Upper East Side #5

by Ashley Valentine

  “Cool.” Mekhi was kind of annoyed that he'd gone to all the trouble of meeting Bree after school so he could brag about his Red Letter internship, and now this light skinned half-wit was in the way.

  “Um, I hate to break this up, guys, but can we like, go somewhere?” Elise Wells begged from outside their little circle. Her stiff black bob was tucked behind cold, pink-tinged ears. “I'm getting hypothermic.”

  Not at all surprising, considering that her gray pleated uniform was rolled up so high it barely covered her butt cheeks. Elise's style had always been preppy-good-girl-meets-cheap-slut, but lately she'd been erring on the cheap-slut side.

  “Let's take the bus across town to my house together,” Bree chirped happily. She had never felt so...sought after in all her life. “Maybe Dad will be home. He's dying to meet you,” she told Damien.

  Mekhi smiled to himself as he followed them up Fifth Avenue to 96th Street. More likely, their dad was going to eat Damien for lunch.

  Elise walked beside him, her pink sweater sleeves pulled down over her hands to keep them warm. “So you're a real poet, huh?” she asked as the bus pulled up and they got on.

  Bree and Damien were already sitting together, holding hands. Mekhi scooted into a seat right behind them, and Elise sat down next to him.

  “I hate creative writing. Our teacher acts like everyone is full of ideas all the time—we just have to write them down. But every time we have an in-class writing assignment, I can't think of anything to write. You know?”

  Mekhi didn't know. For him in-class writing assignments were total gifts from heaven. He was so full of ideas he didn't have time to write them all down. Still, it was kind of refreshing to talk to someone who thought of him as a real poet.

  “Actually, I just found out I'm going to be doing an internship at Red Letter during spring break. I'm pretty excited about it. I mean, those internships are pretty hard to get.”

  Elise cocked her head and pressed her lips together. “Red what?

  “You know, Red Letter. It's like the most successful avant-garde literary quarterly in the world.”

  “Oh.” Elise glanced at him sideways, like she was checking to see if he was even cuter in profile.

  He kind of was, especially with that new haircut.

  “Can I read some of your poetry?” she asked brazenly.

  Bree turned around when she heard this. So Elise was flirting with her brother. She glanced up at Damien and considered whispering something to him about it, but Damien wasn't really the gossiping type.

  Can you spell b-o-r-i-n-g?

  But then Damien surprised her by leaning in to whisper in her ear. “See the coat that woman across from you is wearing? It's fake, but you can tell it's J. Mendel by the color. Most fake furs are done all in one color, but real mink fur is lots of different colors. J. Mendel makes the best fakes.”

  Bree stared at the woman's coat, unsure of what to make of all this. Fake fur was kind of a weird thing for a guy to know about. She hadn't asked what his parents did for a living yet. Maybe they were importers of exotic Russian furs or something.

  “How—?” She turned her head to reply, but Damien was staring intently out the window as they zoomed through Central Park, so deep in thought, she didn't want to interrupt him. Gazing into the dark hollow of his left ear, she wondered if he might even be partially deaf, and hence the mumbling. He even had a little scar on his neck that might have been from chicken pox, or a gunshot.

  She gripped his hand more tightly. Oh how wonderful to have a Damien, a wild and wonderfully mysterious Damien!

  7

  “You can sleep in here,” Chanel told Porsha as the two girls dragged Porsha's overstuffed Louis Vuitton duffel bags into Cairo's room. “My brother took his TV and stero and everything with him, so it's kind of bare in here, but we'll hang out in my room most of the time.”

  “That's okay,” Porsha said, looking around. Compared to the lavish décor of the rest of the Crenshaws' apartment, the room was pretty sparse. A single antique sleigh bed stood under the double-sized windows that faced Fifth Avenue, the Met, and Central Park. Beside it was a long low dresser, and on the opposite wall was a desk and chair, all in the same dark wood as the bed. On the floor was a woven Turkish rug in shades of navy blue and tangerine. The closet door stood partially open so that Porsha could see the silhouette of Cairo's old denim jacket hanging on the rail.

