Upper East Side #3

by Ashley Valentine

  “Well, let’s hope this Kaliq person likes lasagna,” Rufus quipped, filling his oversized coffee mug with wine.

  The doorbell rang and Rufus dashed over to let in his oldest friend, Lyle Gross, whom he had met in the park twenty years ago. Lyle was one of those ageless guys you always saw sitting on a park bench, listening to a Mets game on a hand-held radio and studying a Daily News from three weeks ago that he’d found in the trash. He was a writer, he said, although Mekhi had never seen any proof of this.

  “I brought grapes,” announced Lyle. He’d combed his thin gray hair over his bald spot and there were little scabs all over his neck where he’d nicked himself shaving. It was kind of hard to look at him. “Hello, Mekhison!”

  “Hi,” Mekhi said back. Lyle was always adding little flourishes to people’s names. He probably thought it was hilariously funny, but Mekhi didn’t see the humor in it.

  Rufus grabbed the grapes and tossed them to Mekhi. “Throw some of these in, too,” he ordered.

  “Okay.” Dubiously, Mekhi pulled a few grapes off the stem and dropped them into the sauce. At this point he could drop one of Marx’s turds in there and no one would notice. Marx was their very overweight tabby cat who was now lying sprawled out on the kitchen table between a baguette and a huge wheel of Parmesan cheese.

  While Rufus and Lyle were in the living room choosing a record from Rufus’s old vinyl collection, Mekhi stirred the sauce with a trembling hand, wondering exactly how he should broach the topic of sex to Yasmine. He’d told her he wanted it to be organic, but who was he kidding? Now all he really wanted was to get it over with so he could get back to writing, because he was sick and tired of staring at his little black notebooks with his mind as blank and empty as the page.

  Mekhi stirred the sauce faster and faster, until red tomato goo oozed over the sides of the pan. He’d just have to come out and say it, and hopefully Yasmine wouldn’t laugh at him.

  16

  Yasmine was supposed to be at Mekhi’s house already, but she had lugged all her film equipment along with her, and it was such a haul—first the L train from Williamsburg to West 14th and then the E train up to the edge of Central Park. And it was such a beautiful evening, it would be a shame not to get any footage for her film essay while she was out.

  It had snowed last night and the walkways in the park were frozen and slippery. As she tromped down the path to the frozen lake, Yasmine wished she’d thrown her new Victoria’s Secret underwear into her bag instead of wearing it under her clothes. The lace felt cold against her skin and it was chafing her in all the wrong places.

  Beside the pond was a huge old oak tree, its branches dripping with icicles. Yasmine pulled her camera out of its case. She could shoot the icicles and use them in the opening credits to her New York film essay. What a cool way to introduce the setting. For a moment, people would think the film was set in the serene countryside. Then she would cut to something distinctly urban, like meat packers unloading bloody carcasses down on West Street.

  She fiddled with the lens, trying to come in close on the icicles and then panning back. It felt a little too National Geographic to do it the other way around. Mekhi was always telling her she needed to get more action into her films, but Yasmine insisted that film was exactly like poetry. Nothing necessarily had to happen; you just had to feel something.

  And as Yasmine stood in the snow at the edge of the frozen pond trying to capture the icicles’ stark, momentary beauty, she was definitely feeling something. The sensation of a black lace tanga freeze-branding itself on her ass.

  * * *

  Earlier that afternoon, Kaliq had taken Bree to see the matinee of the Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. It was just as he had remembered it, with the humongous Christmas tree and the awesome life-size fighting mice. Bree had sat in wonder, enthralled by the music, the scenery, the dancers, and the costumes—especially the Sugarplum Fairy. Her heart was full to bursting in the end when Clara and her Nutcracker Prince sailed into the sky in their horse-drawn sled.

  Afterward, Bree and Kaliq had been supposed to head straight up to her house for Rufus’s dinner party, but there was no quicker way to kill a perfect afternoon than by walking in on her father with his shirt off in the kitchen pouring rum and a giant economy-size bottle of ketchup into a pot. Kaliq had been so perfect all day, holding her hand and pointing out his favorite parts in the ballet. He even looked perfect in his gray cashmere suit and blue shirt. So instead Bree decided to go home the long way, via Central Park.

