Upper East Side #7 Read online

  If you could call that a design.

  The thing about the Raves was they could get away with wearing anything they wanted or doing anything they pleased because they were true Thoroughbreds—good kids from good Upper East Side families who'd gone to boarding school together and then formed a band instead of going to college. A few months back, Rolling Stone had even printed a piece describing how every member of the Raves had gotten into Princeton and how one fateful May night before graduating from boarding school, when they were performing in a coffeehouse, a kid in the audience had just happened to be on the phone with his record executive dad, who'd signed them right then and there. The four boys decided not to go to college at all, because what better way to thank your parents for giving you everything you ever wanted than to buy your own car and your own house before the age of twenty? In the end, being rock stars would be much more profitable then getting a college degree in some completely useless subject like philosophy. Plus, the same record executive happened to be married to the director of a French modeling agency, which meant the band could hang out with beautiful French models all the time—a pretty decent perk.

  Bree looked on anxiously as Mekhi slid down the pole after Kash, landing painfully on his knees. His hair was clumpy with sweat and his eyes were sort of rolling back in his head. He was also dressed like Mr. Way Into Hip-Hop, which totally clashed with the other Raves' ensembles.

  “What's with the pants?” Elise asked, looking alarmed, as if she couldn't quite believe that she'd once allowed Mekhi to kiss her. “And what's with the hair?”

  Bree shrugged her shoulders. She had to admit Mekhi looked kind of weird, but she would so much rather make goo-goo eyes at the Raves' drummer than try to deconstruct why her brother was suddenly trying to look like a rapper from the early 2000s. The drummer smiled at her again and she batted her eyes, wishing her eyelashes were longer or that she'd worn more mascara. She also wished she had the nerve to go up to the bar and ask the bartender to buy the drummer a shot or something. It seemed like the kind of thing Chanel would do. If only Chanel were there. Or maybe it was best that she wasn't. After all, the drummer was smiling at her. If Chanel had been there, Bree might have gone unnoticed.

  The crowd was noisy now and seemed to have doubled in size. Elise lit a cigarette and passed it to Bree. No one had even offered to bring them drinks, but smoking in a room full of legal adults when you were only fourteen felt cool enough.

  Kash twanged his guitar and the drummer banged out a drumroll. The anorexic, pale bassist cracked his knuckles. Mekhi cleared his throat right into the microphone, a disgusting phlegmy sound.

  Gross.

  “I guess I should start singing,” he mumbled almost incoherently. The crowd tittered. Bree thought Mekhi sounded exactly like he did the morning he'd woken up to find they'd run out of instant coffee and he'd become so weak he'd puked. Bree had had to run out to the deli, and it had taken four cups to revive him. She cocked her head to one side, inhaled, and blew a long stream of smoke into the air. Maybe he was just pretending to be out of it so everyone would be surprised when he started going nuts like he had at Yasmine's birthday party.

  Or maybe not.

  15

  Angel was waiting for Yasmine outside the club, wearing the same loose black pants and rubber flip-flops as yesterday, his eyes shaded by small round mirrored sunglasses.

  “Hi,” Yasmine greeted him, hoping she didn't seem too excited to see him again. “Nice glasses.”

  Love the lip ring. You smell fantastic, she willed him to say in response. And with all certainty, I've decided to move in with you.

  “Should we go in?” was all he asked instead.

  The band had already started to play and the line outside the club had dwindled. Yasmine went straight to the front. “Richards. I'm on the guest list,” she told the bouncer. All of a sudden it occurred to her that Mekhi was about to see her with another guy for the very first time. If only she had the nerve to grab Angel and make out with him right in front of the stage.

  As if Mekhi would even notice.

  The bouncer gave them the once-over and then unhooked the red velvet rope. Yasmine could hear people in line behind them moaning jealously as they went inside. Angel didn't say anything, as if cool things like that happened to him every day.

  Funktion was loud and crowded and smoky and hot, just the way clubs are supposed to be. The Raves were playing with their usual bravado, but the audience seemed to be singing louder than Mekhi was. Yasmine couldn't even see him yet, but it almost sounded like Mekhi was choking on something.

