Upper East Side #7 Page 9

  The bassist started unplugging things and breaking down the equipment. The drummer burped irreverently into one of the mikes.

  Bree giggled like this was the handsomest, most adorable thing she'd ever heard. “You can go if you want, but I'm not leaving,” she told her friend. She was supposed spend the rest of the weekend at Elise's house, but opportunities like this didn't present themselves very often.

  Opportunities to meet the famous rock stars, or opportunities to be as naughty as possible?

  The crowd began to disperse. Some headed to the bathrooms; others spilled out the exit doors and onto the street. Elise hovered next to the table, unsure. Bree took another awkward puff on her cigarette and jiggled her foot. And then all of a sudden he was there, in front of them—the drummer.

  He wasn't Kash, but he was almost as good.

  “Hey. I'm Lloyd.” His knuckles were wrapped in frayed surgical tape like a boxer's, and his dark, neatly cut hair and preppy shirt were soaked with perspiration. “You're Mekhi's sister, Brianna, right?”

  Bree nodded. She loved it when people called her Brianna. Although she would have preferred it if he'd said, “You're Brianna, that stunning model in the W spread this month, right?”

  “How'd you know?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. Despite the fact that she dressed better than Mekhi did and was nearly nine inches shorter and had a much bigger chest, they could almost have been fraternal twins.

  Except that she was also three years younger than Mekhi. Not that she was about to tell Mr. Drummer Boy that.

  “Your brother said his gorgeous sister was coming,” Lloyd replied with a completely straight face. He glanced at Elise, who was still standing there, fidgeting with the zipper on her purse like a total geek. “Marc, our bassist? He's got this thing about big old hotels,” Lloyd continued. “Anyway, he's booked some big suite up at the Plaza Hotel. We're having a little get-together there if you want to come.”

  Bree let her cigarette fall to the floor. She'd almost forgotten she was holding it. “Definitely!” she exclaimed with more enthusiasm than she'd intended. “I mean, my brother's going, right?” Not that she really cared if Mekhi was going. She just didn't want to sound like the type of girl who partied in hotel rooms with strange guys all the time.

  “It's ten minutes till my curfew. I have to get home,” Elise insisted. She gave Bree a look as if to say, “This is your last chance.”

  “Okay. Well, I'll call you tomorrow,” Bree responded. She handed Elise the pack of cigarettes, but Elise waved them away.

  “You might need them,” she said, before turning to go.

  Bree knew she ought to have felt a twinge of guilt for not leaving with her friend, but how could she pass up a chance like this? The worst thing that could happen was that her father would find out, but he'd never been very good at punishments, and besides, Elise would never tell. She squeezed her knees together and smiled up at Lloyd with nervous excitement. He held out a bandaged hand and pulled her to her feet.

  “Come on. I'll introduce you around.”

  The club had returned to a state of normalcy. People chatted quietly over their beers while the new Kanye West album played on the stereo. Mekhi was sitting on the edge of the stage now, next to a very pretty foreign-looking girl with honey-colored hair, cradling a bottle of tonic water. He looked completely spent, but the girl was chattering away, laughing and smiling like Mekhi was the most entertaining guy she'd ever met.

  “Shit, Yoko's back,” Lloyd hissed under his breath as they approached.

  “Who?” Bree asked curiously. The girl was wearing a supershort miniskirt, and her bare legs were luxuriously long and tanned, like those of a model.

  A giant fake smile spread across Lloyd's face. “Never mind,” he responded between gleaming white teeth. “You'll see.”

  The tanned girl shimmied off the stage and kissed Bree on both cheeks. “Mekhi says you are his seeez-stirrh,” she said in a thick French accent. “I am so jealous of doz gorgeous bresssts!” She reached out with both hands and gave each of Bree's boobs a good hard squeeze.

  Honk, honk!

  “So womanly, non?”

  “Monique, I wouldn't—” Mekhi started to warn her.

  “Thanks,” Bree interrupted, surprising everyone including herself. She'd always been extremely sensitive about her chest, with good reason, but Monique's little outburst seemed like a genuine French compliment. Besides, she didn't really mind that Kash and Lloyd were now well aware that her boobs were the largest in the room.

