Upper East Side #1 Page 2

  “Chanel Crenshaw! What a lovely surprise!”

  Kaliq dropped Porsha’s hand and straightened up like a soldier called to attention. Porsha sat down hard on the end of her bed, put her drink on the floor, closed her eyes, and grasped the bedspread in tight fists—exactly how Carrie’s knuckles looked after she was soaked with pig’s blood at the prom.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at Kaliq. But he was already turning to go, striding back down the hall to see if it could possibly be true. Had Chanel really come back?

  The movie of Porsha’s life had taken a sudden, tragic turn. She clutched her stomach, ravenous again. She should have gone for the hot dog after all, or a whole string of hot dogs with which to strangle the entire guest list, including Kaliq and Chanel. She’d save them for last and do it slowly, with a flourish.

  And a little mustard?

  3

  “Hello, hello, hello!” Porsha’s mother crowed, kissing the smooth, high cheekbones of each Crenshaw.

  Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!

  “I know you weren’t expecting Chanel, dear,” Mrs. Crenshaw whispered in a concerned, confidential tone. “I hope it’s all right.”

  “Of course. Yes, it’s fine,” Mrs. Sinclaire said. “Did you come home for the weekend, Chanel?”

  Chanel shook her head and handed her vintage Burberry coat to Esther, the maid. She pushed a silky strand of hair behind her ear and smiled at her hostess.

  When Chanel smiled, she used her eyes—those dark, almond shaped eyes. It was the kind of smile you might try to imitate, posing in the bathroom mirror like an idiot. The magnetic, delicious, “you can’t stop looking at me, can you?” smile supermodels spend years perfecting. Well, Chanel smiled that way without even trying.

  “No, I’m here to—” she started to say.

  Her mother interrupted hastily. “Chanel has decided that boarding school is not for her,” she announced, patting her hair casually, as if it were no big deal.

  Chanel's mother was the middle aged version of utter coolness. In fact, the whole Crenshaw family was like that. They were all tall, exotic, thin, and super-poised, and they never did anything—play tennis, hail a cab, eat spaghetti, go to the toilet—without maintaining their cool. Chanel especially. She was gifted with the kind of coolness that you can’t acquire by buying the right handbag or the right pair of jeans. She was the girl every boy wants and every girl wants to be.

  “Chanel will be back at Emma Willard tomorrow,” Mr. Crenshaw said, glancing at his daughter with steely dark eyes and an owl-like mixture of pride and disapproval that made him look scarier than he really was.

  “Well, you look lovely, dear. Porsha will be thrilled to see you,” Eleanor trilled.

  “You’re one to talk,” Chanel said, hugging her. “Look how skinny you are! And the house looks so fantastic. Wow. You’ve got some fabulous art!”

  Mrs. Sinclaire smiled, obviously pleased, and wrapped her arm around Chanel’s long, slender waist. “Darling, I’d like you to meet my special friend, Cyrus Campbell,” she said. “Cyrus, this is Chanel.”

  “Stunning,” Cyrus boomed. He kissed Chanel on both cheeks, and hugged her a little too tightly. “She’s a good hugger, too,” he added, patting her on the hip.

  Chanel giggled, but she didn’t flinch. She’d spent a lot of time in Europe in the past two years, and she was used to being hugged by harmless, horny European gropers who found her completely irresistible. She was a full-on groper magnet.

  “Chanel and Porsha are best, best, best friends,” Eleanor explained to him. “But Chanel went away to Hanover Academy in eleventh grade and spent this summer traveling. It was so hard for poor Porsha with you gone this past year, Chanel,” Eleanor said, growing misty-eyed. “Especially with the divorce. But you’re back now. Porsha will be so pleased.”

  “Where is she?” Chanel asked eagerly, her perfect skin glowing with the prospect of seeing her old friend again. She stood on tip-toe and craned her head to look for Porsha, but she soon found herself surrounded by parents—the Braxtons, the Edwards, the Harrisons, and Mr. Sullivan—who each took turns kissing her and welcoming her back with the same mixture of rapture and loathing everyone battled in Chanel’s presence.

