UPPER EAST SIDE Read online

  Now Porsha remembered why she was mad at Chanel. Tahj, Tahj, Tahj. It was boring to the point of utter nausea. “Not really,” she yawned in response. “A makeover?”

  “Very funny,” Chanel replied. “Hey, don’t we know those girls?”

  Across the street, Bree and Elise were walking in that self-conscious, bumping-into-each-other way fourteen-year-old girls have of approaching people they’re embarrassed to talk to. Eventually the two girls bumbled across the street. “We brought our own cigarettes,” Bree announced as nonchalantly as she could, still a little freaked out that she’d just sneaked out of school.

  Elise pulled the pack of Marlboros out of her bag, but before she could offer one to Bree, Chanel tossed over her pack of American Spirits. “Put those away. These are so much better for you.”

  Elise nodded her head seriously. “Thanks.” She pulled two cigarettes out of the pack and stuck them both between her lips. Then she flicked on her mint green Bic lighter, puffing on them simultaneously before handing one to Bree.

  Bree sucked on it hesitantly. After Kaliq had broken up with her, she’d tried to take up smoking as part of her new jaded-woman image, but they’d given her such bad sore throats, she’d had to quit after only a few days.

  “So, have you checked your e-mail today?” Porsha asked her, cocking a freshly plucked eyebrow mysteriously.

  Bree coughed out a lungful of smoke. “My e-mail?”

  Porsha smirked to herself. Even though that light skinned boy in Bendel’s had been kind of dorky looking, he and Bree would make a very cute couple. The beanpole and the big-breasted cutie-pie. “Forget it,” she replied even more mysteriously. “Just be sure to check it regularly from now on.”

  Of course now Bree wanted to sprint back to school to check out her e-mail, but she couldn’t just abandon Elise, especially not when two more senior girls were walking toward the stoop to join the smoking party.

  “My fucking feet are killing me in these boots. It’s like Japanese foot binding.” Alexis Sullivan plopped herself down beside Porsha and unzipped her blue ankle boots.

  “Stop whining about those boots,” Alexis’s glued-together-at-the-hip friend Imani Edwards moaned. Imani leaned against the stoop’s metal railing and took a sip from a paper cup full of whipped cream–topped hot chocolate. “Maybe if you got some Japanese foot binding done those boots wouldn’t hurt so much,” Imani continued. “Or if you’d let me buy them instead of you, since I’m the one who saw them first.”

  “Chinese,” Bree couldn’t help but correct. “The Chinese used to bind women’s feet.”

  Alexis and Imani stared at her blankly. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” Imani demanded.

  “They’re smoking with us,” Porsha said protectively. It was kind of fun having two little ninth-grade sisters. Not that she ever wanted a real little sister or anything.

  Alexis pretended not to notice that Porsha was actually being nice to these two little snot-nosed fourteen-year-olds and threw her arms around Porsha’s neck instead, kissing her on each powdered cheek.

  Mwah! Mwah!

  “I can’t believe I haven’t said anything, but your hair looks totally gorg. I just love, love, love it!” she squealed. “You were so brave. I heard you got gum in it. Is that why you decided to go so short?”

  “Can I touch it?” asked Imani. She put down her hot chocolate and reached out to pat the back of Porsha’s head with a tentative hand. “It feels so weird! Like a boy!”

  Porsha suddenly wished she’d worn a hat or some sort of turban to school. She dropped her cigarette on the step below her and squashed it with the pointy toe of her boot. “Come on, you guys,” she beckoned, rising to her feet and holding out her gloved hands to Bree and Elise like Mary Poppins collecting the children at the playground. “I’ll walk you back to school.”

  Bree and Elise tossed their cigarettes into the shrubbery in front of the brownstone next door and stood up, hitching their bags up on their shoulders. Now that they’d tried smoking cigarettes with the seniors on a freezing-cold stoop, they weren’t exactly sure what the attraction was.

  “Do you think my hair would look good that short?” Elise asked, hurrying to keep up with Porsha.

  Anything would have been an improvement on the my-first-haircut bob Elise was presently sporting, but Porsha didn’t have the heart or the energy to tell her. “I’ll give you my stylist’s number,” she offered generously.