  “Brianna, this is Monique. Monique, Brianna.” Lloyd introduced them. “Monique is Kash—

  “Visiting from St. Tropez,” Monique cut him off, her eyes burning with a look that had, “Shut up, you idiot!” written all over it. “Are you coming to zee Plaza 'otel wid us?” she asked Bree.

  “No, she has to go home,” Mekhi slurred. “It's late.” He glanced around the club with bleary eyes. “Isn't it?”

  Well, his outfit was definitely tired.

  Little sister lesson number two: Don't even think about telling her what to do.

  “No way,” Bree corrected her brother. “I am so coming.”

  Kash slid down the fireman's pole and bounded up to them. “Ready to roll?” he demanded, clapping Mekhi and Lloyd on their backs.

  Monique flashed him a sweet I'm-only-tolerating-you-because-you're-famous sort of smile and hooked her arm possessively through Mekhi's. Lloyd grabbed Bree and squashed her into a sort of three-way bear hug with Kash. “Kash, meet Brianna. Brianna, meet Kash.”

  Bree was so excited, it was a good thing Lloyd was hugging her so tight, or she would have collapsed on the floor. Kash made an exaggerated delighted gasping sound, like an overly gay man discovering the cutest little doggie raincoat he'd ever seen. Then he kissed Bree on the tip of her nose.

  So maybe he wasn't Chanel's new boyfriend.

  “Why don't Mekhi and Monique take the limo? The rest of us can squeeze into a cab,” Kash offered.

  “I could sit on someone's lap,” Bree volunteered.

  “Of course you can,” said Lloyd.

  “Of course you can,” Kash agreed.

  Of course she can.

  21

  “I take more APs than anyone else in my class, and I have an A average,” Porsha complained.

  “Then you should have applied early admission,” Stan advised.

  “But don't you understand. I kissed my interviewer,” Porsha whispered loudly, sounding like a broken record. “My college advisor said there was no way they'd take me early.”

  He shrugged. “Smaller pool of applicants. Better chance to shine.”

  Porsha gritted her teeth to hold back a slew of expletives. She'd planned on applying to Yale early admission since she was thirteen years old. Why had she listened to clueless, bloody-nosed, wig-wearing Ms. Glos and not trusted her instincts? And why hadn't she met Stan like, a year ago, when he could have been really useful?

  They were lying on their stomachs on the double bed in the room Stan's grandfather kept for him, and had already thumbed through every Yale catalog since 1947, laughing at the clothes people wore and the corny phrases underneath the photos. Things like, “Here's looking at you, kid!” and “Ain't nobody here but us chickens!” The room was decorated with Yale paraphernalia: Yale swim team pennants, Stan III's B.A. in English and dramatic arts, a New Haven newspaper article featuring Stan III as one of Yale's most gifted young actors, and a yellow card from the Yale University registrar listing every semester old Stan III had made the dean's list.

  “It looks like Yale is your grandfather's whole life,” Porsha observed. Her shoes were half on, half off, and she bounced them up and down on the ends of her toes.

  Stan rolled over and looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he answered hollowly.

  Porsha wasn't sure why he sounded so bummed. After all, Yale was her whole life too, but she was the one still stuck on the wait list.

  Stan reached out and
twirled a strand of Porsha's hair around his finger. “We should stop talking about this,” he told her, letting the twirl go, “or you're going to get seriously depressed.”

  “But—” Porsha started to say. Exactly when were they going to devise a plan to get her into Yale?

  He rolled over and grabbed her arms, pulling her toward him. “We should stop talking period,” he said, his eyes hungrily searching her face. “Like I said, my grandfather and I are really close. So don't worry about getting in, okay?”

  This was the part in the movie where the music was supposed to slow down, heads were supposed to meet, and boy and girl were supposed to kiss so passionately that their clothes would wind up in a pile on the floor while the windows steamed up. Stan was going to get her into Yale! But for some reason—maybe it was the quantity of Yale paraphernalia on the walls and all over the floor, or maybe it was because she'd drunk four glasses of champagne at a party she hadn't even been invited to, or maybe it was because kissing any boy other than Kaliq felt truly naughty—Porsha couldn't manage to just close her eyes and kiss Stanford Parris V. All she could do was snort and giggle like a twelve-year-old.