  Porsha breathed in the room's musty wood smell. The idea of sleeping in the lair of an older boy she didn't know that well was strangely exciting. “Do you mind if I unpack my stuff?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.” Chanel flopped on the bed and pulled a Playboy magazine out from under Cairo's mattress, scrunching up her perfectly straight nose as she flipped through it. Both girls were too savvy about what boys really do when they're in their rooms alone to squirm and scream at the sight of Playboy.

  Porsha pulled a pair of pants out of her bag and opened the closet. Beside the denim jacket, two white button-down shirts with frayed collars and cuffs hung next to a barely worn Tom Ford tuxedo. On the floor of the closet was a pair of beaten-up Jordans, and next to them was a Prada shoe box.

  Porsha glanced at Chanel, but her friend was completely transfixed by Playboy. She knelt down, wondering what kind of person would leave their Prada shoes behind. The black box was dusty, and when she lifted the lid she found that there were no shoes inside, only a small brown leather-bound notebook. Gingerly, she lifted it out and opened it up to the first page.

  I can't believe I'm fucking writing in a journal like a fucking girl, but I'm drunk on tequila from Case's graduation party and instead of passing out like a normal person, I'm fucking freaking out. We just graduated. We're going to college. I don't know who I am or what I'm doing or who I want to be and now I'm leaving everything I know and FUCK! Chanel is so lucky—she's only just started high school, and I'll be able to tell her what the deal is with college, so she'll know. No one's going to tell ME. And it's not like I'm going to walk up to any of my friends and admit how scared I am. All they talk about is the girls we can have sex with. And I'm sure that will happen, unless I become one of those freaks who lives in a single and never comes out of his room and they finally have to break in because of the smell. Fuck, this is crazy. I'm going to bed.

  Porsha turned the pages to read more, but the rest of the book had been left blank. Obviously, Cairo had decided journal-writing wasn't for him.

  Her heart beat loudly as she reread the first and only entry. How crazy was it that Cairo Crenshaw, a boy she hardly knew, had captured the way she'd been feeling these last few weeks so completely perfectly?

  She stood up and walked over to a silver-framed family photograph on top of Cairo's dresser. The Crenshaws were sprawled on a beach somewhere in their bathing suits, all with tanned golden-beige skin, silky hair, white smiles, and huge almond-shaped eyes. Porsha could tell Chanel was about fourteen in the picture because she still had those bangs she'd gotten at the end of eighth grade and spent the next year growing out. So Cairo must have been seventeen. In his weather-beaten surf shorts his body looked muscular and ready for action, but his handsome face was slightly weary, like he'd been up all night drinking, or maybe he was even a little sad.

  Why didn't I ever notice before? Porsha wondered to herself. Behind her Chanel rustled the pages of Playboy. “Does Cairo have a girlfriend?” she wondered out loud.

  “Let's ask him ourselves.” Chanel tossed the magazine on the floor and reached for the phone, a mischievous grin playing on her face. She was used to bothering Cairo up at Brown at least three times a week, moaning to him about her love life or lack thereof, while he complained about his perma-hangover. “Hey, perverted man. I was just reading your gross Playboy with the Stacey Dash centerfold. Isn't she like fifty years old or something?”

  “So?” Cairo yawned in reply.

  “How lucky are you that Mom and Dad don't drag you around to boring benefits anymore?”

  “What is i
t tonight?”

  “Tomorrow night. Some art thing at the Frick,” Chanel answered tiredly. “It's not even worth getting a new dress for. Me and Porsh are just going to trade clothes so they feel new. Anyway, she wants to ask you something.” And then, without warning, Chanel tossed the phone to Porsha.

  Porsha caught it and held it in her hands. “Hello?” she heard Cairo say. She put the phone to her ear.

  “Hey. It's Porsha. Um, I'm staying in your room. I hope that's okay.”

  “Yeah. Hey, listen, my sister told me a while ago you're really worried about Yale and your shitty interview and all that…”

  Porsha's eyes widened in horror. Her fucked up Yale interview was the last thing Cairo needed to know about her. Chanel was such a—

  “Well, don't be,” Cairo continued. “My Brown interview was completely retarded, and I got in early. I know for a fact you're an ace at tennis, you do a shitload of charity stuff, and Chanel says your grades and scores are all amazing. So don't sweat it, okay?”

