Liar.
“Listen, Yasmine, I’m glad I caught you.” The sound of Allison’s raspy, too-much-chardonnay-last-night voice snapped Yasmine back to earth. “Were heading to our place in Amagansett in a few days. The city’s just so unbearably hot, and the boys do so love the beach.”
“The beach!” screamed Nils and Edgar, in unison of course, taking the announcement as their cue to race all over the playroom in a frenzy.
“You see how excited they are already,” Ms. Morgan observed. “Anyway, what do you say? We’ve got an extra suite in the top wing of the house—very comfortable, very private. You’d spend days with the boys and be free to go at, say, sixish, when they sit down to have their dinner. Your pay would remain the same of course.”
Yasmine considered the situation: there she was, filling an offensively preppy tote bag with juice and crackers while two little maniacs raced around her, yelping about the waves. What did she have to look forward to? Another night staring at the crack in the ceiling of Bree’s room, which still smelled like paintbrush cleaner, wondering what Mekhi was doing on the other side of the wall, fantasizing about the taste of his warm coffee-and-cigarette-breath kisses?
She hated the sun, didn’t even own a bathing suit, and basically despised everything about the beach and the tan half-naked, thoroughly annoying people who gravitated to it. But her life sucked just enough right now that it actually sounded...not so bad.
“Amagansett,” Yasmine pronounced slowly, like it was a disease, or a genital area, or a Far Eastern country she’d never heard of before. “That sounds lovely.”
Oh, it is lovely. But only under the right circumstances.
5
“Tell me again,” Chanel sighed, idly flipping the glossy pages of that month’s Vogue as she lay sprawled across the oak platform bed, “why we’re inside on a day like today?”
The day in question was ninety degrees and clear as glass, with the slightest suggestion of an ocean breeze. Chanel looked up from the magazine. She could see an inviting cool patch of shade under the wide white umbrellas stationed alongside the swimming pool. Today was definitely a lounge-around-half-in-and-half-out-of-the-water sort of day.
“You know the answer to that,” snapped Porsha, who was angrily riffling through the dark walnut armoire where Annabella, Bailey Winter’s housekeeper, had hung all of their garment-bagged clothes. “I swear one of those fucking girls took my fucking Dolce sundress. I can’t find it anywhere.” She started haphazardly ripping dresses off of their wooden hangers and tossing them onto the floor.
Well, that’s what maids are for!
“Mmm,” Chanel murmured. There was nothing special about Porsha throwing a tantrum, although Chanel kind of hoped she’d pick up the clothes afterwards. But ever since they’d arrived at Bailey Winter’s sprawling modernist compound, Porsha had thrown more than her fair share—even for her.
Now that’s really saying something.
Porsha was convinced that the skanky Euro-trash models Ibiza and Svetlana were out to get her. She kept accusing them of swiping her clothes or using her La Mer moisturizer and insisting that Ibiza, the dark skinned one, was mimicking her every move, from her new chin-grazing hairstyle to her wardrobe selections. Chanel had to admit the pair bore a troubling resemblance to her and Porsha, but they seemed harmless enough. They were just annoying, like the copycat ninth-grade girls back at Emma Willard.
Isn’t mimicry the most sincere form of flattery?
“Fuck this,” Chanel announced, closing the magazine and pushing it off the bed. She yawned. “I’m not going to rot in here all summer long just because we want to avoid some weird girls with buckteeth and cross eyes. I’m going swimming.”
“But I can’t find my new Fendi cover-up,” Porsha whined. “What’s the point of being a muse if I’m not dressed to inspire? If that Ibiza girl borrowed it, I swear I’m going to rip her malnourished arms off.”
Spoken like a true muse.
“Come on, Porsh.” Chanel slipped a Gauloise from the battered pack on the neatly made bed beside her, lighting it with the lighter she’d swiped from her brother, Cairo. “Just throw something on and let’s go. It’s too nice outside.”
“Throw something on? I have nothing to fucking wear because of those fucking copycats.” Porsha threw her hands in the air, as though the piles of tissue-thin cotton and fine silk garments all around her were invisible.