  It was extremely flattering to be taken under the wing of an older girl and given a glimpse of the we’re-so-cool-we-don’t-even-have-to-think-about-trying side of life. But Elise and Bree shouldn't get carried away, thinking said older girl is going to start asking them out to the movies. She’s not. And as soon as Porsha gets too busy with APs and parties and shopping for sandals, or whatever it is older girls do in their spare time, she was going to forget about all those good times they had together. She might even forget their name.

  As they turned down East 93rd Street, Mary, Vicky, and Cassie burst through the doors and waved to them.

  “We saw you leave at recess!”

  “We came out to get you!”

  “We didn’t want you to get in trouble!”

  Porsha put her arms around Bree and Elise and herded them toward the school doors, wise to the fact that the three girls were just being obnoxiously nosy. “We’re fine,” she told them coolly. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  Mary, Vicky, and Cassie stared after them in hurt disbelief. They were so much cooler than Bree and Elise. What did they have to do to prove it?

  Chanel remained on the chilly stoop, not exactly thrilled that she’d been left alone with Alexis and Imani. She examined her split ends, trying to come up with the perfect you-got-into-college! gift for Tahj while Alexis and Imani waited eagerly for the real scoop on Porsha’s hair.

  “Did she have lice or something?”

  “I heard she had this manic depressive fit and hacked it off with a nail scissors. She had to go to the salon to fix it.”

  “I think it looks cool,” Chanel answered dreamily in reply.

  Alexis and Imani glared at her, disappointed. If Chanel wasn’t going to dish anything out, they’d just have to make something up.

  And let’s be honest—that sounds like much more fun.

  10

  On Tuesday after school, Kaliq wandered into Central Park to check out the dealers in Sheep Meadow. He’d gone a full twenty-four hours without getting high, and instead of feeling healthy and energized, he was bored out of his drug-free mind. His classes at school seemed twice as long, and even Jeremy's lame-ass fart jokes barely made him crack a smile.

  The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting an eerie golden glow on the frozen brown grass in the meadow. Two heavyset guys dressed in black sweatshirts with the word Staff printed on the back were passing a football back and forth, and a tiny old woman wearing a red Chanel suit and a fox fur stole was walking her freshly groomed dog. As usual, the dealers were all sitting on benches around the perimeter of the meadow, listening to music on their phones or reading the Daily News. Kaliq spotted a familiar guy dressed in a light gray Puma tracksuit with matching gray-and-white Puma sneakers, gray wraparound shades, and a fuzzy black Kangol hat.

  “Hey Mitchell!” Kaliq called delightedly. Damn, it was good to see him. Mitchell raised his hand in greeting as Kaliq walked over. “I thought you were in Amsterdam, man.”

  Mitchell shook his head slowly. “Not yet.”

  “I’ve been looking for you. I was almost going to buy from one of those other dirtbags. You’re carrying, right?” Kaliq asked.

  Mitchell nodded and stood up. They began walking down the pathway together, just two friends taking a stroll in the park. Kaliq pulled a folded-up hundred-dollar bill from his coat pocket and held it in his fist, ready to slip it into Mitchell’s palm as soon as he passed over the goods.

  “I got a new shipment in from Peru,” Mitchell said, pulling a plastic baggie of weed out o
f his pocket and handing it discreetly to Kaliq. If you happened to be in the park watching them, you might have thought they were just sharing a snack or something. That is, if you were completely naïve.

  “Thanks, man.” Kaliq handed over the hundred and tucked the plastic baggie into his coat pocket, breathing out a deep, relieved breath. Too bad he didn’t have any rolling papers with him or he would have rolled up a big fatty right then and there. “So,” he said, figuring it was only polite to make some casual conversation with Mitchell before taking off. “You still moving to Amsterdam or what?”

  Mitchell stopped walking and unzipped his Puma jacket. “Nah. I’m stuck here for a while.” He pulled up his gray thermal shirt to reveal his bare chest. There were wires taped to it.

  Kaliq had seen Law & Order enough times to know what those wires meant. The bleak scenery seemed to close in on him, and he stumbled backwards. Had he blacked out or something? Was this all a bad dream?

