Upper East Side #11 Read online

  She shook her long silky locks, trying to remember to act like a normal friend and not a love-struck freak. She jumped to her feet and ran across the room, her flip-flops thwacking all the way, and threw her arms around Porsha, squeezing tightly. All at once Chanel felt suffocated by the scent of Kaliq’s deodorant clinging to her best friend’s skin. She pulled back, looking hopefully at Porsha, who was still latched onto Kaliq’s hand. “I missed you.” But Porsha wasn’t smiling back. In fact, she looked less than pleased to see Chanel—she looked downright pissed. Chanel began to gnaw on her thumbnail. Porsha could be so scary sometimes. Had she found the letter? Oh God. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?

  As she wrapped her arms again around Porsha’s rigid sun-baked body, she couldn’t help looking over Porsha’s shoulder at Kaliq. His hair was wavier than usual from the salt water. It fell across his caramel forehead and he pushed it away, smiling widely as they made eye contact. His lips looked chapped and swollen, like he’d been making out with Porsha all night long—which he probably had been. The thought nearly made her choke.

  “Looking good, Kaliq,” Chanel sighed wistfully, unable to keep the words from escaping her lips. She pulled gently away from Porsha, tendrils of silky hairs escaping her ponytail. Kaliq dropped Porsha’s hand abruptly and moved toward Chanel, opening his arms. Chanel rushed in to hug him, wrapping her arms around his taut waist and holding on tight. He squeezed her back with a fierceness that Porsha’s hug had lacked. Had he found her letter after all?

  “What are you guys doing here?!” Chanel’s voice was breathless as she buried her face in Kaliq’s warm, soft neck. Porsha stared at them, her eyes narrowing.

  Shouldn’t they be asking her that question?

  3

  Yasmine Richards staggered out of the Hargroves’ living room, her arms weighed down with piles of old coffee-stained newspapers. Her army green cargo pants were rolled up to the knees, and her fitted black wifebeater was soaked in sweat. “God.” She exhaled heavily as she dumped a pile of decades-old New Yorkers in a large blue recycling bin, exposing the dusty floor beneath. “It’s amazing these piles of crap haven’t toppled over in the night, killing us in our sleep.”

  Mekhi Hargrove grunted in agreement as he walked down the hall to the kitchen and washed out his coffee-grit-encrusted Evergreen mug for the third time that day. He wouldn’t mind being dead right about now. They’d been cleaning out the Hargroves’ ramshackle, grime-coated Upper West Side apartment for a grueling two hours, but it felt more like two days. Mekhi just wasn’t cut out for hard labor, and he could feel the heart palpitations coming on. At least if he died now, he’d die young, like his idol, the poet John Keats, which he always thought was sort of romantic.

  They could bury him beneath the Strand, a copy of Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal over his ashen face. Maybe Yasmine would weep dramatically as she said her final goodbyes. Or wait, maybe Gabriel would. This was one of the many problems with recently discovering you might be gay—it was totally unclear whether your future widower would be your longtime ex-girlfriend or your newish-maybe-boyfriend.

  After he and Mekhi had shared a semi-conscious drunken kiss at their literary salon earlier in the summer, Gabriel seemed to have decided two things: that Mekhi was gay, and that they were a couple. Mekhi wasn’t sure how he felt about either of those conclusions, but he hadn’t had very long to think about it, because Gabriel’s grandmother had passed away a few days later, and Gabriel had left for Phoenix for the funeral and to spend time with his extended family. He’d been gone nearly a month, and in that time Gabriel had sent Mekhi dozens of beautifully crafted e-mails, all with the same theme: absence makes the heart grow fonder. But every time Mekhi wrote back, he wasn’t sure if he was growing any fonder of Gabriel...or just more confused.

  Mekhi tried to shake his uncertainty away. “I’m going to keep cleaning,” he announced with a sudden surge of determination, and marched into the living room with the purposeful steps of a military general.

  Mekhi in the army? Don’t ask, don’t tell!

  “Be my guest,” Yasmine retorted as she threw another huge stack of newspapers into the recycling bin. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s a lost cause.” Earlier that summer, her older sister Ruby had returned from Europe with her new Czech boyfriend, Piotr, in tow and had proceeded to kick Yasmine out of the cozy Williamsburg apartment they’d shared for the last three years.