“Then just wear something ugly and see if they copy that,” Chanel offered, exasperated. She loved Porsha, she really did, and they’d been best friends for forever, but sometimes she just wanted to slap her perfectly toned little butt cheeks.
“Actually...” Porsha threw herself onto the bed and snatched Chanel’s Gauloise from her lips. She inhaled deeply and narrowed her dark eyes thoughtfully. “That gives me an idea.”
“What a glorious day!” Porsha flung open the impeccably clear French glass doors to the pool house and strode into the fierce afternoon sunshine, bare arms stretched out above her head. “Come on, Chanel. Let’s get some sun.”
“Coming, coming,” Chanel giggled, stumbling out of the shaded bungalow, the sun-warmed bluestone burning the soles of her freshly pedicured feet. She held her rolled-up magazine in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other, and her white sunglasses covered most of her face. Other than that, she was completely, totally, outrageously naked.
“Maybe we should ask Stefan for some iced coffee,” suggested Porsha, settling her own exposed hindquarters onto a teak chaise. Her only accessories were a tiny gold anklet and oversize black Ray-Bans.
“Vhat is going on?” demanded Ibiza, yanking her ninety-pound frame out of the pool. She was so emaciated she looked like one of those send-money-now third-world kids in the TV commercials, totally overdressed in her icky trademark cutout one-piece.
“What do you mean?” Chanel casually tossed her magazine onto the chaise next to Porsha.
“Your clothes,” accused Svetlana, still in the water, her overprocessed hair matted flat to her head. “You’re not wearing any clothes!”
“Oh dear.” Porsha sighed dramatically and turned onto her stomach. The sweltering sun felt nice on her bare bottom. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” demanded Ibiza, glaring down at her pert, naked body.
“I guess the latest issue of Estonian Vogue or whatever it is you usually read neglected to cover the naked trend.” Porsha yawned. “It’s the very latest thing.”
Chanel stubbed her cigarette out in a large seashell on a glass side table next to her chaise. She tried to avoid looking at Porsha in order to suppress the unstoppable hysterics and probably a snort that would spill out of her if she did.
“Is latest thing to go naked?” Svetlana glanced down at her spindly bikini-thong, which she’d probably mail-ordered from the Victoria’s Secret catalog. The water distorted her body’s appearance, so that it almost looked like she had actual hips and curves.
Merely an optical illusion.
“Yes, is obvious,” scolded Ibiza, pulling down the straps on the top of her cutout suit. Her body, with its circular cutout tan lines, looked like a Twister mat. “Is much better like this. Is European way, really.”
“Topless is so done though.” Chanel gave an exaggerated yawn, staring down at her magazine and trying not to lose it. “Porsha and I have been going topless at the beach since we were eleven, at least.”
“At least,” Porsha chimed in. Flat on her stomach, she put her head down and closed her eyes.
“Right.” Ibiza took the bait. She hopped up on one leg and then the other, tugging off the rest of the hideous bathing suit. It fell to the ground with a wet slap. “Of course, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, yes?”
“Yes,” concurred Svetlana miserably. She slipped out of her red polka-dot bikini and dropped it at the pool’s edge. Then she leapt back into the water and swam away embarrassed, her body a skeletal flash of underfed paleness.
“Zo glad we
can all just relax now, yes?” Ibiza asked, sounding confident but looking uncomfortable just standing there, her Twister-mat body completely naked, like she didn’t know what to do with herself. Porsha noticed that her boobs were totally asymmetrical, like they’d been glued on wrong. Maybe they had.
“Have you seen cutie that lives next door?” Ibiza started to say in a feeble attempt at casual small talk while naked. She shook her hands out like they were burning up.
“Maybe we should ask Stefan for some iced coffee,” Chanel suggested, ignoring her.
“Yes, sound very good.” Ibiza nodded then strode slowly and deliberately to the umbrella-shaded table. She pulled out one of the heavy wooden chairs and curled up on it oh-so-casually. “I call him. Stefan! Stefan!”
Chanel held her breath, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Now,” hissed Porsha quietly.
