Upper East Side #7 Page 15

  She pressed her lips against his, trying to relax and get into it, but it was hard, especially in front of an audience. Stan's lips were salty, unfamiliar, and weirdly wet. She was about to break away, just to catch her breath, when she remembered the time she and Kaliq were in a kissing contest at a party at Chanel's house at the end of seventh grade. They went into Chanel's walk-in closet and Chanel stood outside and timed them while they made out. They lasted forty-seven minutes, but the truth was, they weren't really kissing the whole time. They were whispering ever so softly with their lips pressed together so it was almost like they were kissing when they were talking, and vice versa. Which was actually way more romantic.

  “Time's up,” Tahj called.

  Porsha broke away from Stan. Thinking about Kaliq while she was kissing him had made his lips taste much better. “I could've lasted longer,” she declared, sliding off his lap. She sat down in her chair and polished off her drink. “You're next,” she told Stan. “Truth or dare.”

  “Truth.”

  Porsha tried to think of something juicy to ask him, but she only knew him in the context of Yale. “If your grandfather wasn't on the board at Yale, would you have gone to another school?”

  Stan cleared his throat and loosened his preppy striped tie. “The truth?” he asked. He glanced at Porsha and swiped his hand over his face. “I'm not going to Yale,” he said quietly. “I didn't get in.”

  Nobody said anything and Porsha felt bile rise in her throat. She scooted her chair back and lunged across the room toward the bathroom. Chanel smiled her mother's cool fuck-off-and-die smile at Stanford Parris V. “I dare you to leave right now,” she told him pleasantly.

  Stan 5 shrugged his shoulders as if he didn't see what the big deal was. “Is she going to be okay?”

  As if he really cared.

  “She'll be fine,” Chanel assured him.

  “There's a car service place around the corner,” Yasmine informed him, too giddy to get what was going on.

  Stan stood up and straightened his tie. Chanel walked him to the door. “Thanks for the pizza,” he said lamely before leaving.

  Yasmine and Tahj's fingers touched beneath the table. “Truth or dare?” she whispered.

  “Truth,” Tahj responded.

  “Do you think I should grow my hair?”

  Tahj leaned over and kissed her quickly on the lips. “No fucking way.”

  Chanel went to check on Porsha, expecting to find her kneeling in front of the toilet, where she'd found her countless times before. Instead, Porsha was sprawled naked in the bathtub, covered in bubbles, a wet washcloth folded over her eyes, looking like an overworked drama queen.

  “I don't know what I was thinking,” she moaned, turning her head toward Chanel. She was just so mad at Kaliq, and she wanted to go to Yale so badly, and Stan 5 had made it seem like she didn't have anything to worry about…

  Chanel kicked off her shoes and rolled up her jeans. Then she sat on the edge of the tub and dunked her feet into the water. “I don't know either.” She wiggled her pink-polished toes underneath the bubbles, daring herself to tell Porsha about going to Yale next year.

  Porsha reached out blindly and plopped a big pouf of bubbles on Chanel's cheek. “I dare you to get in with me.”

  Chanel giggled and began to unbutton her jeans. They could talk about Yale some other time.

  Back in the living room, things were just as steamy.

  “Is this what you're supposed to do when you're about to graduate from high school?” Yasmine asked, helping Tahj remove his flimsy wifebeater. She kissed her way up his neck to those pink lips she'd loved the moment she'd seen them.

  “You mean make friends with the bitchiest, most high-maintenance girl in your class and then hook up with her stepbrother?” he responded honestly, then laughed. “I'm not sure.” He traced his finger over the stubbly top of Yasmine's shaved head. “I guess at this point we're all ready to try new things.”

  Guess so!

  37

  Tuesday morning, as Bree was lining her eyelids with black liquid liner for a smoky, up-all-night effect that went perfectly with her new pink Gucci sunglasses that would be the envy of Emma Willard's entire ninth grade, her dad knocked on her door and announced, “You're not going to school today, babe.”

  Bree put down her eyeliner and opened the door. “What do you mean? Why not?”

  Rufus was wearing a child-sized Mets baseball cap that he'd bought for Mekhi when he was eight. It sat like a beanie atop a nest of wild and curly gray hair. He was also wearing striped elastic-waist pants that looked exactly like pajama bottoms.

