After graduation, over lunch at Tavern on the Green, her mom had been more miffed over the missing white Jimmy Choos than the fact that Chanel had nearly skipped the ceremony. “What kind of girl goes around barefoot?” Mrs. Crenshaw wanted to know. Then Ken Mogul had called Chanel’s cell.
“I don’t like tans or freckles, so please, try and stay out of the sun. We start shooting at Fred’s next month,” he announced gruffly. Chanel just sat there with the phone pressed against her ear, trying to figure out what he was talking about. Then she realized: I got the part. I got the part!
Hello? Can we change the subject now please?
Her parents considered acting in movies somewhat déclassé, but less than nine months after getting kicked out of boarding school, Chanel had been accepted at Yale, Harvard, Brown, and Princeton and was about to star in a remake of Breakfast at Tiffany’s: They could hardly complain.
I got the part, I got the part! Chanel kept screaming to herself. Her first real part in her first real movie. For the first time in her life she realized that this was something she really wanted. And it hadn’t just happened. She’d made it happen. Good thing she was now at a party, because there was an excited little girl on a trampoline inside her, bouncing and bouncing and bouncing.
Boing!
“I heard she and Ken Mogul went on a drug binge last night and she totally talked him into giving her the lead in his movie. He was all set to skew it older and cast Taraji P. Henson, but Chanel brainwashed him,” someone whispered.
“She even tried to get him to cast Kaliq as her costar, but he’s always so high, he forgot his lines during his tryout,” whispered someone else.
“And didn’t you hear? Kaliq didn’t even graduate. He got busted for stealing painkillers from the nurse’s office at his school, and now he has to go to some drug rehab prison thing in the bad part of the Hamptons, like, all summer,” Rain Hoffstetter informed all who would listen. She’d hooked up with Charlie Dern when their parents had parked next to each other at a drive-in movie theater out on the Cape last weekend. They’d been talking on the phone every night since, so she was very up-to-date on her Kaliq information.
Kaliq was grateful for his role as Chanel’s mute piece of arm candy. He felt like he’d been encased in six inches of clear plastic. Everyone’s voice sounded muffled and distant. It didn’t help that Porsha looked radiant on Marcus’s knee, or that Chanel clearly didn’t need a boyfriend right now, or that he was incredibly high.
“Porsha?! Did you hear? I got the part!” Chanel threw herself at Porsha and Lord Marcus, dragging Kaliq along with her. She squeezed Porsha’s shoulders exuberantly. “You’re not mad, are you?”
Me, mad? Porsha smiled tensely, still intent on impressing Marcus with her sweet, forgiving nature.
Ha!
“You’re such an excellent actress,” she finally told her ex-friend politely. “You really deserve it.”
Chanel’s ear-to-ear smile faded slightly. She knew Porsha too well not to be able to gauge that she was less than pleased and more than pissed. Porsha was complicated: It was best to flee when she was acting volatile. “Is Yas around? I can’t wait to tell her—I’m totally talking to Ken Mogul about hiring her to film the movie!”
Her face resolutely blank, Porsha pointed to where Yasmine was sitting in the corner with her own personal bottle of Stoli, happily signing the yearbooks of all the non-seniors at the party who thought she was beyond cool.
“Yasmine Marigold Richards!” Chanel cried and dashed across the room, leaving Kaliq behind.
Kaliq stood in front of Porsha and Lord Marcus all cuddled up in their wing-back chair, his hands in his pockets, feeling like a jerk.
“How’s it feel?” Lord Marcus asked, reaching up to shake Kaliq’s hand.
Kaliq didn’t know who knew about his graduation predicament, and he didn’t much want to talk about it. “I’m just glad it’s over,” he mumbled. Lord Marcus looked bigger than he remembered, and even though he was a guy, Kaliq could appreciate how handsome he was. Porsha had really scored.
“That’s how I feel,” Porsha agreed with a perky smile. She reached up and casually stroked the back of Lord Marcus’s brown muscular neck, showing off how comfortable she was talking to Kaliq while sitting on Marcus’s lap.
Kaliq suddenly perked up, remembering the reason he’d come to the party in the first place. “Porsh, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, although to him it sounded like he’d said, “Woo shee ga ga?”
