We?
“And it’ll only be for a few weeks, anyway—before we find a cute little colonial house with ivy and one of those claw-footed bathtubs and a woodstove. That’s what the kitchen stuff is for.”
“But you don’t cook,” Kaliq pointed out. Suddenly the rest of what she’d said hit him in a rush. “And wait—we? But I’m going to be here in the city...”
Porsha tossed the set of drawers on top of the stack in the overflowing laundry bin. “Well, you could just take the train into the city in the morning and come back to New Haven at night. You get out of school at, like, three anyway.” She moved down the aisle and held up a pillow with an attached lap desk, contemplating its usefulness.
Right, because she only buys useful things. Like wine racks.
After talking to her father and realizing there was a distinct possibility he might not be able to get Kaliq back into Yale—apparently colleges took those diploma things pretty seriously—Porsha had gone into full plan mode. Kaliq would take the train into Manhattan in the morning and come home to her at night. They would be like one of those suburban families, where the dad commutes to the city every day and then comes back to his cozy home—not to mention his horny wife—at night. He would walk in the door, loosening his tie as he made his way toward the kitchen, and she’d be waiting for him in nothing but a red-and-white apron and bright red toenail polish. Then they’d stay blissfully in each other’s arms all night, kissing nonstop until dawn broke in the morning and Kaliq had to leave again—already pining for her as he waited for the morning train.
Okay, so it wouldn’t be the most glamorous thing in the world to tell her new Yale friends that her boyfriend was still in high school, but she could easily tell them he had a great banking job and was going to work for a year before starting college. Or maybe he was just so smart he didn’t need a college degree at all, he was one of those stock market prodigies she’d seen in the news.
The Prodigal Stoner?
Kaliq frowned. “Take the train every day? But doesn’t it take like an hour and a half each way? Why don’t I just stay here in the city during the week and visit you on weekends?”
“And leave you here all by yourself, with those slutty L’École girls? I don’t think so,” Porsha responded tersely.
Kaliq shifted his eyes to the floor beneath her icy stare. “You can trust me,” he mumbled. Besides, he wouldn’t be with any L’École girls. He’d be with Chanel. Not that he could actually say that out loud.
“You can do your homework on the train,” she added decisively. Seriously, he was lucky she was even talking to him. Yale had been her dream her whole life, and for years now Kaliq had been a part of that dream, too. He’d pretty much shat all over her plans with his no-diploma bullshit. Maybe he could be a little more conscious of the fact that she was giving him a second chance, that she needed to keep her dreams intact.
She shook the lap desk up and down, trying to figure out what was in it, and then sat down cross-legged on the floor, placing it on her lap and mock-writing on it. Kaliq couldn’t help but smile, watching her fake-scribble so intently like a little kid.
Porsha signed her pretend letter with a flourish and then tossed the lap desk back on a shelf. Kaliq had never met anyone who knew so clearly what she wanted or didn’t want. Each object she tossed into that laundry basket somehow fit perfectly into the life she had mapped out for herself years ago. But to him the color-coordinated pencil holders, the shower totes, and the dry-erase message boards looked like a bunch of useless junk, stuff he’d never use in a place he couldn’t even picture. Yale was Porsha’s dream, not his.
“Okay, I think we’re done here.” She pulled a list out of her oversize brown leather bag and examined it carefully to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
Unlikely.
She led the way to the register, where she snatched up a little metal hook attached to a suction cup. “For your razor,” she explained.
Kaliq nodded in silence, his shoulders slouching under the weight of the heavy laundry basket. As crazy as Porsha was, the fact that she was trying to squeeze him into her tiny dorm room made him fall in love with her all over again. Jesus, life was confusing.
If only those people in their neat blue aprons could help.
27
It was a ridiculously hot day in Prospect Park. Picnickers found shade underneath leafy green trees, and small children ran around wearing as little clothing as possible. The lake in the middle of the park was surrounded by people looking longingly at the water, wishing it were swimmable, and the dog beach was filled with wet pooches splashing and slobbering as their owners tried to keep up with them, leashes tangling into one huge knot.