  “Mrs. M and I had a little talk last night,” Rufus told her.

  Uh-oh.

  Bree tugged on her supershort school uniform. “How come?” she asked innocently, even though she knew perfectly well how come.

  Rufus ignored her Miss I-Didn't-Do-Anything act. “She basically laid it on the line. Either you repeat ninth grade, or next year you're going to school somewhere else.”

  Bree resisted hurling herself at her father and smothering him in a bear hug. She was going to boarding school! It was really happening!

  Not so fast, missy.

  “I'm not going here,” Bree insisted before the cab even stopped.

  “That's what you think,” her father grumbled. He paid the cabbie and opened the door. “Come, Your Tartiness. Let's take a look.”

  They'd pulled up in front of the Sloan Center for Bright Minds, a hippie experimental school on a flat, wide strip of boring-looking three-story buildings in Flushing, Queens. It was miles away from Manhattan and nothing like the ivy-trimmed brick buildings of the boarding school of her dreams. On the way over Rufus had shoved a Sloan Center brochure at her, and she'd thumbed through it. There was no real dress code, the lunchroom was organic and vegetarian, the students all had greasy hair and acne, and none of the teachers wore Gucci suits. In other words, Bree hated it already

  A giant peace sign greeted them as they passed through the natural oak school doors. The peace sign was hanging from the ceiling of the entryway, spinning round and round in the breeze created by the student-built watermill standing at the base of the stairs. Pure spring water cascaded down a bamboo gutter at the center of the stairs, feeding the mill.

  “Our upper-schoolers built the water mill last winter,” explained Calliope Trask, the school's director, at the start of their tour. “Every January we have what's called Winter Work. There are no academics, and the students focus on building something functional with their hands. The year before we had a chicken coop with twenty laying hens, right here in our gym. We had so many eggs we had an egg sale and raised the money to buy new hemp mats for our preschoolers to nap on!”

  Woo-hoo!

  Calliope Trask's hair hung in a gray braid down to her bottom and she was wearing a tank dress that did wonders for her frizzy black underarm hair. Her legs were unshaven too, and coarse black leg hairs stuck out between the straps of her tied-at-the-ankle shoes.

  “Those are wonderful sunglasses.” She pointed at the gigantic pair of pink Gucci shades masking Bree's smoldering brown eyes. “But at Bright Minds we don't allow designer labels or emblems on clothing or accessories of any sort.”

  Before Bree could even say, “What the fuck?” Rufus had whipped the glasses off her face and stuck them in his jacket pocket.

  “That's better. Now we can see your beautiful face,” Calliope trilled, as Bree scowled hideously at her. She followed Calliope and her father up the stairs, tempted to tell them both to take the Sloan Center for Bright Minds' hemp mats and smoke them while she ran away to the Czech Republic to live with her crazy, selfish, and neglectful mother. The Raves could do a tour of Eastern Europe and she could buy all the Gucci she wanted for half-price on the black market.

  They reached the second floor and Calliope opened the door to one of the classrooms. “Our classes are mixed-age and broken up into ‘bundles’ named for the endangered species of the Galapago
s. Brianna, you'd be in one of the thirteen-to-fifteen-year-old bundles. I'll walk you to the area where the Giant Tortoise bundle is gathered for this morning's work and then let your student guide take over.”

  The floor of the classroom was covered in sand, the walls were lined with stalks of bamboo, and the ceiling was plastered with palm fronds. NO SMOKING, read a huge hand-painted sign overhead.

  Bree had never really been much of a smoker, but she was dying for a cigarette. She pulled off her white cardigan to reveal the little Ralph Lauren horse logo dancing across the left boob of her new shirt, given to her by Lloyd Collins of the Raves. Anything to avoid becoming a Giant Tortoise.

  “Hakuna matata, Miss Calliope,” a pudgy girl greeted them.

  “Hakuna matata, Cherisse,” Calliope replied with a smile. “The Giant Tortoise bundle is exploring the country of Namibia in Africa this week,” she told Bree and Rufus, as if that explained everything.

  Bree stared as the rest of the Giant Tortoises—five greasy-haired, pudgy, crooked-toothed girls and three skinny, glasses-wearing, acne-ridden boys—all wearing some form of goatskin clothing that might have been stylish if it had been designed by Fendi instead of Hippies R Us. They stood in a circle, their hands joined as they sang a Namibian rain chant.