  As they headed down the path to the boat pond, Bree reached for Kaliq’s hand and held on tight. Her black suede boots had smooth soles and kept slipping on the ice. Now that she was no longer distracted by the ballet, she couldn’t help but notice the weird chafing feeling in her butt crack. Silently she reminded herself to relax—she didn’t have a major wedgie, she was just wearing her new thong.

  Kaliq’s free hand was clasped around the Ziploc bag of weed in his wool coat pocket, keeping it warm. There was nothing worse than frozen weed. It got all soggy and smoked like hell when you lit it. He’d meant to light up as soon as they got out of the ballet, but there was something surreal and beautiful about the sun sinking into the snow and the warmth of Bree’s hand in his that made him not feel like bothering with a joint. He just felt like talking.

  “It sucks I have to go up to Maine tomorrow,” he said. “But I have to get my applications done, so it’s good I’ll be someplace quiet. My interviewer at Brown said they have this cool new major called Science and Technology Studies. I was thinking if I go there, I could maybe design boats as part of my major, you know?”

  Bree nodded, concentrating on her feet. She didn’t want Kaliq to go away tomorrow. She didn’t want him to go away to college, either.

  The lake was in sight now. In the spring, Kaliq liked to stand in the gazebo, get high, and watch the ducks and their little ducklings swimming around. The lake would be totally frozen now. Maybe they could even walk on it.

  “It’s weird,” he continued. “This time last year I knew exactly where I’d be in one year: here, in the city, going to school and fucking around with my friends, the same as always. But I have no idea where I’ll be next year. It’s crazy.”

  Bree turned to look at Kaliq, wondering how he’d react if she told him she loved him right now. His nose was red from the cold and so were the tips of his adorable, perfect ears. He was so gorgeous, she felt like screaming every time she looked at him.

  “I’m wearing the thong,” she breathed before she could stop herself. She started walking faster. She couldn’t believe she’d said it!

  “Wait. What?” Kaliq quickened his pace in order to keep up with her. He hadn’t even heard what she’d said.

  Bree let go of his hand. “I’m wearing the thong!” she exclaimed, a little louder this time. Then she giggled and broke into a run, slipping and sliding down the hill to the frozen pond.

  Kaliq heard her that time. He released his grip on the Ziploc baggie and started to chase after her. “Come back here! I vant to see zat thong!” he shouted in a scary vampire voice.

  Bree squealed and kept running. Her eyes were streaming from the cold and her breath caught in her throat. Kaliq chased her all the way out onto the snow-covered ice, where Bree’s feet slipped out from underneath her, sending her sprawling beneath a big oak tree adorned with long crystalline icicles. He dive-bombed on top of her, and they rolled around, giggling breathlessly and getting snow in their hair.

  Kaliq turned Bree over on her stomach and pulled up her coat. “Let me see, let me see!” he cried, grappling with the back of her black velvet pants and pulling them down to get a glimpse of her bare ass.

  “Wait!” Bree squealed, giggling and squirming. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to hold back any longer. “Wait. Kaliq, I love you!”

  Kaliq paused for a moment, absorbing the information. Then, instead of turning her around and kissing her and telling her he loved her, too, he blew a raspberry o
n the top of one of her cute little butt cheeks and then flopped over on his back, breathing clouds of warm air up into the cold blue sky.

  Bree stayed sprawled out on her stomach for a few more seconds, catching her breath. Then she pushed herself up to stand and readjusted her clothes. She was glad she’d finally said it, but it would have been a lot nicer if Kaliq had said it right back. He was supposed to say, “I love you,” and then pick her up and carry her to a horse-drawn sled to never-never land. But all Kaliq had done was make a farting noise on her bare butt.

  “You’re not wearing your sailboat boxers, are you?” she asked hopefully, trying to maintain the playful note things had started on.