Tiny beads of sweat trickled down Yasmine’s back as she unloaded food from coolers onto a picnic table near the lake, its white tablecloth flapping in the breeze. She wiped a hand across her brow, wishing the wind were stronger. At least she’d ditched that hot itchy wig. Her crazy night of table dancing at Coyote Ugly had been a lot of fun, but her wicked hangover the next morning, combined with her reflection in the mirror, was positively sobering. With black mascara streaked all over her face, red lipstick smeared clownlike around her mouth, and the long wig hanging off her head like a dead animal, Yasmine hadn’t felt sexy anymore—she’d just felt like roadkill. Today, she was back to her trademark shorn scalp and black combat boots, though she had worn a sky blue party dress for the occasion—Porsha’s influence, of course.
Of course.
She pulled a tray covered in tinfoil from the last cooler and peeked inside. Her sister’s famous soy-tempeh lasagna. Of course the wedding food was gross—other than Yasmine, the entire Richards family was vegetarian. It would be the first time she’d seen her parents since their visit in March, when their “found art” exhibit was on display at a gallery in the city. The exhibit had rather memorably included a chain of metal cheese graters tacked to a wall and a live horse, eating Caesar salad from a wooden bowl and pooping freely on the floor. During her parents’ short stay, her father had even worn his full-length hemp skirt to a fancy party on Fifth Avenue.
So that’s what started the men-in-skirts trend.
“Eggplant!” Yasmine’s mother’s voice rang out, calling her by her childhood nickname. Gabriela Richards wore a brown-and-yellow African tribal robe despite the heat, and white ribbons tied at the ends of her long braided pigtails. She looked like a cross between Gandhi and Little Bo Peep.
“Hey Mom,” Yasmine mumbled as her mother threw her arms around her. The robe was stiff and scratched Yasmine’s bare arms.
Arlo Richards appeared from behind Gabriela and joined in on the hug. “This place has good chi,” he noted approvingly, pecking Yasmine quickly on the cheek. His long gray hair was braided down his back with another white ribbon tied in a bow at the bottom, and his body was cloaked in what appeared to be a white linen bathrobe. It was no surprise that Yasmine’s parents had similar clothes and hairstyles. If Gabriela didn’t dress Arlo, he’d simply walk around naked.
Let’s hope nothing ever happens to her.
Yasmine fidgeted, smothered by her parents’ embrace. Yasmine looked over her dad’s shoulder and spotted Mekhi approaching from a distance, wearing a stiff blue button-down shirt and tie. She didn’t even know he owned a tie. Her stomach flip-flopped when she saw him, and she suddenly wished she’d eaten breakfast that morning instead of drinking the Hargroves’ gross instant coffee.
Don’t worry—there’s plenty of tempeh lasagna to go around.
“Mom, Dad, why don’t you sit over here?” She ushered her parents toward one of the picnic tables arranged alongside the grass aisle, wiping the sweat off her brow. “I have to talk to Ruby and Piotr.” She glanced at the interracial lovebirds who were standing at the makeshift altar/oak tree, trying to keep their hands off each other and not doing a very good job. In their usual unconventional manner, her parents chose to perch on top of the picnic table rather than sit on the bench.
“Our little girl’s a maid of honor!” her mother cried, pulling a woven handkerchief out from between her breasts.
Her father put his hand on his wife’s knee and squeezed it. “Now, Gabriela, save your juices for the wedding!”
Yasmine made her way down the aisle, wondering if that’s what happened to you when you stayed in the woods of Vermont for too long.
Mekhi wove his way around picnic tables decorated with white balloons, hoping he’d have time to stick napkins in his armpits to sop up the sweat trickling down his sides and staining his light blue oxford shirt before reading his poem.
“Isn’t this romantic?” Bree’s voice broke through his thoughts. She gazed up at the trees as she walked, a dreamy expression on her round face. She was wearing a pink gauzy sundress that looked a heck of a lot more comfortable than the long-sleeve button-down shirt and tie Mekhi had worn for the occasion.
“Easy for you to say, little Miss Barely There Sundress.” He grunted and tried to unstick his shirt from his sweaty back.
“Oh, come on, Mekhi,” Bree scoffed. “Don’t you just think weddings are the most amazing things?”
