UPPER EAST SIDE

by Ashley Valentine

  The dark, crowded room erupted in applause.

  “I heard they stayed up all night on E and wrote a book together,” somebody whispered.

  “I heard they were husband and wife.”

  “I heard they’re fraternal twins, separated at birth,” remarked someone else.

  Yasmine slipped into the back of the club unnoticed. “What kind of name is Mystery Craze?” she wondered as she put her camera to her eye and zoomed in on the stage.

  Mekhi’s entire body was covered in a cold, freaked-out sweat. Everything was happening so fast. He hadn’t even had a chance to contemplate how he’d gone from writing strange, morose poetry in notebooks no one ever read to performing onstage with an almost-famous girl in a cool club, wearing a fancy designer suit. But there was no time to doubt himself. He’d acted in plays, performed in Yasmine’s movies. He was the new Rilke. He peeled off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. He could do this.

  Mystery was already waiting for him onstage, her bony fingers clenching the microphone in anticipation. Mekhi could see now that there were two mikes, one for him and one for her.

  “What’s your favorite noun?” Mystery asked the audience in her low, husky voice.

  “Pie!” an obviously shitfaced guy in the front row shouted back.

  “You’re the antithesis of pie,” Mystery hissed at Mekhi as he took the stage. “I want to eat you alive.”

  Mekhi cleared his throat and reached for the microphone stand to steady himself. “What’s your favorite verb?” he asked in response, surprised by how sure of himself he sounded.

  “Sex,” Mystery answered coolly. She dropped to her hands and knees, slithering toward him with the microphone between her teeth. “Sex,” she repeated, crawling between his legs and clawing her way up his body until their faces were only a centimeter apart. The yellow dress made her teeth look even yellower.

  The camera wobbled in Yasmine’s hands. So this was why she hadn’t heard a peep out of Mekhi lately, not even to work on Making Poetry. Mekhi had been making poetry with Mystery Craze. And as much as it hurt to watch the boy she’d been in love with for almost three years fall under the spell of a girl whose real name was probably something totally boring and unpoetic like Jane James, Yasmine couldn’t bring herself to stop filming. Something was happening to Mekhi that she had to get on film. He seemed to be discovering himself, right before her eyes.

  “Feed me,” Mekhi growled into the mike as Mystery writhed beneath him. “Bare your naked body on my plate.”

  The crowded whooped and shrieked in delight. Mekhi couldn’t believe what a total blast he was having. He was a rock’n’roll poet, a sex god! Forget Rilke, he was Jimi Hendrix! He dragged Mystery off the floor and dove at her mouth in a hard and hungry rock-god kiss.

  Yasmine kept filming, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop, and she wasn’t doing it to torture herself. She was doing it for the sake of her art.

  Onstage, Mekhi unbuttoned his shirt and Mystery licked his chest.

  “Oh, Daddy,” she whispered huskily.

  Oh, brother.

  42

  “Welcome, everyone,” Jackie Davis greeted Breakaway’s Friday afternoon teen therapy group. “I’m so pleased to welcome back our old friend Gianna Spark.” She tapped her pencil against her clipboard. “We’re also expecting a new friend today. But while we’re waiting for her I’d like to recognize two members of the group for their courage and for demonstrating what I like to call life-building for the rest of us.” She beamed an encouraging smile at Kaliq. “Kaliq, would you like to tell us about what happened last Friday now that Gia is back?”

  Kaliq tipped his chair back and then righted it again. Across the circle from him Gia was sitting with her legs crossed, wearing orange satin short shorts and orange leather sandals, which was kind of a strange choice for the middle of February, but it wasn’t like she went outside very much these days. Her luxurious hair clung to her face as she looked up at him with a coy smile on her dark red lips.

  Kaliq rubbed his hands against his olive green Ralph Lauren cords. God, he wished he could kiss her. The other members of the group were waiting eagerly. They knew some serious shit had gone down but they still hadn’t heard the whole story.

  “Go on, Kaliq,” Jackie prompted.

