off. “See you later,” she whispered to Bree, whose big brown eyes were glued to her computer.
“See you,” Bree replied without looking up. There were three whole messages on her Secret Admirer page.
sorry i didn’t get you any candy but i wasn’t sure which kind you like. let’s get some after school. don’t really feel like going home right away anyway. —sadgirl
btw, when do you want to finish that painting?? —me again
Those two were very definitely from Elise, but the third one sounded like it might very well be from a genuine, real-life boy.
Sorry it took me so long, but I didn’t have the guts to write to you before. If you want to meet me, I take the 79th Street crosstown bus home after school. I’m not sure what you look like, but if you see a really tall skinny guy looking at you on the bus, smile because it’s probably me. Happy Valentine’s Day, Bree Hargrove. Can’t wait to meet you. Love, D.
Bree reread the message over and over. A tall skinny guy? He sounded exactly like the boy she’d seen in Bendel’s! But what did D stand for? David? Daniel? Derek? No, those names sounded too geeky, and his message didn’t sound geeky at all, just sweet. But how had he gotten her e-mail address? Oh, who cared—she couldn’t believe it: he wanted to meet her!!
Bree immediately deleted Elise’s messages and ran to the printer to retrieve the one from L. Of course, she planned to ride the 79th Street crosstown bus all afternoon and all night if that was what it took. But, God forbid, if they never found each other, Bree would have his love note to cherish and keep forever and ever. And she’d thought she was through with love. See how magical Valentine’s Day can be?
34
“So how come you didn’t call 911?” Jeremy Scott asked Kaliq as he crumbled weed into the rolling paper spread out on his right knee.
“Give the dude a break,” noted Charlie Dern. “He was high, remember?”
“I would’ve been like, ‘See ya later, you crazy fucking chick! I don’t care if you’re putting out!’” quipped Anthony Avuldsen.
Jeremy had managed to steal some weed from his older brother who was home visiting from college, and now the four boys were huddled on a remote stoop on East End Avenue, taking a break before gym class.
Kaliq blew on his bare hands and stuffed them into his cashmere-lined coat pockets. “I don’t know.” He still felt pretty confused about it himself. “I guess I just wanted to call someone who knew us both. Someone I could trust.”
Jeremy shook his head. “Nigga, that’s exactly what those rehab headshrinkers want you to do. They’ve got you programmed already.”
Kaliq thought about the way Gia imitated Jackie’s corny psychobabble—all that stuff about healing wounds and negative friendships. It didn’t seem like Gia had been programmed. All of a
sudden he wondered if she was angry that he’d called Jackie, but it wasn’t like he could call her and ask her. She was now staying at Breakaway full time and wasn’t allowed to take any phone calls, just in case one of her dealers called or something. Hopefully Kaliq would still see her in group.
“How long do you have to deal with that rehab bullshit anyway?” Charlie asked. He reached for the burning joint and took a hit.
“Six months,” Kaliq answered. “But at least I don’t have to live there.”
The other boys intoned bored and sympathetic sighs of disgust. Kaliq didn’t say anything. Although he’d never have admitted it, he kind of liked going to rehab and meeting the different kids in group, especially Gia. He’d be sort of sad when it was over.
“Here,” Charlie said, passing Kaliq the joint.
Kaliq looked at it and shook his head. “No thanks,” he murmured under his breath. There was a crushed red paper heart lying on the sidewalk in front of the stoop where the four boys were sitting. “Is it Valentine’s Day?” he asked distractedly.
“Yeah,” Anthony responded. “Why?”
“Huh,” Kaliq replied. He stood up and brushed the snow off the back of his black coat. For what seemed like forever he’d always sent a special girl roses on Valentine’s Day. “I gotta go do something. Catch you guys in gym, okay?”
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