  Mitchell let his shirt drop and zipped his jacket up again. He took a step toward Kaliq, as if he was worried Kaliq would try to make a break for it. “Sorry, kid. They got me. I’m working for the man now.” He jerked his head at the benches behind them. “Those ‘dirtbags’ on the bench are all cops, okay, so don’t try to run. You and I are going to wait here until I give the sign, and then one of them is going to walk you down to the precinct on Amsterdam. Amsterdam—pretty ironic, huh?”

  Kaliq could tell Mitchell was trying to get him to smile so the dealer wouldn’t have to feel so bad for busting him. “Okay,” Kaliq said woodenly. How had this happened? He’d never been double-crossed before, and it was a pretty crappy feeling. He dropped the baggie of weed on the ground and kicked it away from him. “Shit,” he swore under his breath.

  Mitchell picked up the baggie and put his hand on Kaliq’s shoulder. He raised his free hand in the air and waved to the cops on the benches. Two guys stood up and hurried over. They didn’t even look like cops. One of them was wearing black jeans and the other was wearing a stupid red hat. They flashed their badges at Kaliq.

  “We’re not going to cuff you,” one of them explained. “You’re a minor, right?”

  Kaliq nodded sullenly, avoiding the cop’s gaze. He didn’t turn eighteen until April.

  “When we get to the precinct you can call your parents.”

  I’m sure they’ll be thrilled, Kaliq thought bitterly.

  Across the meadow the two guys playing football and the old lady and her fluffy white dog were all huddled together, watching Kaliq getting busted like it was the first episode of some hot new reality show.

  “You’ll be out in a couple hours,” the other cop said, writing something in a notebook. Kaliq noticed the cop was wearing gold hoop earrings and he realized she was a woman, despite her broad shoulders and thick-fingered hands. “They’ll fine you and probably give you mandatory rehab.”

  Mitchell kept his hand on Kaliq’s shoulder as if to offer moral support. “You’re lucky,” he added.

  Kaliq kept his head down, hoping no one he knew would see him. He didn’t feel very lucky.

  11

  Tuesday afternoon, Yasmine stood outside Riverside Prep, filming the frozen remains of a dead pigeon carcass and thinking about sex while she waited for Mekhi to appear. Mekhi had left a message for her at the reception desk at Emma Willard to come and meet him after school. Urgent. Meet me here at four, it said. What a freak, Yasmine thought lovingly. What could possibly be so urgent? He was probably just having an attack of paranoia because his poem had come out in The New Yorker today. Either that or he was feeling extremely stimulated and couldn’t wait to do it again. Before even taking a shower that morning Yasmine had run downstairs and bought six New Yorkers from the newsstand on the corner. That way there would always be a spare copy to wave in Mekhi’s face when he was feeling especially inadequate.

  When she really thought about it, she was the one who should have been freaking out. The poem was all about a guy feeling insecure around women, particularly his dominating girlfriend. People who knew them were going to think Yasmine was a real ball-breaker. But the last line was so sweet and sexy, she couldn’t really complain.

  Take care of me. Take me. Take care. Take me.

  Reading it made her want to rip off all her clothes and jump him. Gently, of course.

  Just then Mekhi burst through the black doors of Riverside Prep practically in mid-sentence. He waved his rumpled copy of The New Yorker at Yasmine and galloped up to her in his worn-out white Adidas and navy blue cords, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on her mouth. “This has been the best day of my life!” he trumpeted. “I love you!”

  “You don’t have to be romantic to get in my pants again,” Yasmine giggled and kissed him again. “I’m always available. And by the way, I love you, too.”

  “Cool.” Mekhi smiled goofily back at her.

  Yasmine couldn’t believe this was the same old Mekhi she’d seen only yesterday. He was still dark, thin, and overcaffeinated, but his brown eyes were shining and there were traces of smiley-face dimples in his usually sallow cheeks. Wait a minute. Since when could she actually see his eyes? “Whoa, you got a haircut,” she observed, standing back to check it out.