Actually, he did. There was something really romantic about watching two people stand up in front of their friends and family and promise to stay together forever. It was almost...noble. What would it be like to have someone who loved him enough to want to be with him forever?
“Yeah, I guess so,” Mekhi mumbled, weaving around a suspicious-looking clod of dirt.
They approached a large oak tree with rose petals sprinkled at its roots. Piotr stood beneath the tree, wearing a canary-yellow tuxedo and holding onto Ruby’s hand. She wore an antique-looking ivory-colored dress with a hot-pink sash around the middle. And next to her was Yasmine, looking beautiful in a slinky blue slip dress. Mekhi looked down at her feet—she was wearing her trademark combat boots. At least some things never changed.
Mekhi dropped Bree’s arm and moved closer, taking in the curve of Yasmine’s hips swaying under the thin material of the dress. He felt his pulse start to race.
“Hey.” Yasmine’s throaty voice broke into his thoughts, and he realized his feet had brought him directly in front of her. Ruby stood behind her, madly kissing Piotr even though there had been no “You may kiss the bride” yet. The ceremony hadn’t even begun.
“Hey.” Mekhi smiled shyly. “You look...uh, nice.” Damn. He was a poet, and he couldn’t come up with anything better than “nice”?
Roses are red, violets are blue, your lips are real nice, and so are you!
She smiled back shyly. “Um...just trying something new for the wedding.”
“He means gorgeous.” Bree threw her arms around Yasmine. “I love your dress!”
“You guys can sit here if you want.” Yasmine pointed at an empty bench, and Mekhi and Bree sat down. “I have to go cue up the music and get my camera ready. You’re up after Piotr’s friends, okay?” she told Mekhi and then quickly made her way to a picnic table farther down the aisle, where one of Piotr’s friends, wearing a white T-shirt with a black skull and crossbones printed on it, was fiddling with an iPad.
Mekhi inspected the other partygoers, who were mostly dressed in casual clothes—except for Piotr’s friends, who were wearing black, white, and red striped suits. They resembled a pack of hipster clowns just released from some bizarre Czech prison.
Just then a ballad struck up, and Ruby and Piotr began skipping backwards hand in hand around the giant oak tree. Some guy in one of those weird striped suits whom Mekhi could only assume was Piotr’s best man joined in the skipping and the crowd cheered.
Whatever happened to “Here Comes the Bride”?
They stopped skipping and stood off to the side as the Czech ballad quieted and a group of four striped-suited guys made their way over to the tree. One guy stuck out his tongue and wagged it obscenely.
“I am animal!” he yelled. “Filled with lust of carnivore!”
“I am love,” the group behind him began to chant, crouching down on the ground. “I am love, I am love, I am love...”
Ruby and Piotr held hands, entranced by their friends’ display. Behind them, a yellow Lab chased a squirrel up a tree, barking loudly.
Bree’s brow was wrinkled in thought, as if she were trying to decode the symbolism. Mekhi could barely contain his giggles—and there was only one other person who probably felt the same way. He glanced at Yasmine, who was standing off to the side, her camera trained on the altar as she desperately tried to keep a straight face. He caught her eye and grinned; then he stuck out his tongue and wiggled it, imitating Piotr’s crazy friends.
The striped-suited guys finally stopped screaming and bowed to a confused smattering of polite applause. Bree elbowed Mekhi in the ribs. “You’re up.” He smiled nervously. He didn’t even know if this poem was any good, and now he was going to have to test-drive it in front of Ruby’s entire wedding party—not to mention his ex-girlfriend.
No pressure.
Mekhi walked to the front of the crowd and opened his notebook. He cleared his throat and began to read, his voice wavering.
Open the fridge and put
My heart on a plate.
I’m just as you left me, and I taste even better leftover.
He kept his eyes on the page. It took all his effort to decipher his own scrawl. As he focused on the white paper, he couldn’t help feeling moved by what he’d written. He looked up and locked eyes with Yasmine.
Cinnamon fury, why did you leave me?
You’re prickly in the morning. So prickly.
This isn’t a cooking show.