  Thanks, sis!

  Since then, Yasmine had been living in Mekhi’s sister Bree’s room while Bree was at art school in Prague for the summer. Since Mekhi was heading to Evergreen College in Washington State in less than two weeks and Bree would be off to boarding school in upstate New York, it looked like Yasmine would be keeping her room in the Hargrove’ apartment when she started NYU—after all, somebody had to keep Rufus, Mekhi and Bree’s lesser-known poet editor father, company. So she’d decided to spend the weekend redecorating the totally dismal pad. And really, what better way to try out Mekhi’s new Queer Eye decorating skills? If he even had any. He was so fresh out of the closet it was hard for her to believe it was really true. But maybe that’s because she didn’t want it to be true.

  Didn’t she?

  Mekhi closed his eyes, remembering the feel of Gabriel’s lips on his, his scratchy chin stubble scraping against Mekhi’s jaw. The more he went over it in his mind, Mekhi wasn’t even sure how he felt about the kiss anymore—or about Gabriel—except that he was pretty sure he didn’t really have any desire to do it again anytime soon. He’d promised himself he was going to get to the bottom of this before he hopped into the 1977 Buick Skylark his dad had given him for graduation and drove to Evergreen in ten days. If he were going to reinvent himself in college, which was basically the whole point of going to college in the first place, figuring out his sexuality would be a good place to start. He’d even picked up a book at the Strand, where he’d worked all summer, called Unlocking the Closet. It explained that feelings of confusion and despair were natural while you were transitioning from one sexual identity to another, and said that one should be totally willing to ask oneself the really “tough” questions. Which he really was trying to do. Like, if he wasn’t truly gay, then why had he kissed Gabriel in the first place? Then again, why was Yasmine suddenly looking so sexy with newsprint smudges across her cheek?

  Good question.

  Mekhi moved over to the sad gray curtains shading the floor-to-ceiling windows in the musty living room and attempted to tie one limp side back with a twist tie he’d found with the garbage bags under the kitchen sink. The yellow twist tie fell to the ground and he bent down to pick it up.

  Yasmine sighed as she watched him. He was really going to have to get in touch with his inner diva if he was going to make a go of it as a New York City-bred gay man.

  “There, how’s that?” Mekhi secured the garbage tie and stood back to admire his handiwork, looking more optimistic than he had all day. He placed both hands on his hips. “So much better, right?” The fabric hung to the side, exposing the dirty hand-printed and dust-streaked window.

  Yasmine looked from the window to her ex-boyfriend—who now apparently had boyfriends of his own. “Uh...yeah,” she intoned, fluffing a lumpy brown leather sofa pillow that resembled a giant potato. “That’s just great. I’m sure we’ll be featured in Town & Country next month.”

  The truth was, Yasmine kind of missed him. After returning from a hellish stint as a nanny and then some sort of fashion muse out in the Hamptons, and since Gabriel had left for Phoenix, she and Mekhi had spent the last month hanging out in the city, but it had been...different. They had fallen into a comfortable, friendly sort of small-talk-making rapport—with none of the sexual tension or heated argument you’d expect from two exes living in such close quarters.

  With so little time before Mekhi left for college, Yasmine couldn’t believe that this was the way they were going to leave things. Not even one last lingering kiss or one last roll in the hay? Every time Me
khi brushed past her when he was making his umpteenth cup of Folgers, or on the way to the bathroom, when she caught a whiff of stale Newports and coffee grounds, she had to stop herself from throwing him down on the floor and ripping off his brown, frayed-at-the-bottom, zillion-year-old corduroys. In fact, now that Mekhi was gay—and completely unattainable—the thought was more appealing than ever.

  A key jiggled in the front door and it swung open with a bang as Rufus Hargove's bulk filled the doorway. He wore a pair of denim overalls splattered in white paint with a faded brown ANTEATERS HAVE FEELINGS TOO T-shirt underneath, and scuffed red bowling shoes on his feet. A white straw hat was perched jauntily atop his curly shoulder-length gray hair, and his bushy salt-and-pepper beard was partially braided, with a hot pink elastic at the end.

