Upper East Side #7 Page 10

  “Sure you don't want to make a donation?” Bruce asked, still stirring the pot.

  Yasmine unclipped her lip ring and tossed it in. “Good luck with that,” she told them, turning to go.

  Angel and Bruce began to nod. And as far as we know, they're still nodding.

  24

  “Remember when we were in fifth grade and we used to practice kissing with pillows?” Chanel buried her face in one of the Plaza's fluffy king-sized pillows and began making out with it. “Oh, baby,” she cooed. “Your lips are so amazing.”

  Porsha chucked a pillow at the back of Chanel's head. “Have you been listening to me?” she demanded. “I said I almost kissed Stanford Parris the Fifth!”

  Chanel turned her head to one side and blew her hair out of her face. She'd taken off her skirt, and her white cotton underwear sagged halfway down her skinny ass. “So why didn't you?”

  “I don't know.” Porsha untied the gold Cartier Yale pendant from around her neck and threw it on the bedside table. Then she yanked her dress off over her head, stripping down to her underwear. She pulled on one of the Plaza's white terry robes and cracked open a can of Pepsi. “I wanted to, but I couldn't stop laughing. And then I felt stupid, so I left.”

  Chanel rolled over and started poking her nonexistent stomach fat. “Don't you think it's weird that we're friends and we're attracted to such different guys? I mean, I thought he was totally stuck up.”

  Attracted to such different guys? Is that why they both lost their virginity to the same guy? Not that either of them wanted to wreck their friendship again by bringing that up.

  Porsha burped noisily. “You think everyone's stuck up. And actually I think he was sort of embarrassed about being into Yale after I told him I was wait-listed. He's only, like, a C student at Andover. He doesn't even take any APs. The only reason he got in was because of his grandfather.”

  Chanel's eyes opened wide. She was a B+ student and didn't take any APs either, but she'd gotten in. And while talking to Mr. Parris she'd basically decided once and for all that Yale was the school for her. Did she dare tell Porsha and ruin a perfectly good time together in their own hotel suite?

  Porsha burped again and Chanel thumped her pink polished toes against the mattress, thinking. Nah, she decided. Besides, she suspected that the only reason Porsha was so hung up on Stan was because she thought he might help her get into Yale.

  That's the problem with best friends. Sometimes they know you better than you know yourself.

  “Hey, let's make prank calls!” Chanel cried, desperate to change the subject. She sat up and grabbed the phone, stabbing giddily at the keypad. “Hello? Concierge? Could you send a plumber to room 448? There's a terrible…er… problem with the toilet. Get what I'm saying? Great. Thank you.” She dialed another number. “Sir? Is this room 448? Yes, this is the concierge. I just wanted to let you know that the male escort you ordered is on his way up.” Then she dialed one of the suites down the hall. “Daddy, I can't sleep,” she said in a baby voice. “Sing me a song.” The guy on the other end started singing the Raves song “Ice Cream.” He sounded exactly like Kash Polk.

  Hmm, wonder why?

  “Wow, you're really good,” Chanel breathed in her baby voice. “I love you, Daddy,” she cooed, and then hung up. She turned to Porsha. “Okay, that was dumb.”

  Porsha didn't say anything. She still couldn't believe she'd chickened out with Stan. It was only a kiss, and it wasn't like Kaliq even cared who she kissed, because he seemed to have totally forgotten about her.

  All of a sudden there was a knock at the door.

  “Shit!” Chanel squealed, diving under the covers. “It's the concierge!”

  Porsha tightened the belt on her bathrobe and padded over to the door. “Who is it?” she called out, touching the door with nervous fingertips.

  “It's me,” Kaliq's voice answered.

  Porsha jumped backwards as if she'd been electrocuted. She tugged on the belt of her bathrobe again. “Who?” she demanded irritably, even though she knew perfectly well who it was.

  “It's me, Kaliq,” he called through the closed door. “Can I come in?”

  “Psst!” Chanel whispered from the bed. “Pretend I'm Stan 5!”

  Porsha turned around to find Chanel sprawled facedown on the bed under the duvet, her long legs spread wide, her hair hidden discreetly under a pillow, and her rather large feet sticking out at the end of the bed. She totally passed for a guy. Even the rumpled little gray skirt on the floor could easily have been a pair of boxers.