  “Okay,” Porsha promised shakily. No wonder Chanel called her brother all the time. He was absolutely the sexiest, sweetest boy alive!

  “So, are you coming to Sun Valley with us for break or what?” he asked.

  Porsha kicked off her turquoise flats and wiggled her red-painted toes. She liked the matted, scratchy feeling of Cairo's rug beneath her bare feet. “I'm supposed to go to Hawaii with my family.”

  “No, you're not,” Chanel interjected from the bed. “She's not!” she yelled, loud enough for Cairo to hear. “She's coming to Sun Valley with us!”

  “You don't really want to go to Hawaii, do you?” Cairo asked her half-gently, half-mockingly. “You'd much rather go skiing with us.”

  Porsha studied Cairo's face in the photograph. Had he always talked to her in that familiar, you-know-you-want-me tone of voice? Had she always been totally deaf? She imagined lounging by the fire with him in the bar at the Sun Valley Lodge. She'd play Marilyn Monroe, dressed in a white rabbit fur vest, her favorite pair of jeans, and the white sheepskin-ski boots she'd bought in January and never worn. He'd be…Ernest Hemingway, all manly and studly, wearing one of those tight, navy blue zip-neck turtlenecks that the sexy ski patrol guys always wore, half unzipped. They'd sip warm brandy and watch the shadows cast by the flames flickering on each other's faces, while she caressed his strong, warm muscles beneath his shirt.

  Three years ago, Cairo had had no idea who he was or what he was doing or who he wanted to be, but now it was three years later, and he'd definitely figured it out. Just the thought of sleeping in his bed tonight was extremely comforting. She might even wear one of his old shirts to bed for added atmosphere.

  “Yes,” Porsha told him in her breathiest Marilyn Monroe voice. “Yes, I think I will go.”

  And you, sweet boy, are in for a special treat.

  8

  The following day, after lacrosse practice and before he had to be home to get ready for the benefit at the Frick, Kaliq made a detour to the Scandinavian Ski Shop on West 57th Street to outfit himself for Sun Valley. He had been skiing and snowboarding practically since he was born and already had tons of ski equipment, but it was all up in Maine—and besides, this was the type of shopping he actually enjoyed.

  The Scandinavian Ski Shop specialized in thousand-dollar fur-trimmed ski suits and ski boots for the Madison Avenue set and had a sort of a cheesy feel to it, with wood-paneled walls and thick forest green carpeting, but it was still the best ski shop in New York.

  Kaliq went right to the back of the store where the skis and snowboards were sold. He shoved his hands in his khaki pants pockets, contemplating the boards stacked against the wall. Instantly, his eyes settled on a dark red board with a picture of a green marijuana leaf on it. The word normal was stenciled on one end of the board, and the word goofy was stenciled on the other. He reached up and ran his thumb along the edge of the board.

  “That one's killer if you're into bumps,” a girl's smoky voice drifted over to him.

  Kaliq turned to find a small white girl with short blond hair watching him. Her brown eyes hung low in their sockets, puppy-dog-like. Or maybe she was stoned.

  “Do you work here?” he asked.

  The girl smiled. Her teeth were very small and close together. “Sometimes. When I'm on break. I go to Holden, up in New Hampshire? I'm captain of the girls' snowboard team.” She kept on smiling a little too long, and Kaliq decided she was definitely high. “Can I help you with something?” she offered.

  Kaliq tapped his fingers against the red board. “I think I'm gonna take this one. Plus I need boots and bindings.”

  The girl kept smiling as she hunted around in a stack of boxes for a pair of boots in his size and the best K2 bindings on the market. “I just demoed this combo at Stowe last weekend.” She knelt at Kaliq's feet to help him on with the boots. “It totally rocked.”

  Kaliq stood up and stared down the front of her hoodie, which was unzipped to just above her cleavage. She wasn't wearing a bra, just a white tank top, and he could see everything.

  She smiled up at him, holding his booted foot in her hands. “How does that feel?”

  He considered reaching for her hand and leading her into a dressing room. He could even imagine how her mouth would have the smoky, grassy taste that he liked, the after-you-smoke-fine-herb taste. It was odd, but ever since he'd quit smoking weed, he was basically horny all the time. And having a girlfriend in rehab who was only allowed supervised visits from outsiders didn't help much.