  “I’m not sure.” Kaliq reached down and unbuckled his belt. He wriggled his pants down over his hips. “Blue plaid,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Bree responded quickly, pulling her coat around herself. “Hey,” she said, changing the subject. “Let’s walk by the Romeo and Juliet statue. It’s my favorite, and it’s on the way.”

  Kaliq spent a lot of time in the park, but he had no idea what she was talking about. “What Romeo and Juliet statue?”

  Bree rubbed her hands up and down the tops of her arms. “Never mind. I’ll show you when we get there.”

  “Are you cold?” Kaliq asked, sitting up on his elbows and holding out his hand. “Come here.”

  She hesitated for a second and then walked over. Kaliq pulled her down on top of him and wrapped her inside his coat, kissing her forehead and then each of her cold cheeks. She brushed her lips against his chin and couldn’t resist saying it again. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t heard her the first time.

  “I love you,” she whispered

  This time Kaliq had to respond. He was holding her, and she was looking into his green eyes with her big brown ones, waiting. And they’d just seen the Nutcracker, for God’s sake, which was a love story, in case he didn’t remember.

  “I love you, too,” he murmured.

  And then they kissed for a long, long time. Bree’s red hat fell off and her curls fell over their faces, shrouding them.

  But not very well.

  * * *

  Mekhi had told Yasmine her films needed more action. Well, here was definitely some action. Yes, the icicles were great, superb. But how often did you see a woman baring her naked bottom in the snow? How often did you see a totally clean-cut guy pulling down his pants in broad daylight in the middle of winter? And how often did you see a couple rolling around inside the same overcoat in the middle of a frozen pond, in the middle of the busiest city in the world?

  If only Yasmine had had a helicopter, she would have flown up and up and panned way, way back until the couple was just a pin-speck in the middle of the grid of Manhattan. But she didn’t have a helicopter, so she would have to get creative with editing.

  The best part was that she hadn’t zoomed in completely on the couple’s faces, so they could be anyone of any age—you and your boyfriend, or your grandma and her boyfriend. It was pure poetry, raw and beautiful. She couldn’t wait to show Mekhi.

  Wait. Would that be before or after she showed him what she had on under her black turtleneck and black wool skirt?

  17

  The Isle de la Paix resort on the island of St. Barts was the type of place where celebrities go to hide and middle-aged New York society women go to recover from plastic surgery. Unless you were somebody or you knew somebody, you couldn’t stay there. But it just so happened that Cyrus Campbell, Porsha’s stepfather, owned the development company that had built the resort, and so the three villas that he and Porsha’s mother had reserved for the family were the best ones there.

  Chanel and Porsha’s villa had a wraparound deck from which they could see the resort’s swimming pool, where women over forty with surgically enhanced breasts lay on chaise lounges wearing huge sunglasses and strapless swimsuits and pretended to read French fashion magazines while they got extremely drunk on the house rum punch. One of the women had her white teacup yorkie with her, and even the dog was wearing sunglasses. From the other side of the deck they could see the perfect stretch of white-sand beach where the younger women were sunbathing topless and guys sailed nonchalantly by on windsurfers, pretending not to look. The sea was so calm and such a perfect shade of green-blue that it looked fake.

  Chanel sat on the porch, smoking a cigarette and flipping through Essence, waiting for Porsha to get dressed before they met everyone in the dining room for a late lunch. She’d just washed her hair, and it dripped onto her bare shoulders and down the back of her yellow halter top. After her shower, she’d rubbed herself all over with self-tanning lotion, and her skin had already turned a healthy golden brown. Her tiny white denim shorts barely covered the tops of her legs, and on her feet were a pair of white leather thong sandals encrusted with crystals. Near the deck railing, a hummingbird was sucking pollen from a hibiscus bush, flitting from flower to flower. Chanel wondered why it didn’t just stay on one flower and take a good long drink instead of moving around so much.

  Good question.

  “Hello? Pardon?” Chanel heard a man say with a French accent. She stamped out her cigarette with the sole of her shoe and stood up. A guy wearing an Isle de la Paix T-shirt was standing at the foot of the deck steps holding a huge bouquet of rare tropical flowers. “Ça c’est pour vous, mademoiselle,” he announced, carrying the flowers up the steps and handing them to Chanel.