Porsha had always been the needy one in their on-again-off-again relationship, so it was a new experience to see Kaliq hovering over her, looking uncomfortable and a little desperate, with something bulky stuffed under his arm. Was he going to give her a present? she wondered. God knew she’d given him enough presents in their time together, and he’d hardly given her anything except flowers a few times, when he’d thought of it.
“Don’t go anywhere. We’ll be right back,” she murmured to Marcus. She slipped off his knee, flashing him a sultry I’m-only-tolerating-this-party-for-a-half-hour-more-before-I-tear-your-clothes-off look. Then she followed Kaliq into a semi quiet corner of the crowded room, trying to appear impatient and indifferent while her heart thundered so furiously in her chest that she wouldn’t have been surprised if it were visible through her nearly transparent camisole.
Kaliq pulled the thing out from under his arm—a Gap shopping bag, folded in half. Porsha was slightly appalled. He’d bought her a gift at Gap?
“Here,” he murmured, yanking something out of the bag and handing it to her. Porsha recognized it at once: the moss green cashmere V-neck sweater she’d given him over a year ago.
“But you love this sweater,” she complained, feeling for the gold heart she’d sewn into the left sleeve before she gave it to him so he would always be wearing her heart on his sleeve. It wasn’t there. Porsha felt inside the right sleeve, although she was absolutely positive she’d sewn it into the left. Nope. Where the fuck was it?
“I just don’t think it’d be right to keep it,” Kaliq replied solemnly. He blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall. He wondered if Porsha even remembered the gold heart, which was now sitting in a sailboat-shaped ashtray beside his bed, a constant reminder of their failed relationship.
Hey, maybe he should talk to Les Best about a new men’s cologne—Kaliq’s Tears!
“It’s just a sweater,” Porsha insisted, feeling completely confused. Why couldn’t Kaliq just be normal and give her a boring Tiffany bracelet or something to congratulate her on graduating? Was this his way of saying sorry, or that he wanted her back? Well, it was a little late for that. “Please, keep it.”
“I can’t,” Kaliq gasped, choking up. He wished he could confide in Porsha, tell her all about how he’d screwed up graduating; how he’d screwed up in general. But Kaliq had never truly confided in Porsha, and now probably wasn’t the best time to start.
“Fine.” She folded the sweater neatly and placed it on a armchair nearby. She put her hands on her hips, determined not to allow herself to waver. She had a new boyfriend now. A much, much better one. “Was that all?”
Kaliq nodded. Then he took a step forward, closed his green eyes, and placed a careful kiss on Porsha’s smooth, soft cheek. He opened his eyes. “Congratulations,” he murmured before turning away.
Porsha stood there for a moment with her arms folded across her chest, ignoring the stares of her whispering classmates. It’s just a sweater, she repeated silently to herself.
Yeah. Right.
35
Mekhi kept his Riverside Prep school tie on for Porsha’s party. He wanted to look his handsomest when he announced to Yasmine that he’d deferred admission to Evergreen and wanted to spend next year and possibly the rest of his life with her. As soon as they arrived at the party, Bree went right to the bar to score a glass of champagne, but Mekhi lingered by the door, his arms full of red roses, transfixed by the sight of Yasmine looking magnificent in her sexy low-cut
white graduation dress and funky wedge-heeled shoes. There was a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes as she chatted with Chanel Crenshaw. Chanel was gorgeous as usual, with her mane of silky hair cascading between her bare shoulder blades, but the sight of her didn’t turn Mekhi on the way the sight of Yasmine did.
“Hey, hot stuff, get your ass over here!” Yasmine shouted at him from across the room. She’d been drunk since one o’clock in the afternoon and the sight of Mekhi, his arms full of roses, was less a turn-on than a revelation. A drunken one.
This morning she’d almost driven off with the wrong boy. It was Mekhi she loved. How could she not—with his scruffy looks, his painfully wrought poems, and the way he kept showing up unexpectedly on her roof with his clothes off.
As Mekhi approached, she sort of oofed herself out of the chair she was sitting in but then gave up and fell back into it again. “I’m trying to hug you,” she explained, laughing at herself.
She’s drunk, he realized.