  She pushed him away, snorting and giggling so hard she choked.

  “What?” he asked, pushing himself up on his elbows.

  Porsha snorted again. She felt giddy and confused and very much in need of a little girl talk with Chanel. “I don't know.” She got up and jammed her feet into her shoes. “Um, I have to go find someone. Maybe I'll see you later?”

  Stan seemed to enjoy how hot and bothered she was. He grinned cockily at her and raised his thick eyebrows. “Maybe.”

  As she left the room, Porsha tried to pull herself together.

  Not maybe. Definitely.

  22

  “I never really thought of Hamlet as tragic per se,” Chanel found herself telling Stanford Parris III. She'd only skimmed Hamlet when they'd had to write an essay on it for English class, but she'd always been an excellent bullshit artist. Even without reading every word she'd noticed that Hamlet reminded her of Mekhi Hargrove, who she'd hooked up with earlier in the fall. So woeful and neurotic. “I mean, all he needed was a little Zoloft or something and he'd probably have conquered all of Scandinavia and had, like, a wife in every country.”

  Well, hello, Miss I Know All There Is to Know About Shakespeare.

  Mr. Parris nodded. “Wellbutrin. That's what I take.”

  Like she really needed to know that.

  “I like reading,” Chanel went on, completely bemused by what was coming out of her mouth. “As long as I have nothing else to do,” she corrected herself.

  Which was almost never.

  “I guess that's the trouble I'm going to have, you know, with picking a major? I won't be able to decide between English and drama.” She smiled and pulled her short skirt demurely over her knees.

  Since when is the city's biggest party girl worried about her major?

  “Elementary, my dear. That's why they invented the double major!” Mr. Parris snapped his suspenders, obviously delighted with the opportunity to divulge his vast wisdom to a young girl of such extraordinary beauty and intelligence.

  All of a sudden Porsha burst into the room, dressed a little too sexily for an academic gathering and wearing the Yale pendant her mother had ordered for baby Yale. Chanel had never seen her best friend look so bizarre.

  “Thank God I found you!” Porsha babbled breathlessly. She glanced at Mr. Parris. “Sorry for interrupting, sir, but this is an emergency!”

  Chanel could always tell when Porsha was up to something or was just plain freaking out, because her nostrils flared like a wild animal and she forgot to blink. Right now she looked like a squirrel with rabies. Chanel stood up and shook Mr. Parris's hand. “It was truly a pleasure talking to you, Mr. Parris.”

  Mr. Parris bent down and kissed her hand. “The pleasure was entirely mine.”

  Porsha coughed. Of course Chanel had completely enchanted the old man, which was totally unfair because Porsha was the one who actually needed to enchant him. “This really is an emergency,” she blurted impatiently.

  Not exactly enchanting.

  “Okay, I'm coming,” Chanel murmured. She looped her arm through Porsha's and Porsha dragged her to the front hall and pushed the button for the elevator. “Where are we going anyway?” Chanel demanded as the elevator doors rolled open.

  “The Plaza!” Porsha squealed, dragging her inside.

  And it's probably safe to say they weren't going to discuss Shakespeare once they got there.

  23

  Yasmine and Angel walked up an enclosed ramp that led into the warehouse space in Williamsburg where Angel's friends' party was taking place. Yasmine could hear music coming from inside—something airy and rhythmic. A woman pushed open the black metal door at the top of the ramp and stomped past wearing a yellow bandana in her hair. She looked like she'd been crying, and was cradling her left hand against her chest.

  “Hey, Bethene,” Angel called to her as she stomped away.

  “What are those?” Yasmine peered into a bucket of what she hoped were very well produced stuffed animals, sitting on the floor halfway up the ramp.

  “Kittens,” Angel replied, as if no further explanation was required.

