Upper East Side #1 Read online

  Yasmine put her video camera down on the ground. “Why don’t I run through the scene with Mekhi while you watch?” she said. “We’re going to say our lines this time. When you do it you don’t need to say them, you just need to think them. Got it?” Yasmine slipped the knife back into its sheath and smiled up at Mekhi. God, he looked sexy. In a starving, miserable sort of way. “Okay. Let’s go. Action!”

  Mekhi swung from the bridge’s cables and gaped at the water with a crazed smile. “Life is fragile and absurd. Murdering someone’s not so hard.” It was probably the most he’d spoken all day.

  Yasmine put her arms around him and yanked the knife from out of its sheath, praying the tourists on the bridge would be too busy taking photographs to pay them any mind. She mimed cutting her hand open, baring her teeth at the pain.

  “Mickey Knox, will you marry me?” she asked, wondering if in real life she would ever get to utter those words to Mekhi. Will you marry me? Her face was radiant with solemn delight.

  Mekhi reached for the knife and cut his own hand open for real. Man, he loved that sharp, sharp knife. “I will,” he said. “I will.”

  It was just a shallow cut, like a paper cut, but still. Yasmine was pissed that he’d gotten the knife dirty. They reached out and clasped each other’s hands in a bloody handshake.

  “We’re Mickey and Mallory Knox now,” she proclaimed. “And we’ll stay together until we die and die and die again!”

  “I love you, Mallory,” Mekhi said quietly, swinging in for a kiss.

  Whoa. He said he loved her! Yasmine’s face flushed. She’d imagined them kissing hundreds of times, but not like this, in front of an audience, playing other people—playing psychopaths! Before their lips met, she braced her hands against his bony chest and pushed him away. Mekhi wiped the blood on his hand onto his new wifebeater.

  So much for returning it.

  Yasmine collected her wits. “Now your turn,” she told Marjorie.

  “Kay,” Marjorie said, chewing her gum with her mouth open. She pulled the purple scrunchy out of her wiry red hair and fluffed it up with her hand. “I’m still kinda scared of that knife though.” She held up her script. “Kay,” she said again, bravely. “Let’s do it.”

  Mekhi slipped the knife back into place and swung his arms around in circles a few times. The crowbar was digging into his back and the baseball bat was giving him splinters.

  Yasmine picked up her camera. “Action!”

  Mekhi swung from the cables and said his line, thinking of how much he hated that asshole Jaylen Harrison and sounding even more convincing this time.

  “Mickey Fox, will you marry me?” Marjorie said, batting her eyes flirtatiously and cracking her gum.

  Mekhi closed his eyes. He could get through this without laughing if he kept his eyes closed. “I will. I will.”

  Marjorie fumbled for the knife. Her gum fell out of her mouth and onto Mekhi’s new Converses. “Ew!” she shrieked. “The knife—it’s got blood on it!”

  Halfway through the scene, Marjorie put on a fake Russian accent. It was unbelievably bad. Yasmine suffered in silence, wondering what she was going to do without a Mallory. For a moment she imagined buying a wig and playing the part herself, getting someone else to shoot it for her. But it was her project; she had to film it.

  “Cut!” Yasmine yelled, grateful that they hadn’t made it to the kiss. “Marjorie, it’s Knox, not Fox. And you’re not supposed to be chewing gum or even talking. You’re just supposed to be acting.”

  Someone nudged Yasmine’s arm and whispered into her ear. “Can I try?”

  Yasmine turned around to find the glorious Chanel Crenshaw standing behind her, windblown and breathless from running halfway across the bridge. Her cheeks were flushed, her silky hair was wild, and her big, almond shaped eyes gleamed like the darkening sky. Chanel was the girl to play Mallory Knox, if ever there was one.

  Mekhi stared at Chanel. A Paragon Sports tag sprang out of the waistband of his cargo pants. He wiped the bloody knife on the wifebeater and sheathed the knife, wishing he didn’t look like a walking circus act. Instantly a new haiku sprang into his head.

  Beautiful stranger,

  why are you here? Breathing—

  on this bridge tonight?