On cue, they jumped off of their lounges and took off running, giggling hysterically, over the plush velvety lawn and into the thicket of leafy trees on the perimeter of the large, sunny yard.
“Look, look!” Chanel ducked behind the leafy boughs of a baby oak, pointing at the scene they’d just fled. Stefan had appeared, as beckoned, clad in his usual ensemble of a tight white tee and cargo shorts. He was also sporting a cute little headband to keep his thick curls out of his dark eyes, which were wide with shock. Ibiza sat before him in all her bizarre polka-dottedness. She stuck out her chest, trying to look sexy, but her oddly shaped boobs just pointed in different directions. Svetlana had chosen just that minute to finally emerge from the pool, dripping wet. She picked up her iPod, stuck in her headphones, and began to dance, flapping her pale, spindly arms. She looked like an albino flamingo.
“Ratfucker!” she sang loudly, totally misunderstanding the words to the latest Raves song.
Chanel and Porsha laughed so hard they nearly peed themselves. Chanel felt flushed and giggly, almost like a little kid again. A very powerful wave of déjà vu washed over her, and she was transported to a moment exactly like this one, only years ago, when they were much younger. She and Porsha were changing out of their one-piece bathing suits behind some raspberry bushes at her house in Ridgefield, Connecticut. Kaliq kept threatening to chase them, and they were giggling so hard they kept pricking themselves and sticking their feet into the wrong holes of their shorts.
“What the f—?”
Chanel couldn’t believe her eyes—it was almost as if she’d conjured him. Kaliq himself stood in front of them, his eyebrows furrowed, brushing the splinters off the seat of his khaki shorts after jumping the wooden fence between the two properties.
“Kaliq!” Chanel ran over and threw her arms around him, forgetting how completely naked she was. He hugged her back, awkwardly patting her bare shoulder. She giggled and bounded back to Porsha’s side, obscuring her privates with a leafy branch.
Porsha grinned devilishly. It somehow seemed so right to run into Kaliq like this. There was just something so obvious about the three of them together again, even if two-thirds of them weren’t wearing any clothes.
“Strip!” Porsha cried, running after him like she was going to pull down his cargo shorts. He ducked behind an oak tree.
“Skinny-dipping?” Kaliq asked, peeking out from behind the slim tree trunk.
Chanel smiled as she studied her old friend or boyfriend or whatever Kaliq was—she wasn’t even sure. That confused expression, those sleepy, stoner green eyes—he hadn’t changed a bit. But for once, Kaliq wasn’t looking back at her at all—he was staring, mouth agape, at Porsha.
“Naked is the new clothed,” Porsha told him matter of factly. She placed a hand on the fleshy curve of her hip. “Haven’t you heard?”
Porsha had known he was around here somewhere, of course, but she hadn’t expected him to find her. Their whole relationship had always been about chasing him and trying to pin him down—she’d kind of wanted to just handcuff him to her bed, and not even in a dirty way, but just so she could keep track of him and make sure he wasn’t doing something idiotic. But now he was here and he’d obviously come looking for them. Or, judging by the way he was looking at her, he’d come looking for her.
Poor Kaliq, working every day on the coach’s split-level house and sulking by the pool all by his lonesome. What did he seem so upset about? The collapse of his romance with that skanky, gum-snapping townie girl? Please. She wouldn’t know a Prada bikini if someone threw it at her bottle-blond head.
“Definitely,” Chanel confirmed, crossing her arms over her sun-dappled chest. The fact that Kaliq wasn’t looking at her made her feel even more naked. She’d never clamored for Kaliq’s attention, but she’d wanted it. She’d always wanted it. Just then Porsha lunged for Chanel’s elbow, yanking her in the general direction of Bailey Winter’s pool.
“Wait, where are you going?” Kaliq stammered.
Porsha held tightly to Chanel’s hand as they ran. “Get a good look!” she called behind them as they pranced up the flagstone path to the screen door. “And think about us tonight!”
