Upper East Side #10

by Ashley Valentine

  Chanel stared over Hakeem’s shoulder at the crowd of revelers: some of them half-naked and soaking up the sun, others dancing at speeds not altogether appropriate to the music. And then there was Porsha, sipping yet another Bloody Mary and smiling up shyly at Kaliq, who gripped a beer, grinning stupidly. Chanel glanced back at Hakeem. It was like a time warp: Porsha and Kaliq completely oblivious to her, and Hakeem staring devotedly at her from the other side of the table like nothing had changed.

  “This is my birthday party, you know,” she said at last.

  “You think I don’t know that?” Hakeem reached over and grasped her hand with his slightly callused fingers. “That’s why I came. It’s our anniversary.”

  Chanel swallowed.

  Happy birthday!

  19

  “We’re inside the aviary now.” Yasmine was practically shouting to be heard over the chirps and cries of the brightly colored birds that were frantically swirling around the glass-enclosed room. Yasmine held her camera steadily and spun around to get a complete 360-degree look at the massive, plant-filled room. Birds of every hue, from yellow to blue to scarlet, fluttered around on clipped wings, drifting from bough to bough in a pathetic attempt at the flight they’d never again experience.

  “I’m told that this is where Bailey Winter does most of his preliminary sketches,” Yasmine continued. “In fact, those who know his work well may recognize the colors from his most recent couture collection.” She trained the camera on a little bird chirping in the branches of a potted banana plant.

  The shot looked so alive—the colorful birds spinning and flitting all around the high-ceilinged aviary, the sun spilling down in fat beams of light. The composition was flawless, symmetrical but still dynamic. She started mentally planning a whole series of documentaries on the creative processes of different artists. Maybe she’d do one on Mekhi and really capture the writer’s life. And one on Ken Mogul, to explore what it was like to be a world-famous filmmaker.

  And a weirdo.

  The glass-topped rattan table was scattered with sheets of scribbled-on paper, pencils, and half-drained martini glasses. Yasmine made her way over to the workstation and focused the shot on some unfinished sketches.

  “A few months from now these pencil sketches will have been transformed into chiffon and silk.” Yasmine was trying her hardest to remember the names of fabrics she’d heard Porsha mention during their short stint as roommates. “Just think of it: right now these ideas are merely doodles, but soon they may be walking down the red carpet at the Oscars.”

  Yasmine adjusted the focus to capture the faint line drawings more clearly.

  “And so we see now even more clearly how the designer Bailey Winter’s creative process works. It begins with something as simple as the color of plumage. After some pencil sketches and a few martinis...” She trailed off, because really, she had no idea how to describe dresses or fashion or if chiffon was really the name of a fabric. Maybe it was a dessert? “The only thing I cannot show you is that which exists only inside the designer’s mind. That’s the true creative process.” Or the true drunken process. She turned the camera on the army of not-quite-empty wineglasses.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Yasmine whirled around, instinctively hiding the camera behind her back as she did.

  Oops.

  “What are you doing in here?” Bailey slammed the glass door behind him to keep any of his precious birds from escaping into the garden. “Yasmine, Yasmine,” he clucked, sounding exactly like a chicken. “The aviary is strictly off-limits. This is where I come to think and be inspired! You’ll disturb the balance of creative energy simply by being in here!”

  Of course! The energy balance!

  “Please, dear, just back away a little. Not the drawings. No one can see them until I’m done with the preliminary sketches.”

  “Sorry.” Yasmine lamely backed away, trying to look repentant. An aquamarine-speckled parakeet squawked past her ear violently. “I guess I was just making myself at home. You know, like you’d suggested.”

  “Well, there’s being a good guest and then there’s just plain intruding.” Bailey frowned, hugging his papers to his chest and shielding them from Yasmine’s view. “You may go anywhere in the compound you like except for the aviary. This is my sacred space, dear. I’m spiritually naked when I step past those doors.”

  Well, as long as he literally keeps his clothes on...

  “I’ll be more careful in the future,” Yasmine promised him, backing away slowly, still keeping the camera out of sight behind her back.