  Chanel lifted her head and grinned devilishly. Porsha giggled and waved her back into place. Then she opened the door, but only about four inches. “Now's not really a good time,” she whispered mysteriously.

  Kaliq looked disheveled and tired. In fact, she was pretty sure he was wearing exactly the same faded black T-shirt and khakis that he'd been wearing when she'd left his house the afternoon before, and his hair was definitely dirty. Also, there was dark brown crap between his teeth, like brownie crumbs.

  Or pre-chewed Oreos.

  “I need to take a shower,” Kaliq yawned.

  “Well, you can't do it here.” Porsha insisted. She readjusted her bathrobe to insinuate that she was naked underneath. Then she took a step backward so Kaliq could see into the room. “I'm busy.”

  She watched as his gaze traveled from the gold-and-white-painted door across the carpet to the bed. Two nights ago she would have grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hurled him on top of the covers so she could ravage his ridiculously hot body and he could ravage hers, just like they'd been doing since she decided to go all the way. But he hadn't called her in two whole days and he really needed to brush his teeth. He'd missed his chance.

  From beneath the covers, Chanel did her best imitation of a studly postsex snore. Porsha clenched her teeth to keep from smiling. Actually she didn't much feel like smiling. She was too pissed off at Kaliq.

  Kaliq pressed his palms against his cheeks like he was trying to hold his face together. He'd been counting on staying with Porsha tonight a) because she was in a hotel suite and it would be great to take a nice hot shower, have lots of sex, take a bubble bath, order tons of room service, and watch movies until they fell asleep in each other's arms; b) because he really didn't want to go home and endure the wrath of Mr. Braxton. He'd definitely be grounded, which meant he wouldn't be able to go out at all for the rest of his life, and he'd probably never see Porsha again; and c) because while he was fooling around with Lexie he'd realized that he really didn't enjoy kissing anyone but Porsha anymore.

  Well, maybe he should have thought of that, like, yesterday.

  Chanel kicked her foot and bellowed through her nose like a sleeping elephant.

  Who the fuck is that anyway? Kaliq was dying to ask, but the thought of knowing who it was made him press his hands against his face even harder. His gaze shifted back to Porsha, who looked like she was already bored with whatever game they were playing.

  “I was on the boat,” he started to explain. “I lost my phone.” Then he realized that didn't really explain anything.

  “Go home, Kaliq,” Porsha dismissed him. “Your parents are looking for you.”

  She honestly didn't know what had gotten into Kaliq lately. When was it okay to just, like, disappear? Then, the thought of him ignoring her phone calls just because he wanted to take off some boat was even more annoying. Just who did he think he was—Christopher Colombus?

  Kaliq let go of his face, stuffed his hands into his pockets and took a step backwards toward the elevators. Chocolate Oreo gunk was smeared on the crotch of his pants. He was a mess. “You haven't heard anything from Yale yet, have you?” he asked in a lame effort to find some common ground.

  “No,” she responded coldly.

  Kaliq waited for her to say something more but she didn't. Instead, Porsha stretched her arms over her head and yawned lazily, like she'd been having so much sex with the big, sexy man in her bed she co
uldn't even talk.

  “Why don't you text me or something?” she told Kaliq, and reached for the door handle. As if she and Kaliq had ever communicated by text messages. When you saw someone naked every day for hours after school, it was hardly necessary to text them.

  The corners of Kaliq's mouth drooped like he was about to cry. Porsha wasn't breaking up with him officially—she never did, which was why they'd been breaking up and getting back together on and off for the last three years. But that was before they'd become as intimate as you can be with someone, and now there was some random guy in Porsha's bed. “Okay. Have a good day at school tomorrow.”

  “See you,” Porsha closed the door and leaned against it. “He's gone,” she whispered.

  Chanel lifted her head and her silky hair cascaded all over the bed. “That was fun,” she observed, but the way she said it made it sound like a question. Porsha went over and sat down on the end of the bed.

  “Really fun,” she agreed hollowly. The girls' eyes met. Neither of them was smiling.

  Then Chanel giggled. “I guess it would have been more fun if I'd really been Stan 5.”

