Upper East Side #10

by Ashley Valentine

  “Shut.” Gabriel sat down on the bench, as though he might faint. “Up.”

  “I’m serious,” Mekhi confirmed. “The Poet’s Wake! By Sherman fucking Anderson.”

  “That’s, like, the Holy Grail or something,” Gabriel muttered in awe. “Can I see it?” he asked, his voice wavering.

  “Just be careful. Some of the pages are pretty moth-eaten, which is really tragic, but I guess we can’t complain, I mean, given how hard it is to find a copy of this anywhere. I’ve heard stories about people unearthing them in old used bookshops in Midwest college towns, but right here in New York City? What are the odds?”

  Gabriel placed his hands over Mekhi’s, enveloping both Mekhi’s fingers and the book within his grasp.

  Hey, grabby.

  “I’ve got a better idea actually, Mekhi,” Gabriel whispered seriously, knitting together his eyebrows. “Why don’t you read me a passage?”

  Mekhi shrugged. He did have a pretty good reading voice. He glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be upstairs, shelving books, but no one ever came into the employee lounge—he could afford to spend a few minutes. Besides, some things were just more important than work.

  Clearing his throat, Mekhi flipped through the book to a random point and then began reading:

  “Emily arrived some time after midnight. She’d taken the train. She looked the way he had always pictured her, in his late-night fever dreams, when he’d thrown down his pen and pushed his paper off of his desk, unable to write, unable to concentrate, unable to think about anything other than her graceful neck, the curve of her hip. She looked like the very idea of a woman, and wasn’t that better, he wondered, than the reality of the situation? Weren’t ideas, when all is said and done, so superior to reality?”

  Mekhi stood in silence, still cradling the tattered volume solemnly, and Gabriel just sat there, staring up at Mekhi the way you’d stare up at a complicated stained-glass window, or at someone undressing in front of an apartment window, high above.

  “It’s a crime,” Mekhi muttered darkly. “How could this be out of print?”

  “It is a crime,” Gabriel agreed, standing and placing his hands on top of the book. Mekhi looked at his wide-open brown eyes behind the lenses of his chunky glasses. “Thank goodness there are people like us to keep things like this alive.”

  “You’re right.” Mekhi nodded solemnly.

  “Mekhi,” Gabriel whispered huskily, “I’m really glad we met.”

  “Me too,” Mekhi agreed, checking his watch again—he didn’t want to be away from work for too long, but before he could even figure out what the numbers on the face of his watch were telling him, he felt Gabriel’s long arms wrap around him.

  “This is such a good omen for our first meeting tomorrow.” Gabriel’s hot breath tickled Mekhi’s neck as he hugged him. “We’ll have so much to talk about.”

  “Y-y-y-yeah,” Mekhi stammered. Wow, Gabriel was sort of a geek, but he really did genuinely appreciate how cool the book was. “Here, why don’t you hold on to this for me?” he offered, handing Gabriel the book.

  Gabriel hugged him again, even harder this time. “Wow,” he gasped. “I’m overwhelmed.”

  Mekhi grinned at him and headed upstairs. Why did he always attract the geeks?

  Um, maybe because he was kind of a geek himself?

  9

  “Hurry, hurry! Yasmine, hurry up!”

  The boisterous four-year-old twins bounced ahead of her, a blur of elbows and curly hair and swim trunks with tiny sailboats dotted all over them—Nils in red and Edgar in blue. They ran along the wooded path to the beach, sending a spray of sand into the air.

  “Slow down!” Yasmine readjusted the massive pink-and-green tote bag filled with fins and masks, rolled-up beach towels, five kinds of sunblock, Bob the Builder activity books, juice boxes, snacks, plastic buckets and shovels, a Frisbee, a soccer ball, and two iPads loaded with Little Einsteins shows. In her other hand, she was holding a massive striped umbrella that Ms. Morgan had insisted she bring along.

  “I said, slow down!” Yasmine cried again, as the bobbing duo disappeared behind the dune ahead. She was on the verge of screaming her sweaty head off when she decided she really didn’t care. Whatever. Go ahead. Drown. Get kidnapped. Fuck if I care. It would be a blessing. The truth was, the twins probably knew the beach as well as they knew their local Central Park playground. It was she who was lost.