  “Marjorie, I think that’s a wrap,” Yasmine called over. “Would you mind loaning Chanel your script?”

  “Kay.”

  Chanel and Marjorie traded places. Mekhi had his eyes wide open now. He didn’t dare blink.

  Yasmine decided not to give Chanel any direction and just see what happened. “Action!”

  They began to read.

  “Life is fragile and absurd,” Mekhi felt like shouting, he was so excited. “Murdering someone’s not so hard.” He’d murder a hundred people if it meant he could be with Chanel.

  Chanel withdrew the knife from its sheath with expert precision. Mekhi’s chest trembled at her almost-touch.

  She drew the knife blade against her palm and raised it up to show Mekhi the cut. Her blood was redder than any he’d ever seen. He wanted to lick it. He wanted to eat her whole hand. Or at least suck on it for a while.

  Is that juice your blood?

  Seasonless fruit-pink, ripe, red.

  I thought I was dead.

  “Mickey Knox, will you marry me?” Chanel asked with the perfect blend of excitement, expectation, and girlish embarrassment.

  Mekhi took the knife eagerly and hacked at his hand. “I will,” he said, meaning every word. Blood dripped on his new pants. “I will.”

  Chanel clasped her bleeding hand around his. Mekhi gasped. He could actually feel their blood mingling and exchanging cells. He felt faint. In fact, he thought he might faint.

  Like a loose tooth, my

  heart dangles. Take it. Keep it―

  under your pillow.

  "We’re Mickey and Mallory Knox now,” Chanel was saying. God she was good. “And we’ll stay together until we die and die and die again.”

  Time for the kiss. Mekhi lurched toward her, stumbling over the laces of his new boots and losing his balance as the crowbar and baseball bat swung from his back in the opposite direction.

  “I love you, Mallory,” he gasped, falling but meaning every word.

  Maybe he should have eaten a muffin or something before play practice.

  “Whoa,” Chanel giggled, catching him. "Easy boy."

  Mekhi had been in lots of plays, but he had never felt that thing called “chemistry” before with anyone. And to be feeling it with Chanel Crenshaw was like dying an exquisite death. It felt like he and Chanel were sharing the same breath. He was inhale and she was exhale. He was quiet and still, while she exploded around him like fireworks.

  Chanel was enjoying herself too. The script was beautiful and passionate, and this scruffy guy was a really good actor.

  I could get into this, she thought with a little thrill. She had never really thought about what she wanted to do with her life, but maybe acting was her thing.

  They kept reading beyond the given stopping point. It was as though they’d forgotten they were acting. Mekhi was still laying in Chanel's arms from when he tripped. Yasmine frowned. Chanel was great―they were great together―but Mekhi was swooning, and it was totally nauseating.

  “Cut!” Yasmine shouted. The chemistry between Chanel and Mekhi was irritating her. If there weren’t so many people around she would have grabbed that knife and cut Chanel’s perfect face and body in two and thrown each half off of opposite sides of the bridge.

  Boys are so predictable, she thought, angrily snapping the lens protector back onto her camera.

  “Thanks, guys.” She pretended to scribble comments in a little notebook. “I’ll let you know tomorrow, Chanel. Okay?” Fuck off and die, she scrawled jealously.

  “That was fun!” Chanel said, taking the knife as she helped the trembling Mekhi to his feet.

  Still hungover from the moment, Mekhi removed the cumbersome harness and wiped his b
loody hands in his twists. They stuck up pinkly, like some kind of messed-up punk do. “You were great,” he told Chanel earnestly, finding his voice. “Really great.”

  Yasmine scowled and fiddled with her camera. “Marjorie, I’ll let you know tomorrow, too. Okay?” she told the redhead.

  “Kay,” Marjorie said, still chomping. “Thanks.”

  Mekhi just stood there, swaying weakly in the breeze, his cut hand oozing blood, his hair sticking up, and a goofy smile plastered on his face.

  “Thanks so much for letting me try out,” Chanel told Yasmine sweetly, still holdng the knife. She turned to go.

  “See you later,” Mekhi said, feeling drugged.

  “Bye,” Marjorie called, waving at them and rushing after Chanel.