  Crack me like an egg!

  Burn a hole in my finger 'til I find myself

  Find myself losing you!

  Losing you and missing stuff

  Missing how you kicked my ass!

  Whoa, that song wouldn't be autobiographical, would it?

  It was a new song, one that Mekhi had written only last week. Somehow the hardcore Raves fans had bootlegged a version from one of their practice sessions and had already memorized the lyrics. Now they were shouting them out, which was a good thing, because Mekhi was barely audible.

  Yasmine eased her way through the tightly packed crowd to the back of the club. Mekhi's little sister Bree and her friend Elise were seated at a table in the corner, smoking cigarettes and nodding their chins to the music with such studied boredom it was almost obvious they'd been practicing in front of a mirror.

  Angel pointed to a table near the fire exit where there was one free seat. “Go ahead,” he told Yasmine. He perched on the table and indicated that she should have the seat. “I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.”

  Yasmine pressed her lips together and sat down. What was that supposed to mean? That he didn't like her? That he didn't want to live with her? This wasn't what she'd imagined. They were supposed to sit together in an intimate corner, accidentally knocking knees and touching elbows and getting more and more into each other, all the while pretending to listen to Mekhi sing.

  But maybe that was part of the problem. Mekhi wasn't singing at all, only the audience was.

  Do you miss me? Do I miss you?

  I know, I know.

  That's not the fucking point.

  We were kinda like mowing the grass—

  Looked good, smelled good

  But such a pain in the ass!

  Mekhi clutched his stomach, gasping into the mike, which he held in dark-knuckled fists, his eyes red-rimmed and his sorry mouth gaping like a dying fish's. A fish dressed like the king of MTV Raps, in weird baggy pants and ugly sneakers, his hair all sweaty and gross and his neck shaved unevenly.

  See what happens to you when we break up? Yasmine thought for a fleeting, gloating moment. Then again, Mekhi looked so pathetic it was almost embarrassing to admit she even knew him. She glanced at Angel. He was biting his cuticles and wiggling his foot like someone waiting for a bus.

  All of a sudden the distinctive sound of vomit rising to the surface blared over the speakers and Mekhi staggered offstage, taking the microphone with him. The band continued to play even louder still, with Mekhi retching miserably in the background.

  Way gross.

  Yasmine touched Angel's elbow. “Maybe we should go,” she offered apologetically. It felt sort of wrong to leave Mekhi retching backstage when they'd once been so close, but then again, he was the one who wanted to be a rock star. Besides, there was probably a gang of Raves groupies mopping Mekhi's head with a cool, damp towel and spoon-feeding him mineral water at that very moment. He didn't need her anymore.

  Angel nodded and slipped off the table. “There's this party my Pratt friends are putting on that's been going on since March. Let's check it out.”

  He held out his hand, and Yasmine noticed for the first time that he was missing the last joint on the middle finger of his left hand.

  Ew!?!

  She tried not to stare and allowed him to pull her to her feet. If only Mekhi would come back onstage long enough
to see her leaving with another guy. But the club was way too crowded for ex-girlfriend sightings, and besides, Mekhi was otherwise occupied.

  Again the sound of his retching came over the speakers, nearly drowning out the music.

  A little advice, dude: We all know how attached you are to that mike, but next time you're gonna hurl, please leave it behind?!

  16

  Luckily for Mekhi, Kash and the other members of the band had enough confidence and humor not to get all uptight about the fact that their new lead singer was puking his guts out a few feet offstage. They played right through Mekhi's little episode, subtly cut the sound to his mike, and then segued into an old Raves song that Mekhi had never even heard before:

  Babycakes, you make my eyes scream

  Lick the drips, then toss the cone a-waaayee

  No wonder they were looking for a songwriter.

  The crowd went wild, singing the words with more passion than ever. Mekhi remained offstage with his head between his knees, trying to remember how he'd gotten himself into this situation in the first place. How on earth had he gone from reclusive high school poet to the baggy-pants-wearing front man of a famous band when he so obviously lacked the mettle for it?