  She finally reached the crest of the hill and surveyed the scene: Nils and Edgar had vanished into the thicket of bodies crowding the beach, which didn’t seem to have one bit of sand available. Tripping in her black Converses—she’d pulled the laces out and wrongly assumed they’d be every bit as comfortable as flip-flops—Yasmine wove through the maze of blankets, folding chairs, and bronzed twenty-somethings with the kids they were obviously babysitting. She had exhausted her last reserve of muscle power when she happened upon a four-foot-square patch of beach. Thank God. She dropped the overstuffed bag and heavy canvas umbrella onto the burning hot sand, then plopped down.

  “Just a lovely day at the beach,” she muttered to herself, perfectly mimicking Ms. Morgan’s pleasant accent as she dug around in the basket for a blanket, which she half-heartedly spread out in front of her without even standing up. The tote bag had fallen onto its side but Yasmine didn’t bother trying to stuff all the contents back into it. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she scolded herself as she realized she’d neglected to bring anything for herself to do. What she’d give to be back in Manhattan, sitting in the cool dark of the Film Forum, watching the latest socially-conscious movie. Instead she was sitting in the sand, the hot sun beating down on her, with nothing to do but pick the stubborn dried snot globs out of the inside of the twins’ tiny nostrils or read the latest issue of Highlights.

  Reading the labels on the sunblock would actually be more fun.

  Yasmine scanned the scene, searching for a flash of the twins’ blue or red swim trunks. A few brave nannies waded into the frigid Atlantic surf with the kids they were babysitting, gritting their teeth but laughing. She saw two little boys in swimsuits identical to Nils’s and Edgar’s and wondered momentarily if anyone at the James-Morgan household would even notice if she brought them home instead.

  She’d been in the Hamptons for less than a day, but it was long enough to tell that Ms. Morgan was even less interested than usual in the boys, and that Mr. James' single check-in phone call was pretty much the daily norm. It was like they were all a bunch of windup robots programmed to perform their own tasks with zero genuine interaction or feelings about anyone else. Not that Yasmine was a mush, but come on.

  It was just eleven in the morning, and the beach belonged to kids and their caretakers. Yasmine studied her peers, the army of nannies, wondering if maybe she’d strike up a friendship. Did the rest of these babysitters have bosses who undressed in front of them? She imagined the Hamptons must be filled with people like Ms. Morgan, and she wouldn’t mind having someone to swap bizarre employer stories with. But looking around, it didn’t seem too likely that any of these lithe creatures, with their perfect tans, oversize sunglasses, and manicured nails, would want to have anything to do with her. Or vice versa. Basically, it was like being back at Emma Willard, the school that had tormented her for the last three years.

  Yasmine stared out at the endless ocean, suddenly fighting the urge to cry. She kicked her sneakers off and crossed her legs, looking in the mess of things around her for something to drink. She found a tiny box of apple juice and opened the straw, stabbing it into the little hole in the box angrily.

  “There you are!” Nils skipped toward her across the sand, taking a shortcut over their neighbors’ blankets and towels.

  “Don’t do that,” she scolded him. “Or do and get yelled at. Whatever. Where’s your brother?”

  “Don’t know.” He dropped to the ground and rummaged through the stuff that was strewn all over the blanket. “Yasmine, you got sand inside my Cheez-Its.”
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br />   “Life’s rough, sometimes.” Yasmine inspected her pale, cinnamon-toned ankles and even paler feet. She almost wished she’d thought to get a pedicure. She swiveled them off the blanket and buried them in the sand. “Please, Nils, tell me you didn’t kill your brother.”

  Nils grinned at her, leaned in closer, placing his sticky sand-covered little hands on her shoulders, and burped in her face.

  An overprivileged psychopath in the making.

  “The boy you’re supposed to be watching is over there,” a familiar whiny voice piped up.

  Yasmine turned to meet the cool glare of her old classmate, Alexis Sullivan. Alexis sported a too-small black Gucci bikini. Beside her lay her best friend, Imani Edwards. Imani was on her tummy with her green string bikini top off. A tiny pigtailed girl was rubbing her back with bronzing oil. It seemed like no matter how many people flocked to the Hamptons in the summer, it was the only place to see and be seen.