This isn’t chemistry or geography.
It’s physics. Pure physics,
I’m falling fast and faster still.
So fall with me. Fall down with me.
And stay.
Yasmine blushed deeply, her body turning hot, and Mekhi found it hard to tear his gaze away from her. She looked so beautiful in her light blue dress, her skin glowing against the sky blue fabric...
The sound of clapping woke him from his reverie. “Um, thank you,” he mumbled as he headed back to his seat in a daze. He sat back down, and Bree grabbed his arm.
“That was really great. But we’ve got to talk about something later,” she whispered loudly in his ear.
“Um, okay,” Mekhi whispered back. He patted his damp forehead with a paper napkin, just as Ruby’s bandmates began cartwheeling down the rose-petaled aisle.
Guess someone didn’t hire a wedding planner.
28
Kaliq leaned out over the bow of the boat and dipped his hand in the white froth of the waves. Chips stood in the Belinda’s stern—named for his late wife—as he simultaneously steered the huge wheel of the forty-foot yacht and nursed a scotch on the rocks. The white sails billowed in the wind. It was a perfect cloudless summer day, but after his afternoon with both Porsha and Chanel yesterday, Kaliq’s thoughts were more muddled than ever. When Chips had called this morning and invited him out for a sail on the Hudson, he’d jumped at the chance to get back out on the water and as far away from the girls as possible. A little scotch wouldn’t hurt either.
Wearing a pair of white Ralph Lauren sailing pants and a navy blue cashmere sweater, Chips looked sophisticated and stately manning the wheel of the pristine yacht.
“This is the life,” he boomed, his hands resting lightly on the wheel. “The open sea, the sun, and the wind.” He took a deep breath and tilted his head toward the sky, breathing the clear, warm air deep into his lungs.
“I guess.” Kaliq scuffed the toe of his sneakers against the planks of the deck. He was waiting for a big lecture on thinking with his balls, Chips’s favorite topic.
The old man’s stubby white beard sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. “So, what’s crawled up your arse, then?” he asked, his Scottish accent rolling around in his mouth like marbles.
“Oh. I’m—I’m fine,” Kaliq answered quickly. “Sort of.”
Chips looked at him knowingly, waiting for Kaliq to continue. Kaliq took a deep breath, inhaling the briny air into his lungs, and, for the first time in days, felt his head start to clear. When he was out on the ocean, everything just felt so much simpler. The whole world was reduced to its essentials: sun, sky, and water.
“I have to repeat my senior year of high school,” he heard himself say. “I’m not going to Yale. I’m sure my dad told you, right?”
Chips nodded. “Apparently you stole Viagra from your coach because you thought it would make you more of a man?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Uh, yeah,” Kaliq mumbled, turning a little embarassed. “But that’s not the only problem. There are these two girls...” His voice trailed off into the breeze. “I think I have to choose between them, and I don’t know who to pick.” The boat hit a rough patch of water and Kaliq staggered backward.
“Whoa, there!” Chips laughed out loud and grabbed hold of Kaliq’s arm. He steered him toward the bench behind the wheel, indicating that he should steer. Chips sat down heavily beside him and placed a large blue pillow behind his back for support. He pulled out a fat brown cigar from his pants pocket and rolled it around between his lips. Then he lit the tip and puffed away until the end glowed amber and the stench of cigar smoke filled the air, sweet and acrid.
Kaliq looked out at the water, steering the boat and fretting over what he’d just said. Talking about it meant thinking about it, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Now.” Chips blew a ring of smoke over his head. “Let’s start from the beginning.”
“Well...first there’s Porsha,” Kaliq began tentatively as he steered the boat expertly between the green and red buoys marking the entrance to Manhattan’s harbor. “We’ve been together forever, and I really love her. She likes getting her way, and she just...wants everything to be perfect. She’s leaving for Yale tomorrow, and she wants me to come live in New Haven with her.” He reached into his pocket and ran his finger over the smooth surface of the silver lighter Porsha had given him two years ago. “But I’ve always loved Chanel, too. She’s...the complete opposite of Porsha. All light and mystery and laughter, but hard to pin down.”
Upper East Side #11 Page 15