  “Yes, yes, I know you will,” Bailey replied, placing his papers back on the desk, but shielding them with his chubby, outstretched arms. “All is forgiven.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll just be going then.” Yasmine turned quickly and started to bolt from the room.

  “Eeeeeeek!” Bailey’s screech drove the birds into a frenzy. Suddenly, hundreds of scared starlings dashed for safety, darting up toward the ceiling as far as their crippled wings would take them.

  “Yes?” Yasmine asked, still lamely trying to hide the camera with her hands.

  “I-I-Is that a ...camera?”

  Brilliant observation.

  “Bailey, let me explain.” Yasmine’s felt her face flush. “I was just hoping, I mean, I was only interested in, I needed to, you know, I wanted to document the creative process, like the ideas behind, and what goes into, I mean, the whole story of—”

  Bailey leapt out of his seat and stood, trembling, staring at Yasmine. “Just tell me. I need to know...Did you? You didn’t. I mean, you didn’t film in here, did you?”

  “Uh, no?”

  Nice save.

  “These sketches are top secret! Oh my dear. My goodness me. Do you know what would happen if they got out? Do you know that there are people who would pay...well, I don’t know what, but they would pay dearly for a glimpse, for just a hint of what I have planned for the coming seasons. I simply can’t risk the competition.” He looked like he was about to faint. “Oh my...”

  “Bailey, I promise you, I wasn’t going to sell your secrets or anything like that. I’m just a filmmaker, you know, and I thought this would be a great subject for a documentary.” Yasmine smiled at him hopefully. A lime-colored macaw landed on his shoulder, and he batted it away. “Maybe I should go...” Yasmine suggested, suddenly concerned that Bailey would demand she turn over all the film she’d shot over the past couple of days.

  “Yes, off to your room.” Bailey looked like he was on the verge of tears. “I need a moment to collect my thoughts. We’ll discuss what’s to be done about your misbehavior at dinner.”

  “Right.” Yasmine frowned. Was he really sending her to her room? That hadn’t happened to her...well, ever. No one had ever sent Yasmine Richards to her room! She’d go to her room all right; she’d go to her room and pack. Documentary or no, she’d had about enough of the Hamptons and Bailey’s absurdities to last her a lifetime. As for dinner, well, if all went well, by that time she’d be safely on a train headed back to the city and the only place she really felt at home anymore: Mekhi Hargrove's apartment.

  Home is where the heart is!

  20

  “How about a refill?”

  Porsha shook her head and pointed at her ears to indicate that she couldn’t really hear Kaliq over the roar of the party, which had gotten considerably livelier as the day wound down. The afternoon sun was still high overhead, but the revelers were hot and hungry and drunk. Cairo had thoughtfully ignited the enormous gas grill and dispatched those guests still sober enough to drive to the grocery store. That distinctly summertime smell of barbecue wafted through the air, giving Porsha a head rush.

  Or maybe it was the four Bloody Marys.

  Kaliq leaned down and whispered in her ear. “I said, I’m going in for a refill. You want something?”

  His hot breath tickled her neck, and she closed her eyes to keep the room steady. “I’ll take a glass of water.” />
  “Easy.” Kaliq took her arm, led her into the library, and sat her down on the worn suede sofa before heading into the kitchen for a drink.

  Porsha yawned. Long car rides always made her sleepy, and last night hadn’t exactly been restful, even if they had basically slept for twenty-four hours. How could she sleep with Kaliq breathing right next to her all night? Every time she’d wanted to turn over or rearrange her pillows, she just couldn’t, not if it meant letting go of Kaliq’s hand. She closed her eyes thinking about it.

  “Hey there, sleeping beauty.” Porsha felt a pair of soft lips graze her forehead. She smiled, keeping her eyes shut tight. It felt like forever since she’d felt those lips on her face. But when she finally let her heavy lids flutter open she gasped. The lips belonged not to Kaliq, but to Cairo Crenshaw. His grinning face loomed over her. A handsome prince, but not the right handsome prince.

  Too many princes, too little time.