Chanel grabbed him and kissed him on the cheek, then pushed him into Yasmine’s lap. “You’re always so cute,” she cooed, ruffling Mekhi’s scraggly twists as red roses fell out of his arms and scattered around their feet.
Yasmine tickled him under the arms and he shrugged her needling fingers away, suddenly feeling more like someone’s cute four-year-old brother than Yasmine’s stud muffin boyfriend.
“So, the big news is Chanel’s going to be a movie star, and I’m going to help make her cheesy big-budget movie, because if we sell out, we’ll make selling out look cool,” Yasmine told him with drunken excitement.
Chanel and Yasmine slapped each other five like old soccer teammates. Then Chanel refilled her glass of Dom out of the magnum on the floor next to Yasmine’s chair and handed the overflowing flute to Mekhi. “To Hollywood,” she cried gleefully, waiting for Mekhi to chug it down.
Mekhi perched on Yasmine’s bare knee, trying not to spill his champagne. He’d prepared a Pablo Neruda love poem to recite, but maybe now wasn’t such a great time.
“Do you think I should tell them to turn the music up so we can dance?” Chanel burped loudly.
“Definitely.” Yasmine bounced up and down on the chair cushion, causing Mekhi to tumble onto the floor. “Mekhi will dance with us, won’t you, Mekhi?”
Mekhi clambered to his feet, eager for Chanel to leave him alone with Yasmine. “Sure.”
Chanel whirled away, a vision of yellow silk and long hair. The room was packed with people and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and perfume. Everyone had been celebrating since morning, so it felt like four A.M. instead of ten P.M. For old times’ sake, a group of girls from Seaton Arms and Willard were playing Spin the Bottle with a group of boys from Riverside.
“Me first!” Jaylen crowed, kneeling down to give the empty Stoli bottle an energetic spin.
Typical.
“Dad got pretty mad at me today,” Mekhi confessed. He perched on the arm of Yasmine’s chair, suddenly so nervous that he couldn’t drink his champagne. She wasn’t looking at him, but he hoped she was listening. “I guess I should’ve told him before I made my speech.”
Yasmine was watching Chanel as she flirted with Jarvis Cocker—the crazy cool DJ wearing a black top hat at his station across the room. She had to admire how completely shameless Chanel was. She’d do anything as long as it wasn’t too illegal or humiliating, just because it amused her. The thing Yasmine most admired, though, was that Chanel wasn’t conceited—she was just Chanel. And she didn’t seem to need anyone else to be Chanel. She was just fine being herself.
“See, I kind of changed my mind about going to Evergreen,” Mekhi continued. “At least, not right away.”
Yasmine could feel Mekhi staring at her and she realized he was trying to tell her something important and that she’d missed half of it. “Wait. What?”
Mekhi slid off the arm of the chair and knelt down on the burnished amber wood floor, grasping her hands in his. “I do not love you except because I love you,” he recited.
Yasmine was glad the room was so crowded, otherwise she might have been a little embarrassed.
“I can’t imagine not sharing the air you breathe, living all those miles away,” Mekhi told her earnestly, in his own words this time. “Like I said in my speech, I can go to college any time, but I’m in love with you now. And the only thing I want, my only requirement, is to be with you.”
Yasmine’s face turned hot and prickly. Yes, she loved him, but did he have to be so darned dramatic? “So you’re…” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Staying here,” Mekhi filled in, gazing up at her with adoring brown eyes. “With you.”
All of a sudden that new Future song that no one could listen to without jumping to their feet and wiggling their ass came blasting out of the speakers ten decibels louder than the smooth R&B that had been playing before. Chanel bounded over, grabbed Yasmine’s hand, and pulled her out of the chair. “Come on, groovy girl,” she coaxed. “Show me what you got.”
Yasmine had always loathed dancing, at least in public, but she needed to get away from Mekhi right now, and all his intensity. Chanel bumped hips with her and Yasmine laughed and bumped her back. She could feel Mekhi watching them intently, but she didn’t turn around. The music was good and she felt vibrant and beautiful in her slippery, shimmering white dress. Mekhi must have been crazy to think not going to college next year was a good idea. Of course he was going, but they could spend the summer together working it out.
The music grew louder still, and Yasmine raised her bare arms in the air, grooving to it. Mekhi was completely nuts, but so was she for ever having said she didn’t dance.