  Chanel hugged them all happily. These people were home to her, and she’d been gone a long time. She could hardly wait for life to return to the way it used to be. She and Porsha would cut class together and lie on their backs in Sheep Meadow in Central Park, watching the clouds drift by overhead. They would have cocktails at the Star Lounge in the Tribeca Star Hotel again, which always turned into sleepovers because they would get too drunk to get home, so they’d spend the night in the suite Jaylen's family kept there. They'd sprawl out on Porsha’s four-poster bed and watch all of Porsha's favorite old movies, like Carmen Jones and Breakfast at Tiffany's, wearing vintage lingerie and drinking vodka and cranberry juice. They’d drive around Chanel’s parents’ estate in Ridgefield, Connecticut, in the caretaker’s old Buick station wagon, singing the stupid hymns they sang in school and acting like crazy old ladies. They’d take Porsha’s little brother, Brice, to the Lower East Side and leave him there to see how long it took for him to find his way home—a work of charity, really, since Brice was now the most street-wise boy at St. George’s. They’d go out dancing with a huge group and lose ten pounds just from sweating in their leather pants. As if they needed to lose the weight.

  They would go back to being their regular old fabulous selves, just like always. Everyone would secretly or not-so-secretly be jealous of them, but they'd both pretend not to notice because they didn't need anyone else when they had each other. Chanel couldn’t wait.

  “Got you a drink,” Jaylen said, elbowing the clusters of parents out of the way and handing Chanel a tumbler of whiskey. “Welcome back,” he added, ducking down to kiss her cheek and missing it intentionally so that his probing lips landed on her mouth.

  “You haven’t changed,” Chanel said, accepting the drink. She took a long sip. “Did you miss me?”

  “Miss you? The question is, did you miss me?” Jaylen said. “Come on, babe, spill. What are you doing back here? What happened? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Oh, come on, Jaylen,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You know I came back because I want you so badly. I’ve always wanted you.”

  Jaylen took a step back and cleared his throat, his face flushed. She’d caught him off guard, a rare feat. “Well, I’m all booked up for this month, but I can put you on the waiting list,” he said huffily, trying to regain his composure.

  But Chanel was barely listening to him anymore. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for the two people she wanted to see most, Porsha and Kaliq.

  Finally she found them. Kaliq was standing by the doorway to the hall, and Porsha was standing just behind him, her head bowed, fiddling with the buttons on her black cardigan. Kaliq was looking directly at Chanel, and when her gaze met his, he bit his bottom lip the way he always did when he was embarrassed. And then he smiled.

  That smile. Those eyes. That face.

  “Come here,” Chanel mouthed at him, waving her hand. Her heart sped up as Kaliq began walking toward her. He looked better than she remembered, much better.

  Kaliq’s heart was beating even faster than hers.

  “Hey you,” Chanel breathed when he hugged her. He smelled just like he always smelled. Like the cleanest, most delicious boy alive. Tears came to Chanel’s eyes and she pressed her face into Kaliq’s chest. Now she was really home.

  Kaliq’s whole body turned hot. Calm down, he told himself. But he couldn’t calm down. He felt like picking her up and twirling her around and kissing her face over and over. “I love you!” he wanted to shout, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

  Kaliq was the only biracial son of a Black navy captain and a French society hostess. His father was a master sailor and extremely handsome, but a little lacking in the hugs department. His mother was the complete opposite, always fawning over
Kaliq and prone to emotional fits during which she would lock herself in her bedroom with a bottle of champagne and threaten to hang herself until someone bought her a new boat or a new house or a new fur coat. Poor Kaliq was always on the verge of saying how he really felt, but he didn’t want to make a scene or say something he might regret later. Instead, he kept quiet and let other people steer the boat, while he laid back and enjoyed the steady rocking of the waves. He might of looked like a stud, but he was actually pretty weak.

  “So, what have you been up to?” Kaliq asked Chanel, trying to breathe normally. “We missed you.”

  Notice that he wasn’t even brave enough to say, “I missed you”?

  “What have I been up to?” Chanel repeated. She giggled. “If you only knew, Kaliq. I’ve been so, so bad!”

  Kaliq clenched his fists involuntarily. Man oh man, had he missed her.