  “Friday night I was over at Gia’s house and we were having a good time, um, getting to know each other,” he began to explain. “Then I figured out that Gia was kind of having her own separate little party in the medicine cabinet. When she conked out I got kind of worried. So I called Jackie.”

  “It was a cry for help,” Gia intoned with mock enthusiasm.

  Kaliq chuckled to himself. She was still a mess, but so fucking irresistible. And he was glad he had to go to rehab for six whole months, because he actually wanted to help her the way she had helped him.

  “We got her to the clinic just in time. She’s going to live here for a while, and she’s been doing wonderfully so far, haven’t you Gia?” Jackie gushed.

  Gia nodded and hugged herself, a placid smile plastered to her face. “The meatloaf at dinner last night was not to be believed.”

  “Let’s put our hands together and give them both props for their courage!” Jackie cried. Every member of the group stood up and applauded, including Gia and Kaliq.

  “Hey,” Gia mouthed to Kaliq and licked her red lips.

  “Hey,” Kaliq mouthed back.

  ***

  “Right this way, miss.”

  Porsha smoothed down her freshly plucked eyebrows and rubbed her pink-glossed lips together as she followed one of Breakaway’s staff members to the room where the teen group therapy session was already under way. She was wearing her new vintage black, red, and purple Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress paired with her favorite pair of pointy black suede knee-high boots, and she was positively brimming with excitement at the idea of spilling her guts in front of a rapt audience that would include Kaliq.

  “Welcome, Porsha Sinclaire,” a dowdy woman wearing ugly brown lipstick greeted her when the staff member opened the door. She walked over and ushered Porsha into the room. “I’m Jackie Davis, the teen group facilitator. Please come in and have a seat.”

  Porsha surveyed the group. There was Kaliq, her Kaliq, looking scrumptious as ever in his olive green cords which set off his wonderful green eyes. To her dismay, the only empty chair was next to this Jackie person who Porsha could already tell was a total drip.

  “You can all sit down again,” Jackie instructed, taking her seat. “Now, what we like to do when a new member joins the group is go around the circle saying who we are and naming the thing or the circumstance that brought us here. Be as specific and concise as possible. Remember, naming your weakness is the first step toward taking control of it. Don’t worry, Porsha,” Jackie put a reassuring hand on Porsha’s arm, “I won’t make you go first. Billy, would you like to begin?”

  A stocky, muscular boy rubbed his hands together nervously. “I’m Billy White. I’m addicted to lifting weights and drinking muscle-building drinks,” he announced. “I’m an exercise bulimic.”

  Kaliq was next. He couldn’t believe Porsha had actually turned up at Breakaway, but he’d known her long enough not to put anything past her. “I’m Kaliq and I used to smoke marijuana every day, but I have to say, lately I haven’t really wanted to.” It was sort of strange to admit this in front of Porsha, the girl from back in the days when he’d been permanently stoned.

  Porsha’s eyebrows shot up in pleased surprise. Was Kaliq really reforming? Was he doing it for her?

  “I’m Hannah Koto,” said the girl sitting next to Kaliq. “I’ve taken E every day since my dog died last summer.” She glanced at Jackie. “Sorry. Ecstasy,” she clarified.

  “I’m Campbell and I’m a budding alcoholic,” said a blond boy who looked no older than ten. “I cleaned out my parents’ wine cellars in Darien and Cape Cod.”

  “I’m Gia and I’ll do anything,” said a s
trikingly beautiful mixed-looking girl with long, wavy hair, enormous light brown eyes, and dark red lips. She was wearing orange satin Miu Miu short shorts and beautiful tangerine leather Jimmy Choo sandals, Porsha noted enviously. “Lately I like pills and I used to be scared that one day I’d fall asleep and never wake up again. But now that I know I have a knight in shining armor...” She batted her thick eyelashes in Kaliq’s direction. .

  “Thank you, Gia,” Jackie interrupted before Gia could say anything that might jeopardize her control over the group. “Next?”

  “I’m Jodia and I’m an alcoholic, too,” said the chubby girl sitting next to Porsha. “I even drank perfume once.”