  Yasmine looked up from her camera. “Put the harness back on,” she told Mekhi sharply. “We’re not done yet. I want to try shooting your monologue.”

  Mekhi bent down and put his arms through the straps of the weapon-laden harness once more. The leather sheath dangled emptily from its strap. He whirled around and searched the ground.

  “Hey,” he said. “Where’s the knife?”

  But the knife was already headed uptown with a certain beautiful girl so used to picking things up—boys, knives—she’d thought nothing of taking it.

  “Which subway are you taking?” Marjorie asked Chanel, as they walked off the bridge.

  “Um...” Chanel never took the subway, but it wouldn’t kill her to ride with Marjorie. “The 6, I guess.”

  “Hey, me too,” Marjorie said happily. “We can ride together.”

  It was rush hour, and the subway was packed. Chanel found herself jammed between a woman with a huge bag and a fat little boy with nothing to hold onto but her coat, which he kept grabbing every time the train lurched forward. Marjorie was holding onto the rail above their heads, but only her fingertips could reach it, and she kept staggering backwards, stepping on people’s feet.

  “Don’t you think Mekhi is majorly cute?” Marjorie asked her. “I can’t wait until we start filming. I’ll get to hang out with him every day!”

  Chanel smiled. Obviously Marjorie thought she’d gotten the part, which was a little sad, because Chanel was absolutely sure that she had the part. She had totally nailed it.

  She imagined getting to know Mekhi. She wondered which school he went to. He had dark, haunting eyes, and he said his lines like he meant them. She liked that. They’d have to practice quite a bit together after school. She wondered if he liked to go out, and what he liked to drink.

  The train came to a sudden stop at 59thStreet and Lexington―Bloomingdale’s. Chanel fell forward onto the little boy.

  “Ouch,” he said, glaring up at her.

  “This is my stop,” Marjorie said, pushing her way to the door. “Sorry if you didn’t get the part. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

  “Good luck!” Chanel called.

  The subway car emptied out and she slid into a seat, her mind still on Mekhi. She imagined drinking coffee with him in dark cafés and discussing literature. He looked like he read a lot. He could give her books to read and help her with her acting. Maybe they’d even become friends.

  She could use some new ones.

  17

  “Iz dat peppers-oni?”

  Kaliq looked up from his pizza slice. He and his friends had spent the entire afternoon in the park, skipping school, ignoring their cell phones, and basically wasting away the day because it was Wednesday, and Wednesdays sucked.

  Kaliq was supposed to be eating dinner with his parents but had been so overcome by his craving for pizza that he’d made a detour on his way home. A gorgeous, dark-haired L’Ecole girl wearing a gray flannel uniform skirt and black, knee-high boots was standing directly in front of him on the sidewalk.

  “Iz good?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’s been seeing you at diz pizzeria all zee time,” the girl said, opening her big, mascaraed eyes wide. “I’s been watching for you!”

  Kaliq chuckled. L’Ecole girls were famous for pretending to barely speak English while, more often than not, they and their parents were born and raised in the U.S. of A. Their parents thought it would make their daughters more desirable if they were bilingual. The girls thought boys would like them better if they forgot English altogether and just spoke bedroom Franglish. L’Ecole was the only school in the city that allowed their female students to wear high heels, red lipstick, push-up bras, and barely buttoned shirts, which they started to do in sixth grade. By the time they were seniors they were seasoned adulterers. Almost every boy in Kaliq’s St. Jude’s class who had lost his virginity had done it with a girl from L’Ecole.

  “Pizza is my favorite food,” Kaliq explained, chewing.

  It was sort of a relief, talking to a girl who didn’t make him work very hard. Porsha needed so much attention. And Chanel was so…spacey, and difficult in her own way. It was nice to just talk to an easy girl for once.

  He held out his slice. “You want a bite?”

  Down boy. Down.

