Upper East Side #7 Page 14

  “Mais non!” Lexie wailed, starting to cry.

  Mais oui.

  34

  The door to Yasmine and Porsha's apartment stood open. Chanel stepped inside, her freshly glossed mouth agape at how different it was since Yasmine's birthday party. Only a few weeks ago there had been black sheets hanging in the windows and plaster crumbling onto the barely furnished floors. Now it was freshly painted and filled with cool modern furniture. Lemongrass-scented candles burned on the coffee table, and cool curtains billowed from the open windows in the living room.

  “Whoa,” she gasped.

  “I know,” Yasmine called over from the open kitchen where she was busy filling little ceramic bowls with olives, baby carrots, and almonds so their guests would have something to munch on before the pizza arrived. “Can you believe it?” She thrust her leg into the air and waggled her foot so Chanel could see that she'd borrowed Porsha's wedge-soled black patent leather heels. “Like my shoes?”

  Porsha padded barefoot out of the bedroom with an empty tumbler of ice in her hand, looking very Williamsburg in a tight black T-shirt, a short black jean skirt, and red lipstick. She kissed Chanel's cheek. “Isn't it great?” she asked, looking genuinely thrilled.

  While her cab idled in traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge on the ride over, Chanel had geared herself up to tell Porsha that she'd decided to go to Yale next year. But now that they were face-to-face, she could feel herself chickening out. She dipped her hand into Porsha's glass and stole a vodka tonic-soaked ice cube. “I hope you took before and after pictures.”

  “Don't worry.” Yasmine stomped out of the kitchen in Porsha's shoes and handed Chanel a vodka tonic of her own. “I even got the painters' butt cracks.”

  Of course she did.

  The three girls sat down on Ruby's old futon sofa, which had been refurbished with a new frame and a new faux-suede cover.

  “So what happened with Kash?” Porsha wanted to know. “I thought we were going to be reading about you guys in the paper tomorrow.”

  Chanel rolled the legs of her jeans up to her knees. “Well, he's good looking and everything, but…” She hesitated and rolled her pant legs back down again. Then she took a sip of her drink and quickly changed the subject. “Who else is coming over tonight anyway?”

  Porsha bit her lip. It hadn't really occurred to her that Chanel might ever be the odd one out. “You're not going to like this, but I kind of invited that Stanford Parris kid from the Yale party? And Tahj—you know, my stepbrother? I think he and Yasmine are, like, made for each other.”

  Yasmine took a huge gulp of her rum and Coke. “We'll see,” she belched loudly.

  Chanel's huge, almond shaped eyes shone as she digested this information. She'd actually been in love with Tahj for a week or two that winter, but enough time had passed now that she could handle hanging out with him on a just friends basis. And Porsha was right—Yasmine and Tahj were perfect for each other. “Cool,” she told her friend graciously, even though she really had thought that Stan 5 guy was a conceited jerk.

  The downstairs buzzer rang and Porsha and Yasmine both shot out of their seats and bolted to the window overlooking the street. Tahj Campbell and Stanford Parris V were standing on the sidewalk, each looking dubiously up at the second-floor apartment.

  “Oh my God, they're here!” the oddly paired roommates squealed in unison.

  All of a sudden Chanel felt like the chaperone at a junior high sleepover party. She rolled her eyes. “Do you girls want me to get the door so you can go fix your hair or something?” she offered jokingly.

  “Yes, please!” Porsha cried. She grabbed Yasmine's arm and dragged her toward the bathroom.

  Chanel chewed on a piece of ice and pressed play on Yasmine's CD player as she waited for the boys to mount the stairs. The Raves song “Ice Cream” came on and she quickly selected the next disc—one of Ruby's weird albums.

  Someone knocked on the door and she hurried over to answer it. Now if they could just avoid the topic of college for the rest of the evening…

  Not likely.

  35

  Mekhi would have been perfectly happy eating sushi with Monique and taking in an old French film down at that artsy movie theater on 12th Street. But Monique had insisted that they could slip into Kash's party unnoticed, steal a bottle of champagne and a few cigars, and then creep out onto one of the fire escapes and have a party of their own.