  Even Rufus looked a little startled. “Do you have any data on where your graduates go to college?” he asked, sounding a lot like the parents of Bree's Emma Willard classmates. Although he'd never have admitted it, Rufus was deadly serious about the whole college admission thing and had nearly opened all of Mekhi's acceptance letters before he even got home from school. He might have been an anarchist, but he was a strong believer in formal education.

  Calliope frowned. “We try to keep our school as noncompetitive as possible. Our students are encouraged to take some time off and explore the world. Live off the grid. Once they decide what their calling is, they may or may not seek further training.”

  Whatever the hell that meant.

  “I hear you're an artist.” Cherisse smiled at Bree with crooked teeth. “Come, I'll show you our mural. It's done entirely in deer dung.”

  Rufus held Bree's hand protectively as Cherisse led them over to a bizarre mural of elephants and zebras cavorting in the grass. Cherisse dipped her hand into a clay bowl on the floor and smeared something brown on the back of one of the elephants.

  Rufus shook his head tiredly and pulled Bree over to a table in the corner of the room, where he sat down. He loved the idea of an alternative school, but deep down he wanted his daughter to graduate from Berkeley or Columbia, not wander around the world painting murals with deer shit.

  Bree sat down across from him and pulled a vial of nail polish out of her pink hobo bag. “So, why are we here again?” she demanded. She unscrewed the vial and began painting her nails.

  Rufus readjusted his baseball cap and rubbed his bleary eyes, looking like he needed about six more hours of sleep and three more cups of coffee. “Look, Bree,” he told her earnestly. “You can't just shack up with rock stars in hotels and lie to your father all the time. But I want you to be happy. What do you want to do?”

  Bree screwed the top back on her nail polish and put it back in her purse. She knew her dad wasn't going to like what she had to say, because he secretly adored having a house full of crazy kids to embarrass and infuriate. But the only way she was going to give up her career as a Raves groupie was if she got to go away to school, where the opportunities for adventure were limitless. Hey, he'd said it himself: He wanted her to be happy.

  Across the room Calliope Trask was helping the Giant Tortoises fling deer dung at the mural. Bree looked up at her dear father with hopeful doe-brown eyes, her mouth forming the shape of a heart as she murmured eight melodic words:

  “Dad, may I please go to boarding school?”

  * * *

  Dear Emma Willard Seniors,

  As if you needed reminding, Senior Spa Weekend starts tomorrow! We just wanted to tell you how excited we are! And to ensure that you're dressed appropriately for the boat ride, we've had these fantastic Senior Spa Weekend long-sleeved baby tees made just for you. Now remember, we're the Braxtons' guests. Let's try to behave like ladies. But as soon as we get to the Edwards' estate—anything goes!

  Can't wait—see you tomorrow!!!

  Love,

  Your classmates, Imani and Alexis

  38

  It was a perfect afternoon for sailing. The sun was hot and the breeze was cool. The sky was deep blue and the water was calm. Small round tables with silk tablecloths in the Charlotte's colors—gold and blue—littered the deck, a heavy marble vase full of floating candles at the center of each one. In the bow of the yacht a man wearing a white tux played the double bass while a fat woman crooned Nina Simone songs flawlessly. The tenants of all the finest Upper East Side addresses clutched their cocktails and chatted to one another, wearing the latest couture resortwear bought in Cannes and St. Barts. Behind them the skyline grew smaller and smaller as they coursed towards Long Island Sound and Sag Harbor.

  “How is your son?” Misty Harrison asked Mrs. Braxton, her eyebrows knitted in concern. A diamond cluster necklace swung heavily on her neck as the Charlotte bobbed in the waves, white sails billowing. “I hear he's in trouble again. It isn't…drugs, is it?” she ventured, eager for the latest gossip.

  “Kaliq is fine,” Kaliq's mother bristled, the corners of her red-painted lips turned defiantly down. “He's home, studying,” she lied, refusing to admit that Kaliq had been grounded for stealing the family boat. “Is Jaylen excited about military college?”