  Only a few blocks away, Porsha marched down Madison toward home, knocking over small children, bumping into parking meters, and nearly tarnishing her Gucci flats with dog poo as she checked and rechecked the voicemails, e-mails, and text messages on her phone. She’d sent Kaliq an e-mail and two texts, and left three voicemails today, and he still hadn’t responded to any of them. Not that she needed to see him right now. That would be too distracting. In ten minutes she had to meet her SAT prep tutor at home. Then there was the AP French test to study for, followed by a late dinner with her mom and that nitwit boyfriend of hers. Then she had about three hundred pages of AP English reading to do. Then sleep, followed by tennis early tomorrow morning before school.

  She just wanted to confirm that Kaliq was on for Friday night. They were going to have sex and he would spend the night. She liked to know the plan. She hated surprises or deviations of any kind. And they always talked on Wednesdays. So, where the fuck was he?

  So close, yet so far away.

  Kaliq took another bite of his pizza. The L’Ecole girl pulled the rubber band holding up her ponytail out of her hair and swung her head from side to side. Her long, nearly black hair cascaded over her shoulders and skimmed her pushed-up breasts.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Nadège,” she said, pursing her full, red-lipsticked lips. “Maman et Papa calls me Nadège after ma grandmére. She was supercool supermodel en France in zee sixties.” She arched her thick dark eyebrows sexily and waggled her shoulders so that her milky-white cleavage seemed to be personally introducing itself to Kaliq. “Nadège meanz ‘Hope’ en français.”

  Kaliq took another bite of pizza, trying to suppress a giggling fit. He hoped Nadège might take her clothes off for him, right there on the sidewalk.

  “Want another a bite of my pizza, Nadège?” he offered, pointing the slice in the direction of her full red lips.

  Porsha tucked her phone back into the pocket of her gray cashmere blazer. Kaliq was with Chanel, she was sure of it. There was no other logical explanation. Of course he was with her. Whenever Kaliq disappeared it was always because of Chanel.

  She gritted her teeth. Kaliq had no idea who he was dealing with. Chanel was a slut. And she had no feelings for him. All she wanted was to take away what was rightfully Porsha’s—her friends, her boyfriends, her seat at Fashion Week, her spot at Yale, the last pair of size eight snakeskin boots at Christian Louboutin.

  Porsha hoped with all her heart that Kaliq was not with Chanel. After all, she loved him—even if he was a jerk for not calling her back. But whether Chanel was kissing him right now or doing something else entirely, Porsha was going to rip Chanel's head off, boil it in salt water, and serve it with fries the next chance she got.

  The sign said DON’T WALK. Porsha made a run for it and a cabbie had to slam on his brakes to avoid her. She glanced across the avenue, at a pizzeria where students
from various schools in the neighborhood always gathered. Sure enough, there was Kaliq, flirting with the sluttiest looking L’Ecole girl Porsha had ever seen.

  Kaliq was actually feeding the girl pizza, as if she couldn’t feed herself. Knowing the girls from that school, she probably couldn’t speak English either. She spoke only the language of slut, with a French accent.

  Porsha should have been relieved. Kaliq wasn’t with Chanel after all. He was eating pizza. But thoughts of Chanel had ignited her rage, and somehow seeing Kaliq with a beautiful French girl only served to fuel it.

  Crossing Madison on the far corner, Porsha darted inside the pizzeria behind Kaliq’s back. She ordered a slice with everything on it, and while the pizza guy was busy with his bins of anchovies, onions, and olives, she snatched his circular pizza knife off the counter and stuffed it into her purse with the deft “you never saw that” motion of an experienced assassin.

  Out on the street again with her steaming hot slice of over-decorated pizza, Porsha discovered the L’Ecole girl hugging and kissing Kaliq’s face all over as he attempted to peel himself away and say goodbye. Porsha slipped around the side of the building to wait.

  The French girl had a big appetite. She’d eaten half his slice, and now Kaliq was still hungry. He headed back inside to order more while Nadège turned down the side street, presumably toward the brothel where she lived.

  Porsha was waiting for her when she rounded the corner. “How dare you?” she seethed. The girl’s short gray skirt barely covered her underwear.

  “Excusez-moi?” The girl paused and gave Porsha a quizzical look. “Sorry, my Engleesh not verry—”

  “Bullshit,” Porsha spat. “I know you can understand me. Your parents are probably from Long Island. They probably don’t even speak French.”