  Mekhi had asked the barber to cut his hair short with long sideburns, figuring the sideburns would keep him from looking like all the preppy assholes in his class. He swept his hand over his head self-consciously. It felt odd, but somehow cleaner than before, more...homogenous. And that was exactly what he wanted—to be judged by his work, not his hair.

  Whatever you say, Sideburn Man.

  Yasmine put her hands on the hips of her black parka coat. Something about Mekhi’s haircut was so deliberate, like he was actually going for a certain artsy, bohemian look instead of just stumbling upon one by mistake. But his sweet brown eyes were actually visible now, which was definitely an improvement, and there seemed to be some sexy-literary-dude sideburn action happening, too. “It’s different,” she mused, already feeling a little nostalgic for the old scruffy-haired Mekhi. “I guess I’ll get used to it.”

  Behind them a group of eighth-grade boys spilled out the school doors singing at the top of their lungs. They’d just been released from music class and were still too young and innocent to realize how gay they sounded.

  Mekhi pulled a pack of unfiltered Newports out of his black messenger bag, tipped one out, and stuck it between his lips. His fingers trembled wildly as he lit it. Well, at least that hadn’t changed. He offered the pack to Yasmine. “Want one?”

  Yasmine stared at him and chuckled in disbelief. “Since when do I smoke?”

  Mekhi exhaled into the air above her head and rolled his eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know why I just did that.” He shoved the pack back into his bag and grabbed Yasmine’s frozen fingers. “Come on. Let’s walk somewhere. I have something major to tell you.”

  As they were taking off, Zeke Freedman walked out of school bouncing a neon blue basketball. Zeke was big and lumbering, but he was Riverside Prep’s star basketball player. He’d grown out his cornrows so they hung down to his shoulders, and he was sporting a new gray snowboarding jacket. Zeke and Mekhi had been best friends since second grade, but they hadn’t really hung out in the last few months because Mekhi had been preoccupied with other things.

  Namely, women and poetry.

  Mekhi realized he didn’t even know where Zeke had applied to college. The distance between them was mostly his fault, and he felt bad about it. “Hey Zeke,” he called over.

  Zeke stopped walking, his heavy body looking even more massive than usual inside his new parka. “Hey Mekhi,” he replied with a careful smile, bouncing the blue ball in place on the frozen sidewalk. “Hey Yasmine.”

  “What do you think of Mekhi’s new haircut?” Yasmine asked with a wry smile. “It’s part of his new Mr. Published Poet image.”

  “Oh yeah?” Zeke didn’t seem to know what Yasmine was talking about. He glanced down the street, giving the basketball a good hard
bounce before holding up his hand. “See you guys.”

  “See ya,” Mekhi called, watching his old friend dribble the ball down to the end of the street.

  “So, what’s the big news?” Yasmine asked as they started to walk west on 78th Street.

  Cold air blasted the clouds across the pale gray sky. Down the block, through the leafless branches of the trees in Riverside Park, Mekhi caught a silvery glimpse of the Hudson. “Well,” he began suspensefully. “This morning this big-deal literary agent named Rusty Klein called my cell phone and left me this crazy message. She thinks I’m the next Keats and she said we have to keep the momentum going now that we have the public’s attention.”

  “Wow. Even I’ve heard of her!” Yasmine responded, impressed. “What does that mean, though?”

  Mekhi blew a puff of smoke into the air. “I guess it means she wants to represent me.”

  Yasmine stopped walking. She wasn’t sure where they were going anyway. “But you only wrote one poem. What’s she going to do? I don’t mean to be a downer Mekhi, but you have to be careful of people like that, you know? She could be trying to take advantage of you.”

  Mekhi stopped walking, too. He flipped up the collar of his black wool coat and then flipped it down again. Why was Yasmine being so negative? All of this was totally unexpected, but it was also extremely fucking cool. And it wasn’t like he was going to sell out and start writing clichéd Gap ads just because he had an agent, if that was what she was worried about. “I don’t know. I think she can help me with my career. Maybe I can put a book together and she can try to get it published or something.”

  Yasmine blew on her hands and then rubbed her cold, bare ears. “Can we go over to your house? I’m freezing my ass off. We’d better work on the film, too.”