  “Hey Dad,” Mekhi called from his station at the window. “Check out—”

  “Close your eyes, Mekhi!” Rufus boomed, holding up one hand, palm out in a stop-in-the-name-of-love pose, as if he were auditioning to be the next Supreme. Mekhi was too surprised to do anything but comply. He closed his eyes, his mind racing with the possibilities. Chinese food for lunch? He was starving. An iPad to take to college with him? A first edition of his favorite novel of all time, The Sorrows of Young Werther by Goethe?

  “Mekhi, darrrrrrrling!” A preening, soprano-pitched voice sang out behind Rufus. Mekhi’s eyes snapped open. Whatever he was expecting, it definitely wasn’t this.

  “Mom?!”

  Jeanette Hargove flew into the room like an exotic bird just released from captivity, dressed in a turquoise floor-length sundress and carrying two large shopping bags. She threw her long, gray-streaked mousy black hair over one shoulder, elbowed Rufus aside with an exasperated sigh, and flung her skinny arms around Mekhi in a cloud of poisonously strong floral perfume.

  Mekhi just stood there in a state of shock, his arms like lo mein noodles as he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that this was actually happening. What the fuck? Was this really his mother, after, what, ten years? Or was this an acid flashback, like a real-life Howl poem? Oh wait, he had never done acid. What was she doing here?

  Yasmine watched with a fascination that bordered on horror as the mythical Mrs. Hargrove proceeded to kiss Mekhi all over his face, leaving violent tracks of bright pink lipstick smeared across his sunken cheeks.

  “How are you, my pet?” Jeanette chirped as she squeezed her son so tightly it looked like he might suffer internal organ damage. “It’s been absolutely ages!” She cupped Mekhi’s pained mortified face and led him, zombielike, to the couch.

  Yasmine had never seen him get whisked around before and with so little complaint. Rufus winked merrily at Yasmine from beneath his white hat, and sauntered through the chipped oak-trimmed doorway into the kitchen. Yasmine followed him, not quite sure where to go. Rufus pulled out a clear Tupperware container full of weird brown goo that had been shoved in the back of the fridge, peeling back the lid and sniffing happily.

  “Redecorating?” His voice boomed as he opened the utensil drawer and rummaged through it. “The curtains look phenomenal! That your golden touch, Mekhi?” Rufus yelled toward the living room. “This place could use something, that’s for sure.” He pulled out a lime green spatula and began using it as a spoon.

  “It could use something—like a wrecking ball!” Jeanette’s voice rang out from the other room. “Or a can of gasoline and a lit match!” She came striding into the kitchen, the blue folds of her sundress flying to and fro, while Mekhi trailed behind, carrying her bags. Gliding up to Yasmine, she smiled broadly and extended one hand laden with turquoise rings for Yasmine to shake...or kiss...or high-five? It was hard to tell, the way she was holding it, and finally Yasmine just bumped fists with her like they were old homies.

  What up, dawg?

  It was so strange meeting Mekhi’s mom after all this time—it was like looking at a slightly more feminine version of Mekhi—complete with dark skin and too much hippie jewelry. “You must be Yasmine,” Jeanette exclaimed, her brown eyes sparkling manically. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You too,” Yasmine lied, because in truth, she really hadn’t. As far as she knew, Mekhi’s mom had disappeared with Count Dracula or Count Chocula or something and was never heard from again.

  Mekhi’s palms were slick with sweat and his wrists trembled under the weight of the bags. His mother. Really, she was the last thing he needed. On top of trying to figure out once and for all whether or not he was gay, he was going to have to play catch-up with this person who had basically abandoned him when he was only eight. Or was he ten? She’s been gone so long he really couldn’t remember. He’d certainly stopped missing her years ago, but now here she was in all her perfumed jewelry-wearing glory, acting like her presence was really no big deal. Jesus. Bree had seen their mom in Prague. Why hadn’t she warned him?

  Mekhi brought in his mother’s packages and placed them gently on the kitchen floor. Yasmine tried to make eye contact with him but his eyes were glued downward, and he was seemingly deep in thought. Or in a trance. Maybe his mother had hypnotized him? Maybe she was a New Age gypsy?

  “Now, Mekhi,” Jeanette began, as she rooted through the cavernous bags, pulling out assorted packages and placing them on top of the piles of newspapers covering the kitchen table, “Bree told me all about your special announcement, and I’m here to help you celebrate!”