  The ramp seemed to be fashioned as a sort of display, and was scattered with random art objects. Beside the bucket of kittens was a life-sized wax figure of Santa Claus carrying a huge see-through plastic sack full of naked Barbie dolls with their heads missing. At Santa's feet was a lava lamp with real-looking eyeballs floating around inside it. The ramp was like a haunted house, only slightly more disturbing.

  Slightly?

  “Everyone here is an artist,” Angel declared, “and they've been doing this party since March.”

  Yasmine nodded, even though she wasn't exactly sure what he meant by “doing this party.” It sounded a little like the art “happenings” at Andy Warhol's Factory back in the 1960s—lots of cool arty people collaborating to make weird art that no one really understood and that wasn't even very good.

  When they reached the top of the ramp, Angel pushed the door open and they stepped inside. The space was a giant warehouse, cool and dark, except for the glow from four giant lava lamps like the one they'd seen on the way in. No one greeted them, and Yasmine was surprised to find only about thirty people there. They sat cross legged on the floor in little clusters, finger-painting on the pages of old encyclopedias and looking completely spaced out, like they hadn't slept since the party started back in March. No one was drinking anything or eating anything or even talking. It was sort of like an anti-party party.

  Yasmine watched as a woman wearing a fuzzy red bathrobe and red rubber rain boots chopped off a handful of her long dark hair and dropped it into a huge pot sitting on a hotplate on the floor. A tall, pale, skinny guy wearing only a black fedora hat and black boxer shorts went up to the pot and stirred it with a wooden yardstick.

  “Bruce,” Angel greeted the guy with a nod. “This is Yasmine. She makes films.”

  Bruce nodded and kept on nodding for longer than normal as he stirred the pot. Yasmine wished desperately that she had her video camera with her. She'd never seen anything quite like this.

  “Are you here to make a donation?” Bruce asked.

  Yasmine wasn't sure who he was talking to. In fact, for the first time in her life, she felt completely lost. Every party she'd ever been to had been predictable to the point of being hopelessly boring. She smiled tentatively at Angel. It was sort of nice to be surprised.

  She took a step forward and peered into Bruce's pot. “What is that anyway?”

  Bruce held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. The top joint on the middle finger of his left hand was missing, just like Angel's.

  “I'm working on a regeneration project,” Bruce said, as if that explained everything.

  Angel held up his left hand and spread his fingers out like a fan. No, Yasmine wasn't insane. His middle
finger really was missing its top. “Most of us have contributed. But there's no pressure or anything.”

  Well, isn't that a relief?

  Yasmine wasn't easily creeped out, but she was getting close. “And what do you do with the…parts and stuff…in the pot…after they're like, cooked or whatever?”

  Bruce grinned and blue veins stood out on his pale neck. He looked like he hadn't eaten in months. “It's not about the doing; it's about the stirring,” he responded.

  Angel nodded in that same odd, prolonged way that Bruce had nodded before. “Yasmine's got a great space,” he volunteered, with no regard to anything. “I'm thinking of crashing there for a while. It'd be great for something like this,” he added, still nodding.

  All of a sudden Yasmine realized that looking for roommates on the Internet probably wasn't such a great idea. Angel had seemed interesting at first, but she'd almost rather live with Mekhi, despite all his failings, or one of her spoiled, vain, fashion-obsessed classmates than come home to a pot of boiling fingers and who knew what else on her stove. It was one thing to make art that people thought was shocking and bizarre without actually trying to be shocking and bizarre. Angel and his friends were in college—hadn't they learned anything?

  “Are you thirsty?” Angel asked her. “Do you want some water?”

  Yasmine realized that was just about the nicest thing he'd said to her all night. She couldn't believe she'd been worried about the configuration of her moles, or that she'd actually worn perfume just for him. She yawned and glanced around the enormous space. “I'm not sure how much more of this I can take,” she responded, mimicking what Angel had said about Mekhi's singing in the club. “I'm going home.”

  Angel bit his lip. “But this is working. I mean—so far, right?” he asked.

  “Actually, it's not.” Yasmine imitated the sweet, fake smile her classmate Porsha Sinclaire flashed, telepathically telling the teacher to eat shit and die when she was trying to get excused from class early to attend a Manolo Blahnik sale.