  Jesus. Did Flow have spies or something? How the hell had he found her? Chanel took the flowers and sniffed them. “Thanks,” she told the guy.

  “No problem,” he replied in English. He was about to turn away when Porsha opened the screen door to the villa and came out onto the deck.

  “My mom better have an account set up at the bar,” she told Chanel before she even noticed the guy. Porsha was dressed in a brown silk slip dress that was practically the same color as her milky chocolate skin. From afar it looked like she was completely naked. On her feet were a pair of flip-flops she’d bought in the drugstore, and she’d put a diamond toe ring on the pinkie of her left foot. She noticed the resort dude staring at her.

  “Yes?” she demanded. “Parlez-vous Anglais?”

  The guy looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I just wanted to say ‘welcome’ to the two most beautiful girls on the island.” Luckily, his accent was extremely sexy. It was the only way he could have gotten away with saying something so completely corny.

  “Thanks,” Porsha said. “We’ll see you later,” she added, dismissing him.

  “Enjoy the flowers, mademoiselle,” the guy said, nodding at Chanel. Then he grinned at Porsha again and left.

  Porsha combed her hair with her fingers and squinted out to sea. Getting picked up by every guy she ran into was becoming a tad boring.

  Chanel put the flowers down on the table in the middle of the deck.

  “Who’re they from?” Porsha asked.

  Chanel shrugged. “I don’t think you have to ask.”

  Porsha walked over and untaped the gift card from the square glass vase the flowers had come in. “‘Have a great vacation and don’t stress out too much over the wedding plans,’” she read aloud. “‘Love, your dear friends Alexis and Imani.’”

  Porsha and Chanel looked at each other and burst out laughing. Chanel was actually relieved to discover that maybe Flow hadn’t sent all those gifts himself. The chocolate snowman and the fishbowl full of baby barracudas, for instance. Maybe Alexis and Imani had sent those, too.

  “Come on,” she said, grabbing Porsha’s arm and pulling her down the villa steps. “Let’s go let Cyrus buy us a drink.”

  * * *

  Tahj and Miles were already in the bar playing backgammon and trying to get Brice to eat fried conch. Porsha’s mother and Cyrus were still out sailing on some owner’s yacht, so no one had seen them yet.

  The resort dining room wasn’t really a room at all, just a large covered deck facing the beach and the perfectly blue-green sea. To one
side of the deck was a bar fashioned from bamboo and glass, with white leather barstools. Very modern tropical chic.

  “Two rum and Cokes please,” Porsha told the bartender in French. The great thing about being on a French island was that you didn’t have to worry about getting carded. Not that she got carded very often.

  Chanel took her drink and clinked glasses with Porsha. “To us,” she toasted. And then they both tilted back their heads and chugged.

  “Whoa,” Miles breathed, watching Porsha admiringly. He had changed into black Armani cargo pants and a gray Armani polo shirt. “How can you do that without burping like a truck driver afterward?”

  Porsha grinned and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Practice.”

  Tahj shook his head. His dreadlocks looked more appropriate now, with the beach in the background. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his army green cargo shorts. “I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of.”

  Porsha rolled her eyes. “As if you never drink.”

  Tahj shrugged. “I drink. I just prefer to drink water when I’m thirsty.”

  Brice took a bite of conch and then spat it into a cocktail napkin. “And Porsha drinks rubbing alcohol,” he quipped.

  Porsha was about to smack him, but then she caught sight of her mother and Cyrus walking down the dock toward them. Cyrus was holding onto Eleanor’s elbow as if he were concerned she might trip. If it had been anyone else, Porsha might have thought that was sweet, but in her opinion nothing Cyrus did was ever sweet. Her mother was wearing a bright green and pink dress that would have looked a lot better if it was all one color and covered her not-so-thin legs a little more. Her black bob was tucked into a white linen headband, and her face was deeply tanned. Cyrus's face was red and shiny, and he couldn’t have looked more porcine.