  Misty Harrison poured the rest of her bourbon down her throat. Jaylen had his own apartment and she'd been traveling a lot lately, so the truth was she hadn't seen him in a while. “Oh, yes,” she replied vaguely. She glanced around for a cocktail server. “I do wish these glasses weren't quite so small.”

  “Oh, Misty!” Eleanor Sinclaire cried, throwing her arms around her old friend, “You just have to see the villa in Tuscany I bought for Cyrus. It has a Web site and everything!”

  On the leeward side of the boat, the guests' elder daughters were clustered in tightly packed groups, wearing their pink Senior Spa Weekend T-shirts, hiding from their parents, and pretending their Cokes weren't spiked with rum.

  “I can't believe Kaliq didn't even come to his own party,” Imani complained.

  “That's because we said no boys allowed, stupid,” Alexis replied, thinking that for once she sounded smarter than her best friend.

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Imani scoffed. “Boys are allowed on the boat, just not to my house for Spa Weekend.”

  Duh.

  “Oh,” Alexis responded, like she'd only just gotten it.

  “So vhere iizz hee?”

  The two girls stared at Lexie. She went to L'École, not Emma Willard, which meant she was completely not invited to Senior Spa Weekend. Plus, everyone knew that her mother and Kaliq's mother had gone to a Catholic boarding school in France together and totally hated each other. So what was Lexie doing aboard the Charlotte wearing the Missoni tunic with the plunging neckline that both of them wanted but could never find, even online, and her long black hair in braids like some sort of French hippie Heidi?

  “Kaliq is grounded,” Porsha informed them, even though she hadn't spoken to Kaliq herself since their encounter at the Plaza. “He's not here.” Mr. Braxton was such a hardass—of course Kaliq was grounded. She swayed in her three-inch Prada sandals and sucked the cherry out of her empty Coke glass, feeling extremely proud of herself for not scratching Lexie's eyes out, because the fact was she could talk about Kaliq without missing him at all.

  Yeah, right.

  Chanel handed Porsha another spruced-up Coke. “I'm not so sure.” She was of the opinion that Kaliq would never miss his parents' Hamptons cruise even if he was grounded, and that he was hiding somewhere on the boat.

  “Kaliq's not that creative,” Porsha countered, reading Chanel's mind. “If he was h
ere, we'd know.”

  “Kaliq is purrfect,” Lexie drawled, toking on a joint. None of the adults onboard seemed to notice that she was getting high right on deck, perhaps because she was French and wearing Missoni.

  Porsha rolled her eyes and turned her back on the stupid French wretch. He might have been the only boy she would ever love, but anyone who thought Kaliq Braxton was perfect was a complete idiot. She watched her stepbrother Tahj scurry below deck to fetch Yasmine another rum and Diet Coke, his head newly shaved to match Yasmine's. Tahj barely knew Kaliq and had very definitely not been invited, but these days wherever Yasmine went, he went. If they both weren't so un-cute, they'd almost have been the cutest couple ever.

  All of a sudden Chanel felt someone tugging on the hem of her pink Spa Weekend T-shirt.

  “Hey,” Bree said, standing on tiptoe to kiss her cheek. Elise was at her side, and they were both wearing pink Senior Spa Weekend T-shirts and matching oversized pink Gucci sunglasses. “You won't tell on us, will you?”

  Chanel had to admire Bree's audacity. She seemed to specialize in being naughty. She put her fingers to her lips. “I won't tell,” she promised, although there were only forty girls in the entire senior class, so it wasn't like no one would notice the two uninvited freshmen.

  Bree grinned and then dragged Elise below decks to score a bottle of champagne and Lord only knows what else. No doubt the two girls were going to get a lot naughtier as the night progressed.

  “Honestly, I've given up,” Mekhi sighed as he watched his sister and her friend disappear in a flurry of bubblegum pink. He hadn't been invited either but had tagged along with Bree to make sure she didn't do anything too illegal. He leaned against the railing and lit a Newport, waiting patiently for Yasmine to notice him.

  The familiar smell of cigarette smoke wafted past her nostrils and Yasmine spun around to find Mekhi grinning shyly at her, his scruffy twists and loose corduroys billowing in the breeze. It was so unlikely that either of them would be sailing on a yacht to the Hamptons, or that she'd actually be wearing a pink T-shirt that she burst out laughing.