  Bedford Street was exactly the kind of über-cool, exclusive West Village neighborhood Mekhi envisioned himself living in when he became an absurdly famous rock star, and it felt extremely cool to swagger down the street with gorgeous Monique on his arm. She was wearing an ankle-length, completely see-through, white silk sundress and white sandals, and he was wearing his favorite pair of corduroys and a soft black T-shirt. He thought they looked pretty good together.

  Guess no one told him about the white thing either.

  The door to Kash's townhouse was standing open and the scent of shrimp pad Thai wafted out of it. Before they reached the top of the white marble steps, Mekhi distinctly heard the voice of his sister, Bree. And she wasn't talking—she was singing.

  Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me!

  Mekhi let go of Monique's hand and blinked in the bright whiteness. His fingers trembled and his palms began to sweat. Kash's entire place was white, white, white. Even the other guests at the party were wearing white. Sure, it was cool. He just wished someone had told him.

  Bree's voice continued to blare out of the stereo.

  Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me!

  “Hey,” Mekhi called unevenly. He walked over to where Bree sat on the white sectional sofa, her butt in Lloyd's lap and her calves resting on Kash's knees. “What's going on? Dad told me you were spending the weekend up at Elise's country house.”

  Bree giggled, obviously enthralled with her own craftiness. “Elise is in the country.” She giggled and leaned back against Lloyd's chest. “But I'm here. Dad's so gullible.”

  Mekhi didn't like the idea of Bree lying to their dad. Sure, he'd told his share of harmless untruths, but little sisters were supposed to be pure and innocent and true, not lying schemers who sat on older guys' laps, flirting their heads off while dressed in flimsy, see-through white undershirts and a pair of some guy's boxers. He would have written a poem about it, except he was too friggin' pissed off.

  “With doz breasts, you must get away with murder!” Monique pointed at Bree's barely clad boobs.

  Mekhi's hands were shaking uncontrollably now. He reached for the pack of Newports in his back pocket and thrust one in his mouth. “I don't even know what you're doing here,” he growled at his sister with the unlit cigarette between his teeth. “This is my band,” he added, sounding completely immature.

  Kash raised his nicely arched eyebrows. “Actually, Bree is singing for us now.”

  Mekhi waited for Kash to bust into a fit of giggles and tell him he was joking, but Kash kept a straight face.

  “Dad's always saying I need a job to support my shopping habit,” Bree gushed, her face shiny with excitement and full of adorable dimples.

  “And we decided we need a softer sound,” Lloyd added, stroking her curly hair. “Of course, we'll still use your songs. Just with Brianna's voice.”

  Excusez-moi?

  Mekhi lit his cigarette with his neon green Bic and tossed the lighter on the white sofa out of sheer rebellion. The way Kash was holding Bree's bare feet while not wearing a shirt over his well-developed manly chest was totally infuriating.

  Kash eyed Monique warily. “I thought you went back to St. Barts, sweetie.”

  Monique grinned. “Vell, I have been trying to get Mekhi to go there with me, but he says he has to finish school first.” She rolled her eyes. “Boring.”

  “Chanel Crenshaw was here,” Bree told her brother. “But she left. Not that you care.”

  “And she's prettier than you, Monique,” Lloyd added bitchily. He squeezed Bree
around the waist. “But not nearly as cute as you, dumplin'.”

  Mekhi sucked furiously on his cigarette, trying desperately not to scream his fucking head off. It would have been nice to see Chanel, but he kind of had other things on his mind. “Uh, Kash, could I talk to you for a minute?” he demanded between gritted teeth.

  “Ciao, ciao, darling!” Monique called to someone across the room and drifted away from Mekhi to smother some guy in a white linen tracksuit.

  Mekhi waited for Kash to remove his hands from Bree's feet, stand up, put a shirt on, and talk to him in private, like a man. But Kash stayed where he was. “Anything you need to say can be said in front of Lloyd and your big sister. We're all family, right?”

  Big sister?

  Mekhi's free hand closed in a sweaty fist. “Bree's not my big sister,” he hissed. “I'm turning eighteen in two weeks. She'll be fifteen in July.”

  “Thanks a lot!” Bree complained.

  Kash and Lloyd's eyes bulged a little bit, but they didn't say anything. Then Lloyd cracked a grin. “Well, at least she's not married.”