  “Hey Cairo.” Porsha grabbed a nearby throw cushion and hugged it to her chest. He looked just like Chanel, except a boy. From his silky hair to his casual, all-is-right-with-the-world stride, to the way he held his broad tennis-toned shoulders, to the funny little wrinkle that formed at the corners of his almond-shaped eyes when he smiled. It seemed like a million years ago when they’d sort of had a thing.

  Been there, done that.

  “Scoot over.” Cairo plopped down next to her, draping his arm along the back of the couch. He sighed deeply. “This party is so out of hand I haven’t even had a chance to talk to anyone.”

  “That’s the sign of a good party,” Porsha observed sleepily. She peeked out the open door, looking for Kaliq, but he’d been swallowed up by all the partygoers waiting for refills at the bar.

  “I mean, I haven’t even seen you since, what, was it that time in Sun Valley?” Porsha noticed that his words were starting to run together. He was even more wasted than she was.

  “I guess,” Porsha responded distractedly, even though they’d seen each other in passing at her and Chanel’s Emma Willard graduation only a few weeks prior. It didn’t seem worth bringing up right now—in fact, all she could think about was getting out of this conversation, not prolonging it.

  My, how times have changed.

  “You look so beautiful.” He stroked Porsha’s hair with his hand and grinned at her drunkenly and a little suggestively.

  “Here’s your water.” Kaliq appeared seemingly out of nowhere, proffering an ice-cold bottle of Aquafina.

  Porsha sat up a little straighter. Her knight in shining armor. Or faded khaki.

  “Sup, Kaliq?” Cairo slurred, leaning against Porsha. “You having a good time?”

  “Yeah, definitely,” Kaliq agreed. “But I think everyone’s getting kind of hungry. Those guys just got back from the store but they can’t figure out how to turn up the grill.”

  “I’m the grill master, man.” Cairo stood and yawned, stretching his arms out wide. “Porsha, find me later?” He clapped Kaliq on the shoulder and then disappeared out the door and into the crowd.

  “Thanks for that.” Porsha sipped greedily at the cold water.

  Kaliq grinned. “He’s wasted. It looked like you needed saving.”

  Will you always be the one to save me? She almost said it out loud as she thought it. It was a line from Breakfast at Fred’s. She’d run lines with Chanel so many times that she’d committed the entire script to memory. In the movie that was her life, Kaliq was the gorgeous leading man who would always be there to swoop in and rescue her.

  Kaliq settled onto the couch—still warm from the weight of Cairo’s body—and dug into his pockets for his lighter, which he flicked idly. He narrowed his gold-flecked green eyes in concentration; a gesture Porsha knew meant he was either deep in thought or spaced out in a marijuana-induced haze. Finally, he looked up, meeting her gaze. Porsha was surprised to feel her breath catch in her throat.

  “Do you think maybe we could go upstairs...and...” He trailed off.

  “Upstairs?” She took a gulp of water. She’d been with Kaliq a million times, talked to him a million times, kissed him a million times. There was nothing new here, yet something felt completely different.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, flicking his lighter nervously. “I thought maybe we could go upstairs and...talk?”

  “Talk,” she repeated. The song changed from something by Kevin Gates to “Hotline Bling.” Even though the song was totally old, the floor started to shake with everybody dancing outside and in the Crenshaws’ living room.

  “I just...” he started, flicking his lighter again. “I—”

  Porsha suddenly stood and grabbed Kaliq’s hand, pulling him off of the couch. She wanted to listen to whatever it was that he was trying so seriously to say, and she wanted to be able to hear it. She pulled Kaliq out of the library and through the crowded living room, holding his hand so she wouldn’t lose him in the crowd. Porsha slipped by Chanel at the bottom of the stairs without saying anything to her. She of all people would understand. Porsha was halfway up the wide, polished mahogany staircase when she felt Kaliq stop behind her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, turning around.

  “I...I ...have to tell you something,” Kaliq stammered.

  “Upstairs,” she urged, pulling on his arm. He didn’t budge, so she turned around again, looking down at him from the step above.They were almost the same height.