  “Me too,” Porsha cut in, eager to top Gia’s performance. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, giving the room a glimpse of her sexy black fishnets through the slit in her dress. “I’m Porsha and...” She hesitated. Where to begin? She took a deep, dramatic breath.

  “My parents got divorced last year. It turns out my father was gay and he was fooling around with my mom’s personal assistant, who was only twenty-one. They’re still together, and now they live in a château in a vineyard in France. My mother just married this gross fat freak real estate developer and now they’re having a baby, even though she’s, like, a hundred years old. It’s a girl, they just found out. I was supposed to apply early to Yale, but my interview sucked. So this old friend of my father’s said he’d give me an alumni interview. He was really attractive and I’d never been with an older guy before so I kind of hooked up with him,” she glanced apologetically at Kaliq. He’d forgive her for philandering, just as she’d forgive him for straying from her.

  Jackie listened with her mouth agape. She was used to the kids in teen group giving a little more detail than was necessary, but she’d never run across anyone who seemed to enjoy talking about herself so much.

  “I think part of the reason I cut all my hair off was I was trying to make myself ugly, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. I thought short hair might look cool on me. But I think I was maybe, you know, bringing all the ugliness inside to the surface? And this past week I stayed home from school. I wasn’t really sick, I just couldn’t—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but if you could simply name your problem—” Jackie broke in when she realized Porsha wasn’t even close to being finished.

  Porsha frowned and twisted her little ruby ring around and around on her finger. It sounded like she had to have a specific problem or they’d kick her out. “Sometimes when I’m upset—which, considering what my life is like now, is all the time—I eat too much, or I eat something that I shouldn’t, and then I make myself sick.” There, that sounded convincing.

  Jackie nodded. “Can you name your problem Porsha? There’s a name for that you know.”

  Porsha glared at her. “Stress-induced regurgitation?” she answered tightly. She knew Jackie wanted her to say bulimia, but it was such a gross word, she refused to say it, especially in front of Kaliq. Bulimia was for white girls, for losers.

  The rest of the room tittered. Jackie was eager to get the group back on track after Porsha’s soliloquy. “Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” she noted, marking something on her clipboard.

  She looked up and smoothed back her wiry brown hair. “Now it’s my turn. I’m Jackie Davis and my job is to help you break away!” She punched her fist into the air and let out a little whoop like she was at a basketball game and her team had just scored. She waited for the members of the group to punch the air with their fists and whoop along with her, but they just stared at her blankly. “All right. Good. Now I want you all to pair up. We’re going to do a little exercise I like to call ‘Go to hell, demon!’ One of you is going to be the thing you just named, the thing you’re trying to break away from. I want the other person to stand in your face and tell that demon where to go. Tell it anything you want, but do it with feeling. Make it real. Okay, go ahead, pair up. There’s only seven of us, so someone will have to pair with me.”

  Hannah raised her hand. “Wait. Are we talking to their demon or our own demon?”

  “Your demon,” Jackie clarified. “This is going to help you exorcise it!”

  Porsha waited for Kaliq to walk over to her, but before he even had a chance the bitch in the totally inappropriate orange satin short shorts minced up to him and took his hand. “Be my partner?” Porsha heard her whine. Everyone else had already paired up, so Porsha was stuck with Jackie.

  “All right, Porsha!” Jackie screeched at her. She was wearing clumpy mascara and her eyes were toad brown. “Let’s tell that demon where to go!”

  Suddenly Porsha wondered if rehab was really the right place for her. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she announced. Hopefully the exercise would be over when she got back, and she might be able to snag a seat next to Kaliq before they all sat down again.

  Jackie eyed her suspiciously. “Okay, but make it quick. And let me remind you that all the restrooms are monitored.”

  Porsha rolled her eyes as she pushed open the door and walked across the hall to the ladies’ room. She washed her hands and reapplied her lip gloss, pulling open her dress and flashing the mirrors with her bare chest, just to give whoever was watching a cheap thrill. Then she walked back across the hall and peeked in the door again, checking to see if they’d finished the exercise.

  Kaliq and that short shorts–clad slut Gia were standing near the door. She had her hands on Kaliq’s shoulders and their faces were only inches apart.