  Mercedes, Mercedes, Mercedes. He couldn't wait for Sun Valley. They'd ski all day and fool around all night. What could be better?

  “Can I get these mounted now?” he asked, in a hurry all of a sudden.

  The girl gathered up the bindings and retrieved the correct-size board from the stack. “I'll mount 'em for you.”

  Sure she will.

  “Be right back.”

  While he waited, Kaliq wandered over to a pile of ski hats and began to try them on. He picked out a fuzzy green one with earflaps and a long tassel on top and put it on.

  “No way,” he muttered as he examined himself in the mirror. Usually he didn't think too much about what he looked like or what he wore—he didn't have to—but he wanted to look cool for Mercedes. He put the green hat back on the stack and tried on a baseball-type hat with earflaps you could flip up, kind of like a modern version of the Elmer Fudd hunting cap.

  “That hat is awesome on you,” the salesgirl told him, coming back with his board. She leaned the board against a clothes rack and walked over to Kaliq, gently turning down the earflaps over his perfect ears. “You know you love it,” she added hoarsely.

  Sure enough, her breath smelled just the way he'd imagined it would. Kaliq licked his lips. “What's your name?”

  “Maggie.”

  Kaliq nodded slowly. The hat felt good on his head. He could reach for Maggie right now and unzip her top. Ask her if she wanted to share a joint. He could, he could. But he wouldn't.

  He pulled the hat off and tucked it under his arm. “Thanks a lot for your help. Um, I'm Kaliq Braxton. My family has an account here?”

  Maggie handed him the board and his new boots with a disappointed grin. “Maybe I'll bump into you out on the slopes sometime.”

  Kaliq turned to go, amazed at his willpower. He was so totally focused, even Coach might have been impressed. Not that he wasn't still horny as hell

  9

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats!” Rufus Hargrove bellowed as he delivered a platter of sizzling sausages with rum-roasted apples and bananas to the table. Bree had made her dad feel so guilty for being out the day before when she'd brought Damien home that Rufus had insisted she invite him and Elise over for dinner the next night. Not that Rufus was out to impress his houseguests. As usual, he was wearing a food-stained white undershirt and his favorite pair of cigarette-burned, saggy-assed gray sweatpants. His curly gray hair and monstrous gray eyebrows stuck out
at odd angles from his stubbly face, and his mouth and teeth were stained red from wine.

  “We'd better sit down,” Bree said, clicking off the TV in the library and grinning at Damien. “Now you get to taste Dad's weird food. Be careful,” she warned. “He puts alcohol in everything.”

  Damien looked at his watch. Then he stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and pulled them out again. He seemed nervous. “Okay.”

  “Her dad isn't as scary as he looks,” Elise said. She tucked her feet into her flats and clomped out into the dining room, as if she'd lived at Bree's house all her life.

  Mekhi met them at the creaky dining room table. He was reading from a copy of Red Letter and didn't even look up when his dad slapped a whole banana and a maimed-looking sausage on his plate. Once everyone was served, Rufus filled his wine glass to the rim and held it in the air. “Now for a little poetry game!”

  Mekhi and Bree rolled their eyes at each other across the table.

  Normally Bree didn't mind her dad's little pop quizzes, games, and lectures, but with Damien there, it was just too embarrassing. “Dad,” she whined. Why couldn't he be normal just this once?

  Rufus ignored her. “Where are we going, Walt Whitman? / The doors close in an hour. / Which way does your beard point tonight?!” He directed a sausage-fat-greased finger at Damien. “Name that poet!”

  “Dad!” Bree rattled the decaying wooden dining room table in protest. Everything in the Hargroves' sprawling four-bedroom 99th Street and West End Avenue apartment was decaying. But what could you expect when they had no mother and no maid to clean up after them?

  “Oh, come on. That's an easy one!” Rufus roared at Damien. The vinyl record he'd put on before he brought out the food suddenly kicked in, and strange, high-pitched yodelings filled the room. Rufus poured himself another glass of wine, waiting expectantly for an answer.