  Kash elbowed him in the ribs. “I'll handle this.” He pulled a tiny bottle of Stoli out of his back pocket and took a swig. “Mekhi,” he continued. “You sang like shit last Saturday. And you basically threw up onstage. Then you hooked up with my wife.”

  Wife?

  Mekhi's stomach dropped. Monique had never said anything about being anyone's wife. He had a sudden urge to take a very long cold shower

  “We're estranged,” Kash clarified.

  Oh, well, that's a relief.

  “I respect your words, yeah?” Kash told him solemnly. “But I'm just not feeling the love.”

  Mekhi shifted his gaze to the other party guests—visions of coolness and sophistication, wearing white designer clothes, happily sipping their martinis and munching on shrimp shu mai and rice noodles, their hair shiny. Mekhi wore corduroys from Old Navy and got a haircut at Supercuts once a year. He liked instant coffee and hot dogs bought on the street. He liked coming home in the evenings and laughing at the local news with his dad. His bedroom had linty maroon wall-to-wall carpeting that he was actually sort of fond of. He only owned two pairs of shoes. He was never meant to be a rock star.

  “Come on, Bree. Let's go home.” He held a grim hand out to his little sister.

  Bree glared at him. Was he crazy? The guys in the Raves didn't even mind that she was only fourteen. She was definitely staying. “You go home,” she challenged.

  Mekhi flapped a sweaty hand at her. “We can get a cab. I'll pay.”

  Bree shrank away from him, her back pressed against Lloyd's chest. “Please don't be an idiot, Mekhi,” she yawned dismissively. “And don't say anything to Dad. I'll deal with him on my own.”

  “Fine.” Mekhi shoved his hands in his pockets. He had a feeling Bree sort of wanted to get into trouble with their dad, but he wasn't going to tell on her. She was doing fine in the trouble department all on her own. “If you think I'm going to give you any of my poems, though, you can forget about it.”

  Kash raised his eyebrows, Lloyd rolled his eyes, and Bree kicked at the white sofa with her bare feet—as if they were all completely bored with Mekhi's little tirade. Across the room Monique was eating noodles right out of the serving dish with a pair of chopsticks. A girl in a white embroidered bolero jacket who looked a lot like Zoe Kravitz was braiding Monique's long, honey-colored hair while she ate.

  “Tell your wife I said goodbye,” Mekhi grumbled at Kash. He hesitated, giving Bree one last chance to leave with him, but she'd shifted around on Lloyd's lap so her back was to him.

  “Bye, Mekhi,” she said, sounding like she couldn't wait for him to be gone.

  Mekhi shuffled down the white marble steps and out onto Bedford Street, unsure whether to laugh or to cry. It was kind of a relief knowing he'd never have to sing onstage again. He could go to college, be a normal kid, have a normal girlfriend, and a normal life.

  Whatever that meant.

  36

  Porsha remained in the bathroom, preparing for her entrance, leaving Yasmine to hang back near the kitchen like a shy thirteen-year-old while Chanel answered the door. Yasmine felt like a total dweeb wearing Porsha's super shiny lip gloss and the one pair of black stretch Levis she'd stopped wearing over a year ago because she'd decided they were too tight. In fact, she felt like a total dweeb, period. Tahj would probably be a complete snob who thought she was a fat bald weirdo, just like Porsha had always thought before she'd lost her mind and decided to move in with her.

  “Hey.” Tahj stepped into the apartment and kissed Chanel on the cheek. “You live here too?” He was wearing a wifebeater, his usual army-issue pants, and black sneakers. He'd pinned his dreadlocks back with two turquoise barrettes stolen out of Porsha's bathroom, obviously trying to gauge Yasmine's vegan-freak tolerance by looking as vegan-freaky as possible.

  Chanel was relieved to discover that she really was over him. “Oh, no. I'm just here to open the door.”

  Stan towered handsomely in the hall carrying two large pizza boxes in his arms, looking like a prep school poster boy in a khaki suit, a pink shirt, and a green-and-pink striped tie. “The delivery guy was downstairs,” he said, looking bewildered. “It sure is different here,” he added, making it very clear that he had never been to Brooklyn in his entire life.

  “Hello again,” Chanel said. “I guess you two have already met.” She took the pizzas and carried them into the kitchen. Stan hovered near Tahj, his eyes searching the tiny apartment for the girl who'd actually invited him there.