  Porsha didn't say anything. She'd basically just broken up with Kaliq—again—after passing up a perfectly good opportunity to fool around with a boy who could very well get her into Yale. Well, one thing was for sure: She wasn't about to let Stan get away.

  Chanel threw back the covers and grabbed the leather-bound room service menu from the bedside table. “Let's order filet mignons and French fries and beer and watch old movies!” She'd always been an expert at changing the subject.

  Porsha scooted her feet up underneath her and reached for the TV remote. There might be an Dorothy Dandridge movie on TCM or AMC. She flicked through the channels hopefully. Aha! Tamango. Well, at least that was something.

  Chanel lit a cigarette, took a puff, and then stuck it in Porsha's mouth. Then she picked up the phone, massaging Porsha's shoulders as she ordered nearly everything on the Plaza Hotel's room service menu.

  Maybe life sucked for some people, but Chanel wouldn't allow it to suck for them.

  25

  Just down the hall, in an even bigger suite, Mekhi, Bree, two members of the Raves, and a very tan French girl were lounging around smoking cigars that had been FedExed to the room from Cuba that day. The whole room was filled with ripped-open FedEx boxes: peaches from Georgia, candles from France, vodka from Finland, strong brown ale from Ireland, breadsticks from Italy, shower gel from LA, and extra-sharp cheddar cheese from Vermont.

  As if you couldn't buy all of the above in the city that has everything.

  Lloyd asked the concierge to send up more bathrobes, and one by one they all removed their clothes and donned robes. Bree wasn't quite sure what to do with her pants and shirt, and it was nearly impossible to hide her bra, because the bathrobe had the troublesome habit of popping outward in the cleavage area. She decided to stuff her clothes into the gold-and-white vanity cupboard under the bathroom sink and cinched the belt of the bathrobe as tight as it would go before stepping out into the suite once more.

  “Have a peach,” Kash offered in his adorable accent. He pulled one of the perfectly ripened fruits out of the box and held it up. He'd changed into a robe, and Bree wondered if he was still wearing his underwear. The thought made her cheeks burn and her bathrobe pop open once more.

  Kash patted the seat cushion of the gold loveseat he was sitting on. “Come, sit down. Eat one of these and then show me how badly you can kick my ass at Call of Duty.”

  Bree glanced at the selection of PlayStation games on the coffee table. Kick his ass? She'd never played a video game in her life.

  “Or would you prefer something more refined, like a fine Italian breadstick?” Lloyd asked from the sofa on the other side of the coffee table. He drummed two breadsticks on his knees. “They're good with ale. Just dunk,” he explained, dipping an entire breadstick into a bottle of Irish ale, “and munch.” Then he patted the seat cushion next to him just like Kash had done. “Try it.”

  Unable to decide which guy was cuter, Bree sliced a tiny piece of cheddar cheese off the huge brick of it on the coffee table and then knelt down on the floor. Monique was sitting on the floor too, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and reading a French fashion magazine and looking bored because Mekhi had gone into the bathroom to shower and change into his robe.

  “Ooh la la, I just realized who you are!” Monique squealed, ashing on the floor in her excitement. “You're zee model in zee fantastique W pages. I love zohze photos. And zat tall girl—so beautiful, non?”

  “Well, you're even prettier,” Bree responded shyly, thrilled to be recognized. She wished she had a cool French accent like Monique's. Everything sounded so much cooler with an accent.

  Mekhi came out of the bathroom with his hip-hop clothes all wadded up under his arm. Now that he was de-puked and had sobered up a little, he was tempted to chuck the clothes out the window.

  “Hey man, you never told us your sister was a bloody fashion model,” Kash said.

  “If bloody Monique is impressed, she must be pretty fucking huge,” Lloyd agreed.

  Boys. Give them some strong Irish ale and all of a sudden they all have British accents.

  Mekhi was so ashamed of his performance that night, he could barely look at his bandmates. “She's done some modeling,” he mumbled.

  Marc, the Raves' bassist, opened the door of the suite, back from a walk with his Bernese mountain dog, Trish. Trish was huge and black with a sweet brown-and-white face like a St. Bernard. He'd named the dog after his ex-girlfriend—the love of his life, who'd broken up with him back in ninth grade—and he never went anywhere without her.