  “It’s just that...” Kaliq stuttered. Then he looked up and met her gaze. “I love you,” he finally whispered.

  At last.

  21

  “I love you.”

  The voice was unmistakably Kaliq’s and the words were clear as day to her even over the cries of a gyrating hippie townie chick flailing her arms to “Hotline Bling” as she smacked Chanel in the face with her long dreadlocks.

  He loved Porsha.

  Chanel never would have guessed Kaliq Braxton was so in touch with his emotions, but she knew it was true—he did love Porsha. She’d seen the meaningful looks Kaliq and Porsha had been trading ever since their daring breakout from Bailey Winter’s compound. And then yesterday, the way Porsha had wedged her way in between them when they went to bed had been so obvious. Chanel felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, like when the road falls out from underneath the car more quickly than you’re prepared for. It was her birthday—almost, anyway—and it was her party—technically, anyway. She was the one who deserved a little love and affection, wasn’t she?

  She hesitated. Perched between the wall and a massive grandfather clock, she had the perfect cover to do a little observing.

  Like, spying?

  She peered out around the clock and up at Kaliq and Porsha on the stairs, making wordless and intense eye contact. Then Porsha twined her fingers through Kaliq’s and the two of them disappeared up the stairs, taking a left at the landing. They were heading to her parents’ master suite. Chanel closed her eyes, fighting her way through the crowd to the bar. There was always whiskey, and Hakeem, and cigars. Not necessarily in that order.

  “There you are.” Chanel stumbled a little but kept a tight grip on the crystal tumbler she’d filled—again—from the bottle of her father’s whiskey she’d hid from the rest of the revelers. It was her birthday and her house—why not save the good stuff for herself?

  “Chanel.” Hakeem’s familiar voice split the night. It felt like a hug just knowing he was nearby. He was so handsome, and he probably still loved her...

  And maybe she was just a little drunk?

  Someone had managed to get the Crenshaws’ back garden fire pit going, and Hakeem and three guys Chanel didn’t recognize were huddled around it, warming themselves against the surprisingly brisk summer evening. Except for the flickering flames and the stars high overhead, the night was dark. It was a comforting, familiar kind of darkness. Chanel had spent so many summer nights here, like the night she ditched Hakeem.

  “I’ve been looking for you.” Chanel settled down next to him on one of t
he low stone benches that encircled the fire pit. She was wearing an ancient pair of cutoffs and he was still in his swim trunks. Their bare knees were almost touching.

  “Well, you found me.” He used the tiny stub of the cigarette he was smoking to ignite a new one.

  “This is your birthday party, right?” asked one of the other guys, who Chanel recognized as one of her brother’s Brown freshman year suitemates, although she couldn’t remember his name.

  “It’s my birthday tomorrow.” Chanel glanced at her slim Prada watch. “In approximately ninety-seven minutes, actually. And it’s also Bastille Day.”

  “Vive la France.” Hakeem raised the bottle of tequila in his hands and clinked it against her glass.

  “Vive la France.” Chanel tipped her glass back, draining her whiskey in one gulp. “I missed you,” she added, even though it was sort of untrue. As soon as she’d returned to the city, she’d forgotten all about Hakeem.

  “I missed you too.” Hakeem popped the bottle open and refilled her glass and then his, then passed the bottle to his left. “Let’s have our own little pre-birthday celebration.”

  Chanel looked up at the glittering stars overhead. Everything around her was bringing her back to a year ago, and then two years ago, when everything had been so different but also exactly the same. She turned her head, meeting Hakeem’s gaze. She wanted to let him distract her all over again. She needed him to distract her so she could try and forget about what was probably happening right now on her parents’ bed.

  “And what happens at midnight?” she asked, sniffing the tequila tentatively.

  “At midnight?” Hakeem clinked his glass against hers and tossed the shot back down his throat. “That’s when you get your present.”

  If she can stay awake that long.

  22

  “You boys okay in there?” Rufus Humphrey poked his crazy-haired head into the living room. “I can’t get you anything else? I’ve got some pesto in the blender.”