  Ignored as usual, Jaylen slunk away from Chanel and Kaliq and crossed the room to Porsha, who was once again standing with Alexis and Imani.

  “A thousand bucks says she got kicked out,” Jaylen told them. “And doesn’t she look fucked? I think she’s been thoroughly fucked. Maybe she had some sort of prostitution ring going on up there. The Merry Madam of Hanover Academy,” he added, laughing at his own stupid joke.

  “I think she looks kind of spaced out, too,” Alexis said. “Maybe she’s on heroin.”

  “Or some prescription drug,” Imani said. “You know, like, Valium or Prozac. Maybe she’s gone totally nuts.”

  “She could’ve been making her own E,” Alexis agreed. “She was always good at science.”

  “I heard she joined some kind of cult,” Jaylen offered. “Like, she’s been brainwashed and now all she thinks about is sex and she like, has to do it all the time.”

  How convenient. That sounds exactly like his favorite dream.

  When is dinner going to be ready? Porsha wondered, tuning out her friends’ ridiculous speculations. She had forgotten how silky Chanel’s hair was. How perfect her skin was. How long and smooth her legs were. What Kaliq’s eyes looked like when he looked at her—like he never wanted to blink. He never looked at Porsha that way, the fucker. She could kill him for looking at Chanel like that. Rip the heart right out of his sleeve and ram it down his throat. If only she didn’t love him so.

  "Hey Porsh, Chanel must have told you she was coming back,” Jaylen said. “Come on, tell us. What’s the deal?”

  Porsha stared back at him blankly, her small, foxlike face turning hot. The truth was, she hadn’t really spoken to Chanel in over a year. For all she knew, Chanel really had turned into a brainwashed prostitute slash drug manufacturer.

  At first, when she had gone to boarding school after sophomore year, Porsha had really missed Chanel. But it soon became apparent how much easier it was to shine without Chanel around. Suddenly Porsha was the prettiest, the smartest, the hippest, most happening girl in the room. She became the one everyone looked to. So Porsha stopped missing Chanel so much. She’d felt a little guilty for not staying in touch, but even that had worn off when she’d received Chanel’s flip and impersonal text messages describing all the fun she was having at boarding school.

  Hitchhiked to Vermont to snowboard. Spent nite with the sexiest guy. Danced his head off!

  Bad girl weekend. Head hurts. Boy clothes & shoes on my floor but no boy. Whered he go?

  The last news Porsha had received was a postcard this past summer.

  Turned seventeen in Paris. Viva la France!—the most awesome place to live fast & die young. Miss you!!! XOXO, Chanel.

  Porsha had tucked the postcard into her old Fendi shoebox with all the other mementos from their friendship. A friendship she would cherish forever, but which she’d thought of as over...until now.

  Chanel was back. The lid was off the shoebox, and everything would go back to the way it was before she left. As always, it would be Chanel and Porsha, Porsha and Chanel, with Porsha playing the smaller, fatter, darker best friend of the beautiful Chanel Crenshaw.

  Or not. Not if Porsha could help it.

  “You must be so excited Chanel’s here!” Imani chirped. But when she saw the look on Porsha’s face, she changed her tune. “Of course Willard took her back. It’s so typical. They’re too desperate to lose any of us.” Imani lowered her voice. “I heard last spring Chanel was fooling around with some townie up in New Hampshire. She had an abortion,” she added.

  “I bet it wasn’t her first one either,” Jaylen said. “Just look at her.”

  And so they did. All four of them looked at Chanel, who was still chatting happily with Kaliq. Jaylen saw the girl he’d wanted to sleep with since he could remember wanting to sleep with girls—first grade, maybe? Alexis saw the girl she’d been copying since she started shopping for her own clothes—third grade? Imani saw the girl who’d gotten to be an angel with wings made out of real feathers at the Christmas pageant, while she was just a lowly shepherd and had to wear a burlap sack. Third grade again. Both Alexis and Imani saw the girl who always stole Porsha away from them, leaving them with only each other, which was too dull to even think about. And Porsha saw Chanel, her best friend, the girl she would always love and hate. The girl she could never measure up to and had tried so hard to replace. The girl she’d wanted everyone to forget.