  How sweet. And how creepy.

  Mekhi sat on the floor next to his sister. Trish lay down next to him and put her head in his lap. She had terrible breath, like she'd been eating canned mackerel and spoiled milk.

  “Hey Marc. Turns out Bree is, like, this hugely famous supermodel,” Lloyd announced. Marc glanced shyly at Bree, then picked up one of the Plaza Hotel bathrobes from the stack and put it on over his clothes.

  Bree giggled, reveling in all the attention. It was one o'clock in the morning and she was at the Plaza Hotel, wearing only a bathrobe and underwear, with the members of the coolest band ever! It was kind of weird being there with her brother, but kind of reassuring, too.

  Monique sat up on her knees and stroked Trish's ears. Then she slipped her hand down the back of Mekhi's bathrobe. “Come into zee bedroom,” she mouthed against his ear.

  Bree could hear every word Monique said—not that she really wanted to. Boldly, she stood up and went over to the sofa to sit next to Lloyd. After all, she was a famous model—she could sit wherever she liked.

  Lloyd handed her a breadstick. “In southern Italy these are considered an aphrodisiac.”

  “Liar!” Kash threw a ripe, juicy peach at Lloyd's head. It missed and splattered all over the pristine white wall behind him.

  You're not a real rock star unless you know how to trash a hotel room.

  “Don't listen to that asshole, he's full of it,” Kash warned. He dragged three PlayStation joysticks over to the sofa and sat down, so that Bree was wedged between him and Lloyd.

  As if she minded. Bree's feet were tingling and her ears were buzzing. It was a school night and she was a supermodel hanging out in a hotel room with three famous boys. If only Chanel could see her now.

  Monique dragged Mekhi into a standing position. Kash's foot flew up and kicked her in the butt, but Monique pretended not to notice. She pulled Mekhi into the adjacent bedroom, slamming the door behind them.

  “Don't make too much noise!” Kash shouted after them.

  Marc lay down where Mekhi and Monique had been sitting and rested his head on his dog. Trish licked his cheek and wrapped an enormous black paw around his neck.

  Aw. What a cute couple.

  Bree had never felt so famous in her life, and she owed it all to her brother. He des
erved to hook up with some random French girl. And she deserved to be wedged between the two cutest white boys ever to grace the cover of Rolling Stone. If only some reporter would knock on the door and take their picture. She kind of wanted the world to find out about this—it was too good not to be known, even if she got into major trouble.

  No worries, darling—the world has a funny way of finding out nearly everything.

  26

  “I heard that freshman slut had, like, group sex with every member of the band—even the new lead singer, who's like, her brother,” Alexis Sullivan whispered to her best friend and Senior Spa Weekend co-planner, Imani Edwards.

  Imani reparted her long, 26-inch Malaysian weave with a pink tortoiseshell comb, smoothing it down with her hands. “Did you see those pictures of her in the Post online? She didn't even bother to get dressed before she left the hotel!”

  It had happened too late to make it into the day's papers, but if you logged onto the New York Post's Page Six online, it was all there. A whole black-and-white photo montage of little Bree Hargrove getting kissed goodbye on the lips by the lead guitarist of the Raves right on the Plaza's red-carpeted steps and getting spanked on her bottom by the drummer with his drumsticks before he swept her into a bear hug. She even wore her Plaza Hotel bathrobe home, carelessly leaving her clothes behind, and blew kisses from the taxi, like a modern-day Marilyn Monroe.

  Apparently, Bree wasn't the only budding model to hook up with the Raves' lead guitarist. According to the gossip sites, a hotel staff member actually recorded him singing to Chanel over a Plaza house phone. Chanel finished the phone call saying, “I love you, Daddy.”

  Oh does she?

  But what about his marriage to the mysterious French girl a year or so back, in an exclusive ceremony in St. Barts? If you studied the photograph of him kissing Bree, he was wearing a gold band on the ring finger of his left hand…and there was a beautiful French girl on the scene as well, although she was totally preoccupied with Mekhi, the band's raging new front man. His debut public performance was actually kind of embarrassing, but, like a typical French girl, she was probably too horny to care.