  Yasmine stifled a nervous laugh as Mekhi’s face turned humiliated.

  Rufus held the spatula, piled with what Yasmine was now convinced was dog food, even though they didn’t have a dog. “What announcement?”

  “Coffee!” Jeanette chirped excitedly opening a large pink box and shoving the contents under Mekhi’s nose, “Will go perfectly with these.”

  Mekhi craned his neck and peered inside. Cradled in white wax paper was a chocolate éclair. Two plump cream puffs nestled on either side of the long, frosted pastry. His face flushed with embarrassment. Maybe he was just being paranoid or perverted, but that looked a whole lot like a—

  “It’s a penis!” his mother trilled, as if reading her son’s thoughts. “It’s to celebrate Mekhi being gay!” Jeanette practically screamed. “The cream in the center is the sweetest part.” She winked.

  Um, ew?

  “Gay?” Rufus brought the spatula to his lips and chewed thoughtfully. “When did this happen?”

  All eyes turned to Mekhi. “Like...I don’t know exactly,” he stammered, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow him whole. His mother had traveled three thousand miles just to give him a penis pastry? She was back because he’d come out of the closet? He was going to kill Bree for opening her little mouth. Besides, what did penises have to do with anything? There was nothing sexual about his problem.

  Wasn’t there?

  Rufus shrugged and took another bite of mustard-brown slop. “And here I thought Jeanie just missed me—ha!”

  Mekhi’s hand flew to his chest in an unconscious and totally effeminate gesture. Rufus continued, an insane-looking grin now plastered to his bearded face. “Well, you’ll remember what you’re missing now, won’t you Jean-Jean? And then you’ll be sick of living like royalty in Europe.” He shook the spatula at her and turned back to Mekhi. “Does this mean I need to learn to how to make pastries?” he asked.

  “Anyway,” Jeanette sang out, ignoring her estranged husband as she began pulling what looked like yards of magenta silk out of a large white box. “I brought you some gifts to mark this very important transition into your new lifestyle. Look!” She held up what appeared to be a fuchsia pink jumpsuit with sparkling gold laces up the front. As she excitedly held it up to Mekhi’s body, it became immediately apparent that it was about ten sizes too small—which was only fitting, since the last present she’d sent had been size-four breeches when he was ten. Mekhi closed his eyes again and silently wished that he and Yasmine hadn’t removed the ancient stacks of newspapers today—maybe then the piles of clutter could have fallen d
own and killed him, if not in his sleep, then in this, perhaps the worst waking moment of his life.

  “I knew this would be perfect on you! Can you imagine what kind of splash you’ll make at the Chelsea nightclubs?”

  We can imagine—and it’s already giving us nightmares.

  “I have another gift,” she continued conspiratorially, taking Mekhi’s elbow and leaning in close, her singsong voice dropping to a low whisper. “But this one is for your eyes only.” Jeanette reached into the tote still hanging from her shoulder and drew out a large, black-bound book, which she handed to Mekhi.

  He ran his fingers over the gilt label: HOMOESENSUAL: THE GREATEST GAY LOVE POEMS OF ALL TIME. The book must have weighed over fifteen pounds. Mekhi stared down at the cover, not sure what to say. It actually was a really thoughtful gift. After all, he was a poet, and he was pretty sure he might be gay. It would do him good to read some gay poetry.

  Still, couldn’t she have just given him a card?

  “I figured you might want something more artistic to celebrate your awakening, and I knew you’d appreciate this new European compilation. I picked it up at this delightful little ‘alternative’ bookstore in Paris—they have gay movies, too! I’ll be sure to pick one up for you next time I’m there.”

  Mekhi frowned down at the book. Had his mother just offered to send him gay porn? She seemed really excited by the idea of having a gay son, and he hadn’t seen her in at least ten years—why not humor her? He shrugged, picked up the penis éclair, and took a giant bite. It tasted like a cream donut.

  “Delicious,” he declared, smacking his lips and really camping it up. His mother nodded, beaming with pleasure. Yasmine giggled and dipped her finger into the box to taste some of the cream. “Truly divine,” he added, for their benefit.