Don’t worry, he will.
newyork.craigslist.org/groups
Announcing Inaugural Meeting, Song of Myself Literary Salon (Manhattan)
Rejoice, righteous wordsmiths! We are pleased to announce a new and exclusive literary group in the grand tradition of the European salons of Gertrude Stein and Edith Sitwell.
We are two humble servants of the written word: one a vaunted young poet and songwriter with a semi-international reputation, the other a reader and thinker who cherishes Wilde and Proust over all else. We are looking for like-minded young men and women who love to read, write, and talk about reading and writing, and maybe drink a little wine or whatever. Consider the following statements/questions. We’ll read every response closely and then send invitations to our inaugural meeting to a carefully handpicked group of discerning New Yorkers.
1. Poetry deserves a more central role in the culture today. There should be an American Poet Idol show. Agree or disagree?
2. What is your favorite word? What is your least favorite word? Write a sentence using both at the same time. Example: Mayhem. Snack. Sitting in the middle of the iridescent-brown cockroach mayhem, Bonita ate a snack of butterfly wings.
Interested participants should attach a photograph. We need to make sure you’re not 12. Or 112.
Looking forward to some inspiring conversation! (BYOB!)
6
“There you are!”
Babs Michaels stood at the cheap counter of her ramshackle kitchen, artfully arranging slices of cantaloupe on a plate of scrambled eggs and buttery toast. Kaliq rubbed at his bloodshot eyes with the heel of his hand and yawned—for a second the sight of a very tanned woman preparing breakfast gave him a weird flashback to when he was a kid. He used to stumble downstairs to the kitchen of his Upper East Side townhouse to find Cecille, his parents’ Barbadian chef, preparing cinnamon wheat toast or a bowl of oatmeal for him before he headed off to St. Jude’s in the morning.
But he wasn’t a kid, he didn’t have to go to school anymore, and Babs, in her pale purple robe, with her tight leathery skin, was definitely not Cecille. Besides, he’d already eaten two strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts at his house in Georgica Pond.
“Morning,” Kaliq muttered, watching suspiciously as Babs set the loaded plate on the table, humming throatily.
“You need a big breakfast today, don’t you, Kaliq? All that sweating and straining in the hot sun.” She sidled over to Kaliq, placing her cool hand on his right bicep, which was peeking out of his navy blue polo.
“R-r-right.” Kaliq pulled out of her determined grip, taking a seat at the table. He was kind of hungry, and the plate of scrambled eggs and lightly browned toast looked sort of tempting, but even in his early morning stupor, Kaliq could see where this was headed. He’d start eating, Babs would pour him more orange juice she’d just made from the can, ask him to rub more ointment on her tattoo, then suggest that maybe they shou
ld take a soak together in the hot tub that Coach never stopped talking about. And before he knew it, she’d handcuff him to her bed and rub the slimy leftover cantaloupe slices over his naked body or something.
The way to a man’s heart is said to be through his stomach.
The thought of being naked in bed with Babs made Kaliq completely nauseated, but he could still feel a certain longing in the pit of his stomach. It definitely wasn’t for Babs fluttering around in a purple nylon robe that was barely long enough to cover her middle-aged flabby ass, though. It had more to do with the memory of Porsha, wearing only the lightest sheen of sweat and lotion, grinning at him naughtily when he discovered her the day before in his extremely gay neighbor’s yard. He’d seen her naked lots of times, but standing there in the broad daylight, her delicate shoulders a little darker that the rest of her, she’d never looked more beautiful. He’d spotted the tiny familiar apple-shaped birthmark on her hip and had had to will himself not to grab her and kiss it.
“What’s the matter, hon?” Babs wondered, stepping behind his chair and leaning over him so that her weirdly hard boobs were sort of rubbing against his upper back. “You’re not hungry this morning?”
Bursting out of his chair as if he’d been electrocuted, Kaliq’s voice came out much more loudly than he’d planned: “You know, I should, um, well, I need to make a telephone call.”
“A phone call?
“Yeah.” He blushed deeply. “Is that okay? I mean, can I have your permission? I know I’m technically on the job and all.”
Upper East Side #10 Page 3