  Heartened by the sight of Tahj's ridiculous hairstyle, Yasmine ventured forward a few steps. “Hi!” she greeted them, wishing she didn't sound so perky and dumb. “I'm Yasmine.”

  Tahj smiled, and she immediately liked his pink lips and the way his dark, almost black eyes shone in the candlelight. He walked over and shook her hand. He was skinny, and slightly taller than she was. Five-foot-nine, maybe—the same height as Mekhi—but Tahj seemed bigger, more athletic. He pointed at her feet. “Hey, those are Porsha's shoes, aren't they? My dog tried to eat those for breakfast once.”

  “Not that she'd notice. She has about eight hundred pairs,” Yasmine observed.

  They chuckled, grinning at each other. A regular mutual admiration society.

  Chanel was about to go and drag Porsha out of the bathroom when Porsha reappeared in a cloud of perfume, her eyelashes freshly curled, her hair reparted, and her face dusted with sparkly, mahogany-tinted bronzing powder. She was still wearing the same tight black T-shirt, but she'd put on a different bra and her chest looked more like a C now than a B.

  “Who wants a drink?” she asked, smiling coyly at Stan.

  “I'd love one,” Stan 5 replied. He walked over and kissed her on the cheek. He was taller than she remembered, and more formal. But he smelled like Polo for Men, which was one of her favorites. Porsha batted her curly-lashed eyes at him. I'm going to seduce you tonight, she told him silently.

  Chanel couldn't stand how weird everyone was being. Besides, it was almost ten o'clock—way past her dinnertime. She flipped open the lid of one of the pizza boxes. “Mind if we eat now? I'm starving.”

  Yasmine and Tahj each took a vegan slice and a rum and Coke and sat down at the table. Porsha refreshed her drink and slipped a huge cheesy pepperoni slice onto her plate, thinking that she was going to need her energy. Stan took two pepperoni slices—obviously he thought he was going to need his energy too. And Chanel took one of each, because she'd always been a big eater.

  “Why don't we play a game or something?” Chanel suggested once they were seated around the table. Normally she wouldn't have cared, but right now she'd do anything to stop them all from smiling at each other so…moronically.

  Porsha took a huge bite of pizza and washed it down with vodka tonic. “Yes!” she agreed, practically screaming. “Truth or dare!”

  Chanel poked at her pizza. As long as she stuck with dares, she'd be fine.<
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  Tahj folded his slice of pizza in half and took two enormous bites. Yasmine liked the way his cute little ears moved up and down when he chewed. “I'll start,” he volunteered, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin. “Dare.”

  Porsha shoved her pizza at him. Big rounds of pepperoni sat on top of the greasy cheese. “That's easy. I dare you to eat this.”

  Tahj rolled his eyes. “No way. Truth, then.”

  Porsha tried to think of a good question to ask him, but Yasmine beat him to it.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” She kept her eyes focused on her pizza, picking the little green buds off a piece of broccoli to keep from blushing with shame for asking such a totally corny question.

  Tahj's leg seemed to edge ever so slightly in her direction until the knee of his pants very lightly grazed her jeans. He picked the rest of his pizza up and then put it down again without taking a bite. “Hell yes,” he declared, his pink lips spreading wide across his straight white teeth. “I do now.”

  Porsha nudged Yasmine's foot underneath the table. “I told you so,” Porsha mouthed with silent delight. She picked a piece of pepperoni off her slice and popped into her mouth. “Now me. Dare.”

  Everyone tried to think of a good one. The thing about dares was they were always something silly. Truths were always far more interesting.

  Not necessarily.

  “I dare you to kiss me,” Stan said quietly, pushing back his chair to give Porsha access. “For five minutes.”

  How totally seventh grade.

  “Fine.” Porsha stood up and pushed her short hair behind her ears. Did he think she wouldn't kiss him unless he dared her to? Well, she was planning to do a lot more than kiss later on.

  She perched on his knee and wrapped her arms around his neck. A little blob of pizza sauce had collected in the corner of his mouth, and because she'd drunk just a wee bit too much and eaten her pizza a wee bit too fast, the sight of it made her gag. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of Polo for Men. “Someone start timing,” she directed