  Before the gig started, he'd done what Kash suggested and drunk some vodka. Okay—he'd drunk close to half the bottle, but instead of relaxing him or giving him the courage to perform, it had made him feel totally toxic, especially when combined with an entire pack of cigarettes.

  Well, duh!

  The light was dim backstage, and the wooden floor was sticky with spilled beer and cigarette ash. Mekhi gritted his teeth as another wave of nausea gripped him, but he squeezed his eyes shut and fought it off. Suddenly someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Eet's all right, mon cher. ‘Ave a seep of tonique et voila—you are all better, yeah?”

  Mekhi looked up to find a gorgeous girl in her early twenties standing over him with a little bottle of tonic water and a glass of ice in her hands. She poured the tonic over the ice and squatted down beside him.

  “Here. No lime, yeah?”

  Mekhi didn't know what to say. He'd never drunk tonic without vodka, but at this point he'd try anything. The foreign-looking girl had long honey-colored hair and was deeply tanned. She was wearing a tight white tank top and a swishy green skirt that barely covered the tops of her long, tan thighs. Her eyes were hazel and she smelled kind of like pine nuts. He took the glass and put it to his lips, taking a tiny, tentative sip. It would be just his luck for the sip to backfire on him, spewing all over the girl's beautiful hair. Miraculously, though, it didn't. He took another sip, and then another, and with each sip, his head cleared ever so slightly.

  “Zat's enough,” the girl told him firmly, and took the glass away. She put it and the empty bottle on top of an unused amp and turned back to Mekhi. “When zee boyz are fineeshed, they vill make a party,” she continued, her hazel eyes sleepy and confident. “And zen we vill talk.”

  Mekhi nodded obediently, as if she was making complete sense. He was pretty sure the girl was French, and when she said, “And zen we vill talk,” it almost sounded like she had more than a little polite chit-chat in mind. But how could she possibly find him attractive in his current state? Maybe his performance translated better in another language.

  The girl stood in the wings, watching the band finish up their song. “Zey will play two more songs et puis finis, yeah?” she declared.

  Mekhi nodded again. That sounded about right. A tattoo encircled the girl's tanned ankle. At first glance Mekhi though the tattoo was of a snake; then he realized it was of a fox, curled around her leg, asleep.

  Oh, the poems he could write about that fox if only he had a pen, a notebook, and a large container of extra-strength Advil! He cleared his cigarette-abused throat. “I'm Mekhi,” he croaked, extending his hand but not daring to stand up.

  The girl smiled, a sexy little gap appearing between her front teeth. Then she walked over, grasped his clammy hand, and bent down to kiss his clammy cheek. “I know who you are,” she murmured breathily into his ear. “Et je m' appelle Monique.”

  Hmmm, Mekhi mused drunkenly. Was there even a word for foxy in French?

  17

  Stanford Parris III lived in the penthouse at 1000 Park Avenue in Carnegie Hill, one of the oldest and most elegant doorman buildings on the Upper East Side. But Mr. Parris's furniture, medieval tapestries, and eighteenth-century British sculpture collection went unnoticed by most of the guests, including the Crenshaws. They were used to such elegance, and it only made them feel more at home.

  “My grandson wanted me to have the party at a hotel,” Stanford Parris III confided to Mr. Crenshaw as he shook his hand. “Or at the Yacht Club.” He winked at Chanel's mother. “But I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to host so many beautiful women in my own home!”

  Chanel's mother smiled her gracious you-can-say-anything-to-me-you-old-lech-and-I'll-never-lose-my-poise smile, and Chanel giggled. Maybe old Stan Parris wasn't so bad after all. She shook the ancient New England aristocrat's hand and then stood on tiptoe and planted a flirtatious kiss on his withered old cheek just to piss her parents off.

  “I say,” Mr. Parris exclaimed. “Yale certainly knows what it's doing!”