  “Oh, hello,” Yasmine responded coldly. Two other long-limbed mannequin types lounged beside Imani beneath a pink-and-white striped umbrella. “Are you a nanny for the summer too?” she asked Alexis, even though she knew it couldn’t possibly be true. Alexis and Imani work? Never.

  Alexis rolled her eyes. “She’s my niece. I like watching her. She gets us stuff and rubs on our lotion and guys think she’s cute.”

  Yasmine nodded. She really had no response. Then she caught sight of Edgar across the beach, walking to the edge of the water and then screaming excitedly every time a frothy wave crashed at his feet. She was about to stand and grab him, but he saw her and started to run toward her instead. She turned back to Alexis. “Thanks for the tip,” she said a little sarcastically. Maybe if she asked both twins to rub her with oil, she’d be thronged by sexy Hamptons surfer boys—just her type.

  Right.

  “Nice suit,” Imani piped up meanly.

  Yasmine knew she looked ridiculous in Bree’s girls’ size 12 bumble-bee-striped bathing suit, but she could hardly resist the urge to kick sand in Imani’s eyes. Instead she finished her juice box in one guttural slurp.

  She heard the skinny girls lying next to Imani snicker. Assholes. She was about to offer them an icy death-glare when she suddenly realized she knew them! Except...not. At first the girls looked exactly like Porsha and Chanel, but then the longer she stared at them, the more deformed they appeared. The dark-skinned one had a shaggy, face-framing haircut and foxlike features, and two enormous teeth protruding from between her lips. The light-skinned one, who was frighteningly skinny, was almost beautiful except for the visible pulsating purple-blue vein in her forehead and the fact that one of her eyes was slightly lopsided. Plus, a truly beautiful girl like Chanel wouldn’t be caught dead in a purple cutout bathing suit like the one this girl had on. There was even a ridiculous cutout hole on her belly button.

  Still, for that split second, a wave of relief had washed over her. Friends! She could have real, human friends out here! It made her realize: even if these low-rent versions weren’t the real thing, Porsha and Chanel must be kicking around somewhere, right? Where else would those two go for the summer?

  “Do you haff a problem?” The weird impostor Porsha glared at Yasmine. “Maybe is something I can help you with?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Yasmine stammered, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring. “It’s just that—”

  “Yes?” the girl demanded bitchily.

  “It’s just that you reminded me of someone I know.” Was this girl Russian or just retarded?

  “Mmmm.” Bizarro Porsha studied Yasmine closely. Then skankbomb version of Chanel sitting to her right leaned over and whispered something into Bizarro Porsha’s ear, dramatically.

  How friendly.

  “You know vhat?” Bizarro Porsha smiled at Yasmine and ran her fingers through her thick, shoulder-length hair. “You give me very good ideas.”

  “Whatever.” Yasmine turned away from the blanket full of bitches and focused her attention on the twins, who were now taking turns spitting chunks of chewed-up orange cracker at one another.

  “Very good idea,” the Porsha clone repeated behind her.

  Oh? And what could that be?

  10

  “You’re here!”

  Mekhi peered nervously into the foyer of Gabriel’s sprawling Harlem apartment, where they were holding their very first meeting of the Song of Myself literary salon.

  “I’m here.” Mekhi stepped inside, hesitating in the dark foyer, pretending to study a massive oil painting as he anxiously practiced his opening comments in his head. Welcome everyone, to our first meeting. I’d like to begin by quoting the poet Wallace Stevens, who of course had much to say on the subject of the centrality of literature to the human condition...“Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.”

  “Everything okay?”

  The weight of Gabriel’s hand on his shoulder startled Mekhi. “Hey, sorry.”

  Gabriel laughed. “Nervous?”

  “No, no,” Mekhi lied. “Just looking at this painting.” He gestured at the huge canvas hanging over the mantel in Gabriel’s parents’ apartment. A swirl of glossy grays and flesh tones glinted in the afternoon sunlight streaming through dusty living room windows.

  “You like it?” Gabriel wondered. “It’s one of mine.”

  “Really?” Mekhi turned to study the painting, actually looking at it this time. When he took a step back into the foyer, and then another, he realized that he had been staring at a life-size self-portrait of Gabriel, sitting on top of a tiny stepladder, completely naked. “Oh, right.” He tittered nervously. “Of course. Yeah. It’s you.”