  For about ten seconds Porsha thought about telling her friends the truth: She didn’t know Chanel was coming back. But how would that look? Porsha was supposed to be plugged in, and how plugged in would she sound if she admitted she knew nothing about Chanel’s return, while her friends seemed to know so much? Porsha couldn’t very well stand there and say nothing. That would be too obvious. She always had something to say. Besides, who wanted to hear the truth when the truth was so incredibly boring? Porsha lived for drama. Here was her chance.

  She cleared her throat. “It all happened very...suddenly,” she said mysteriously. She looked down and fiddled with the little ruby ring on the middle finger of her right hand. The film was rolling, and Porsha was just getting warmed up. “I think Chanel is pretty messed up about it. But I promised her I wouldn’t say anything.”

  Her friends nodded as if they understood completely. It sounded serious and juicy, and best of all it sounded like Chanel had confided everything to Porsha. If only Porsha could script the rest of the movie, she’d wind up with the boy for sure. And Chanel could play the girl who falls off the cliff and cracks her skull on a rock and is eaten alive by hungry vultures, never to be seen again.

  “Careful, Porsh,” Jaylen warned, nodding at Chanel and Kaliq, who were still talking in low voices over by the wet bar, their eyes never straying from each other’s faces. “Looks like Chanel’s already found her next victim.”

  4

  Chanel was holding Kaliq’s hand loosely in hers, swinging it back and forth.

  “Remember Buck Naked?” she asked him, laughing softly.

  Kaliq chuckled, still embarrassed, even after all these years. Buck Naked was his alter ego, invented at a party in eighth grade, when most of them had gotten drunk for the first time. After drinking six beers, Kaliq had taken his shirt off, and Chanel and Porsha had drawn a goofy, buck-toothed face on his torso in black marker. For some reason the face brought out the devil in Kaliq, and he started a drinking game. Everyone sat in a circle and he stood in the middle, holding a Latin textbook and shouting out verbs for them to conjugate. The first person to mess up had to drink and kiss Buck Naked. Of course they all messed up so Buck got a lot of action that night. The next morning, Kaliq tried to pretend it hadn’t happened, but the proof was inked on his skin. It took weeks for that thing to wash off in the shower.

  “And what about the Red Sea?” Chanel said. She studied Kaliq’s face. Neither of them was smiling now.

  “The Red Sea,” Kaliq repeated, drowning in the deep black lakes of her eyes. Of course he remembered. How could he forget?

  One hot August weekend, the summer after tenth grade, Kaliq had been in the city with his dad, w
hile the rest of the Braxton family was still in Maine. Chanel was up in her country house in Ridgefield, Connecticut, so bored she’d painted each of her fingernails and toenails a different color. Porsha was at the Sinclaire castle in Gleneagles, Scotland, at her aunt’s wedding. But that hadn’t stopped her two best friends from having fun without her. When Kaliq called, Chanel hopped right on the New Haven line into Grand Central Station.

  He met her on the platform and she stepped off the train wearing a light blue dress and pink rubber flip-flops. Her silky black hair hung loose, just touching her bare shoulders. She wasn’t carrying a bag, not even a wallet or keys. To Kaliq, she looked like an angel. How lucky he was. Life didn’t get any better than the moment when Chanel flip-flopped down the platform, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the lips. That wonderful, surprising kiss.

  First they had martinis at the little bar upstairs by the Vanderbilt Avenue entrance to Grand Central. Then they got a cab straight up Park Avenue to Kaliq’s 82ndStreet townhouse. His father was entertaining some foreign bankers and was going to be out until very late, and Chanel and Kaliq had the place to themselves. Oddly enough, it was the first time they’d ever been alone together and noticed.

  It didn’t take long.

  They sat out in the garden, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Kaliq was wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt, and the weather was extremely hot, so he took it off. His shoulders were scattered with tiny freckles, and his back was muscled and brown from hours at the docks, building a sailboat with his father up in Maine.

  Chanel was hot too, so she climbed into the fountain. In the center of the fountain was a marble statue of Venus de Milo—the Greek goddess of love and beauty. Chanel sat on Venus's knee, giggling and splashing herself with water until her dress was soaked through.