  “Easy, Granddad,” warned a tall brown-skinned boy with an adorable dimples and amazing cheekbones. “Remember, you have a bad heart,” the boy scolded his grandfather.

  “It's not my heart I'm worried about,” Mr. Parris grumbled. He clasped the boy on the shoulder with a wrinkled hand. “Miss Chanel Crenshaw, this is my grandson, Stanford Parris the Fifth.”

  Like anyone actually cares how many Stanford Parrises there are?

  Chanel waited for the boy to blush with embarrassment and mutter something about how plain old “Stan” would be just fine, but he didn't. Obviously he thought his title was the best thing ever. What do they call him at school? she wondered. Number Five? Stan 5?

  “Here's your nametag, dear.” Chanel's mother pasted a bumper-sticker-sized nametag with Chanel Crenshaw, Incoming Fall written on it in blue marker over her breasts, like some sort of hideous, adhesive-backed tube top.

  Chanel pretended not to mind. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, cupping her hands over her chest to smooth out the nametag. Every male present let out a little gasp, all getting psyched for Yale's coed dorms next year.

  They were early and the party was thin. Boys in suits and ties and girls in long skirts and buttoned-up blouses lurked by their parents' sides, smiling awkwardly and guzzling champagne. The whole scene made Chanel feel like she was at her first day of ballroom dancing class, back in fifth grade.

  Someone tapped Chanel on the shoulder and she turned around. It was Mrs. Braxton, Kaliq's dramatic, French, slightly crazy mother. Her amber hair had been blown out into a mass of cascading curls, and her thin lips were painted a fierce red. Around her neck were six strands of rose-colored pearls, and matching pearls punctuated each ear. Despite her three-inch Christian Louboutin heels, she was surprisingly tiny, dressed in a sleek strapless evening gown and carrying a little gold satchel and gold opera glasses—obviously just stopping by at the party on her way to the theater. She kissed Chanel quickly on both cheeks. “Have you seen my son?” she whispered in Chanel's ear, her green eyes flashing.

  Chanel shook her head. “No. But Porsha's—” She stopped short, wondering if Mrs. Braxton really wanted to know that Porsha and Kaliq were holed up in a Plaza Hotel suite, having lots of sex. “Have you tried his cell?” she asked instead.

  Mrs. Braxton batted her eyelashes and waved her opera glasses in the air. “Never mind, darling,” she sighed, before rustling off to find her husband.

  Stan 5 was still standing by as if it were only right that the handsomest guy and the most beautiful girl in the room should be talking to each other. A woman in a black caterer's uniform handed Chanel a flute of champagne. “Where's your nametag?” Chanel asked Stan 5, scanning his oxford shirt that had
been left unbuttoned and tieless.

  What a rebel.

  He grinned and cleared his throat. “I didn't think I needed one.”

  Oh, so like everyone is just supposed to know who you are?

  Chanel was ready to ditch the party already—she'd shown up and stayed ten minutes, what more did her parents want? But then old Mr. Parris shuffled over to talk to her again, and she didn't want to be rude.

  “Your mother was just telling me what a wonderful actress you are,” he boomed in his charming voice. He adjusted his burgundy-and-navy-striped bow tie. “You know, I played the lead in nineteen productions back when I was a Yalie. The school was men only in those days. I've got some old pictures if you'd like to take a look.”

  “Honestly, Granddad,” Stan huffed in an effort to shut his grandfather up.

  “Actually, I'd love to,” Chanel replied with genuine interest. There was nothing she liked better than to look at old pictures. She loved the elaborate clothes, the dramatic bouffant hairstyles, the way everyone wore hats and gloves and handbags that matched their shoes.

  Stan frowned in confusion, as if he couldn't believe Chanel was about to ditch him for his wrinkly old grandpa. She flashed him the same gracious smile her mom had flashed his grandfather, and then followed the elder Mr. Parris through the apartment and down a narrow corridor to his library. His right leg seemed to be giving him trouble, causing him to list to the left, and she gripped the elbow of his dapper pinstriped blazer for fear he would fall.