36
Kaliq sat on the edge of one of the Yale Club lounge’s oriental carpets, pretending to watch the Spin the Bottle game. That French hippie chick, Lexie, who’d followed him around for a few weeks claiming to be madly in love with him, and her other L’École friends were sitting in a tight circle only a few feet away, all wearing crocheted halter tops with their skinny bellies showing, smoking Gauloises like fiends. He hoped she wouldn’t notice him.
Too late.
“Kaliq?” Lexie sat up on her haunches, her scrawny tan tummy bulging in a way she must have thought was irresistible. She’d gotten a navel piercing, and it was still pink and new. She stretched her long bare arms overhead, giving the rest of the room a fine view of the sun, moon, and stars tattoo on her right shoulder blade.
Ooh la la.
Kaliq smiled, pretending to have only just noticed her. “Hey, Lexie.” He waved cautiously and then hugged his knees to show that he had no intention of joining her.
Lexie rolled her eyes and flipped her long raven-colored ponytail over one shoulder. “Bastard,” she retorted with a heavy French accent and a very French-looking scowl. “You broke my heart.”
Something exciting had just happened in the Spin the Bottle game, and everyone whooped and clapped. Kaliq began to clap, too—anything to avoid a confrontation with Lexie. Chanel and that weird shaven-headed girl from Willard who Porsha was supposedly living with and reportedly having a lesbian affair with were dancing like disco diva freaks in the middle of the room, looking drunk and ecstatic—the way you were supposed to look the day you graduated from high school.
If, that is, you actually obtained your diploma that day, unlike a certain person we know.
Kaliq had a sudden flash of déjà vu, or maybe it was lethargy. At any rate, it was something sad that sounded French. He remembered being drunk at a random party at that guy Mekhi Hargrove's house over on the West Side back in ninth or tenth grade and letting Porsha and Chanel draw a face on his bare stomach with a black indelible marker. They’d named the face Buck Naked, and each girl had kissed Buck repeatedly over the course of the evening, even after Kaliq passed out.
Those were the days.
Suddenly Kaliq became filled with dread. What if he’d already had all the fun he was ever going to have? What if it was all
downhill from here? And what if he’d gotten more and more stupid with each year of high school instead of smarter?
That can happen when you remain high most of your life.
Tears began to ooze slowly down his caramel cheeks. Everybody else at the party seemed so happy and so excited about their future, but he wasn’t really sure what he had to look forward to anymore.
37
Parties had always seemed intimidating to Bree—especially parties where the majority of the girls were normal-chested and taller, prettier, and more confident than she was. But now that she was into boarding school, Bree felt like the possibilities—at least, the possibilities for her—were abundant. She didn’t have to be tiny little Bree Hargrove, the curly-haired artistic girl with the knobby knees and gigantic boobs. Next year at Bridgeport she could be Brianna Hargrove, the outrageously confident boy magnet, coolest girl in the sophomore class, or maybe even the whole school.
Maybe.
And if she was going to change her image, it seemed prudent that she do something drastic, like lose her virginity.
Whoa.
She’d been watching Kaliq Braxton for a while now. He seemed different than when he’d broken her heart on New Year’s Eve. He was crying, for one thing, and his shoulders were slumped, like he’d gotten some bad news and hadn’t been able to shake it. Even the glitter seemed to have left his green eyes. She could hardly resist the urge to give him a hug.
“Hi, Kaliq,” she squeaked, boldly touching him on the shoulder. “Remember me?”
With that chest? Even the highest boy could hardly forget.
Kaliq scrubbed his hands over his blotchy face and attempted a smile. “Hey, Brianna,” he greeted her, with the sort of tired cheerfulness of someone who’s had kind of a rough day and doesn’t much feel like talking.
“So you’re all done with school and everything?” Bree persisted. She was acutely aware that from his angle Kaliq was looking up at the shelf-like undersides of her gigantic breasts, which were stuffed into a stretchy black halter top with a built-in Lycra bra. He probably couldn’t even see her face. She squatted down beside him, teetering slightly on her kitten-heel slides. “I’m going to boarding school at Bridgeport Academy next year,” she blurted out. “I can’t wait!”
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