  “In all my glory.” Gabriel noticed the rectangular-shaped bottle that Mekhi was gripping as though his life depended on it. “You brought something!”

  “Yeah, some absinthe.” It was the most literary thing he could find. The kind of thing Rimbaud or Shelley might have drunk. Plus, it was the only unopened bottle in the musty cracked-glass cabinet his dad stored liquor in.

  “Awesome!” Gabriel took the bottle. “Should I fix us a drink before everyone gets here?”

  “Sure.” Mekhi followed his host down the bookshelf-lined hallway toward the living room. “I could use a little something to loosen me up.”

  Just a little though, right? That stuff is so strong it’s like...illegal.

  “There’s shlomeone, I mean, someone, there’s...” Mekhi slurred. His tongue felt like it was the size of an eggplant. “Doorbell, dude. They’re here. It’s time!” he added, attempting to sit up.

  “It’s time!” Gabriel leapt up off the low brown leather couch that he and Mekhi had been sinking further and further into the more shots of absinthe they drank. They’d allotted an hour for planning their opening remarks, but they’d spent most of the time pouring absinthe over lumps of sugar, then swallowing the sticky, sweet mix in one gulp. Mekhi picked up the sterling spoon they’d been sharing and popped it into his mouth.

  Taste of metal on my tongue. Poison the color of envy—I’m delirious, you’re delicious, I’m deluded and delusional. I’m lost without you. I need you.

  Mekhi grinned. It was true—absinthe did inspire. He teetered a little as he crossed the living room’s shiny wood floors to retrieve his backpack, where his notebook waited for him. He had to get that fragment down on paper before he forgot it.

  “Look who’s here,” Gabriel called.

  Mekhi dropped the bag—poetic fragment already forgotten—and tried to focus on the faces of the people who were streaming into the room, which suddenly seemed to be spinning. Because they’d sent their pictures he felt like he’d met them already. There was the cute Charlotte Brontë girl. And the insane vampire-lover.

  “Everyone grab a drink.” Gabriel pointed: “Bar’s over there. Plenty more ice in the fridge. Then I guess we can all just sit in a circle and introduce ourselves. Sound good to you, Mekhi?”

  Mekhi nodded, suddenly unable to form a single word. Sit. Ye
s, that sounded like a good idea. He lurched through the surprisingly thick crowd—just how many people had been at the door? Or had the doorbell rung more than once? How long had he been digging around in his bag for that notebook, anyway? He collapsed back onto the leather couch.

  “How about another?” Gabriel pointed at the silver tray set with the tiny bottle of pale green liquid and a bowl of sugar cubes. Then he took off his glasses, and Mekhi noticed for the first time that Gabriel had tiny freckles all over his face.

  “But...my speech,” Mekhi murmured. “I need to—”

  “You need to calm down.” Gabriel gently pried the sterling spoon from Mekhi’s hand and balanced it on the rim of the glass. He deposited a sugar cube on the spoon and poured a thin stream of the potent green liquor over it.

  “That was in my mouth,” Mekhi protested.

  “Doesn’t bother me.” Gabriel grinned, and then used the spoon to give the liquor a quick stir before popping it between his lips. He pulled the spoon out of his mouth and slipped it back into Mekhi’s.

  Ew, thanks for the germs!

  Gabriel slipped off his beaten black Vans, then stepped up onto the couch, almost stepping on Mekhi’s thigh as he did so. He shook the ice in his glass to get the attention of the assembled company. “Okay, everyone, grab your drinks and settle in. We’ve got a lot to cover tonight.”

  The room was filled with voices, but Mekhi was having trouble focusing his hearing. He was grateful Gabriel seemed to have everything under control.

  “I’ll hand the reins over to our other fearless leader now.” Placing one hand on Mekhi’s shoulder to steady himself, Gabriel hopped off the couch and took a seat on the battered wooden floor at Mekhi’s feet.

  “Thank you, Gabriel.” Mekhi wobbled a little as he studied the group. This is it. This is our salon. And you’re their Gertrude Stein. “Gadies and lentlemen, welcome to our first meeting of our first salon of the inaugural meeting of our group.” He burped quietly. “I’m so pleased to excite you and tell you about exciting books. These things I believe and you believe and we all believe together that about books and books are good and change our lives and make us happier. And it matters to us, doesn’t it? It really does.”