  “I’ve been thinking of a way to thank you for the roses,” Porsha thought she heard Short Shorts whisper. “I want to give you a pony ride.”

  She wasn’t talking to her demon, Porsha realized. She was talking to Kaliq.

  Porsha waited for Kaliq to express his horror and disgust at what Short Shorts was saying, but all he did was grin at her with his tongue lolling, like he couldn’t wait to hear more.

  “I’m going to cover you with—” Porsha didn’t wait to hear the rest of Gia’s sentence. It was pretty obvious why Kaliq liked rehab so much and why he was so into reforming all of a sudden. She backed out the door and into the hall, pulling her cell phone out of her purse to call her mom. A car was supposed to come and get her in two hours to drive her back to the city, but no way was she waiting that long. Rehab was nothing like a spa; it was just another classroom full of pathetic losers who needed to get a life.

  “You can’t use that in here, miss!” an aide shouted at her in the hallway. Porsha glared at her and marched down the hall and into the lobby. One of the receptionists was reading a newspaper with a full-page color ad for Chanel’s Tears on the back.

  The Les Best people didn’t waste any time getting their new perfume ad out and by now everyone had seen it. The perfume wasn't available until April unless, like Porsha, you have access to things no one else does. It was a heady jasmine scent with subtle undertones of sandalwood and patchouli.

  Suddenly something occurred to Porsha. She’d never really thought about it before but Chanel Crenshaw—her supposed best friend—was the absolute queen of comebacks. This past fall Chanel had been kicked out of boarding school and had come home to the city, her reputation so smeared only the most desperate wannabes would talk to her. But in a series of show-stealing cameos Chanel had won everyone back, Porsha included, and now she was the star of a fucking international perfume ad campaign. If anyone could help Porsha shimmy her way back to the top and make everyone fall in love with her again, Chanel could.

  Porsha pushed open the glass doors of the rehab clinic and stood at the top of the marble steps, gasping in the cold. Quickly, she punched Chanel’s number into her cell phone.

  “Porsha?” Chanel shouted, her phone cutting in and out. “I thought you were mad at me.” She coughed loudly. “God, am I sick.”

  “Where are you?” Porsha demanded in response. “Are you in a cab?”

  “Yeah,” Chanel answered. “I’m going to a movie premiere with some peopl
e I met at the perfume shoot. Want to come?”

  “I can’t,” Porsha answered. “Chanel, I need you to come get me. Tell the cab to take I-95 up to Greenwich. Exit 3. There’s this place called Breakaway on Lake Avenue. Get him to stop and ask someone if he can’t find it. Okay?”

  “Greenwich? But that’s going to cost like a hundred bucks!” Chanel argued. “What’s going on, Porsh? Why are you in Greenwich? This doesn’t have anything to do with that old guy I saw you with the other night, does it?”

  “I’ll pay you back,” Porsha interrupted impatiently. “I’ll tell you all about it when you get here. Will you do it?” she asked.

  Chanel hesitated, but Porsha could tell she was intrigued by the idea of an adventure with her old friend. The phone crackled as she heard Chanel give the driver directions. “I have to hang up because my phone is running out of juice,” Chanel yelled. “I’ll be there soon, Porsha, okay? Oh, and by the way, Tahj and I broke up.”

  Porsha sucked cold air in through her nostrils, her freshly glossed lips turning up in a smug smile as she absorbed the information. “We’ll talk about it when you get here.” Clicking off, she sat down on the cold, hard steps and buttoned up her sky blue cashmere toggle coat, pulling the hood up over her head before firing up a cigarette. If anyone had passed by on the road, they’d have seen a mysterious girl in a blue hooded coat, looking defiantly sure of herself, even though the plot had changed and the script had to be entirely rewritten.

  43

  “Everyone get their coats,” Chanel told the ninth graders in peer group on Monday. “We’re taking you out for hot chocolate at Jackson Hole.”

  “Don’t worry, we have permission,” Porsha added, checking herself out in the cafeteria mirror. She’d gone back to the salon to have her hair touched up and now it looked retro and cool.