Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List (11 page)
Do all the boys feel like this? I mean, is this the way it usually goes?
It’s like I’m joining a club. The Boys Who’ve Fallen For Ely Club. Hundreds throughout the greater metropolitan area. Every year they have a potluck and compare their broken hearts.
How long do they usually wait for him in situations like this? An hour? Two? The whole night?
I’m not even supposed to like boys.
But, yeah. Here I am.
I lie down on the floor. Close my eyes. I can hear a television in another room—maybe his moms’, maybe from the apartment downstairs. If I can hear them, can they hear me? I’m really nothing but a heartbeat and thoughts right now. Not restful or restless. The rest.
“You could use the bed, you know.”
I open my eyes, and Ely is smiling over me. So damn sexy that I can’t help but love it and fear it and resent it and want it.
“What time is it?” I ask. Did I fall asleep? Am I really awake?
“I’ve only been gone about ten minutes,” he answers. “Miss me?”
I just say it. “Yes.” Like that.
Please may this not be a game. Please may this not be a game. Because if it’s a game, I know I’m going to lose.
I sit up and he sits down next to me. His breath smells like Orbit. He looks a little sad, but he’s trying to hide it from me.
“Where’s Naomi?” I ask.
“She left without me. Made a date with Bruce the First.”
This is news. If you separate two people who are usually as fused together as an atom, there’s bound to be an explosion.
But Ely’s keeping it muted.
“I see you found the stash,” he says, gesturing beneath the bed.
“It’s
awesome,
” I tell him.
I’ve entered the land of Bonus Points.
“You’re into X-Men?” he asks, putting whatever’s going on with Naomi aside in order to be with me.
“Are you kidding?” I tell him. “When I was nine, I actually mailed in an application to go to Xavier’s school. Put a stamp on the envelope, put it in a mailbox—everything. I didn’t hear from them, but the next year I did it again. And again.”
“Their queer quota is probably full up.”
I feel a little weird about him saying that—I don’t think he realizes what new territory this is for me.
“I’m not sure I would’ve put that on the application then,” I tell him. “But, yeah, maybe they have ways of knowing.”
Ely looks at me in a way that feels like he’s touching me.
“And how else are you a mutant?” he asks.
Sometimes attraction is the only truth serum you need. “I dunno,” I begin. But I do know, and I’m going to tell him. “I’m afraid of the number six. I have a microscopic third nipple, which would have made me a witch in medieval times. I can roll my tongue. I’m unable to throw a Frisbee, no matter how hard I try. I avoid red foods.”
“Even foods that have a little red in them?”
“No. They have to be all red. Pizza’s okay, tomatoes—not so much.”
He nods sagely. “I see.”
I’m glad that he sees. But what I really wish he’d see is how much I want him to kiss me right now.
But instead he says, “Naomi never told me what a mutant you were.”
Naomi.
That sound you hear is my spirits falling to earth.
“Where’d she go, anyway?” I ask.
“I actually don’t know.” He seems annoyed when he says it—hurt, even. But then he covers it with “I can’t say I minded. I’d much rather be here with you.”
I don’t know why, but I find myself asking, “Is that really true?”
Ely shakes his head. “Man, I can only imagine what you must think of me.”
“Naomi’s told me stories,” I say.
“I’m sure she has. Were they any good?”
“Not really,” I tell him. “I mean, the one with the T.A. serenading you at BBar with ‘Don’t You Want Me’ was kinda funny. The one with the guy who wanted you to write your phone number on his dick with a Sharpie—not so much. And I’m still not entirely sure why that guy gave you the maple syrup. I guess the truth is, I like you better in person.”
“That’s funny. I’ve always liked Naomi’s version of me the best. I’m always much more interesting when she talks about me.”
“Well, maybe you’re mistaken,” I say.
And he looks me in the eye and says, “Well, maybe I am.”
The two of us are just sitting there. And it’s not as if the air is charged with sexual electricity. But the air isn’t empty, either. It’s just a . . . normal moment. We’re living in real time.
“And how are
you
a mutant?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “my skull is made of titanium. I have the ability to read minds and part seas. I can make my left arm invisible, if I’m wearing blue. I only need an hour of sleep every night. And I have a third nipple, too.”
“Your skull is made of titanium?”
He leans in. “Yeah. Wanna see?”
And it
is
like electricity now. That first shock. Then the amazement that it happened. I touch his hair, his skull underneath. All the fragile non-fragile parts.
Hands in his hair, fingers touching the back of his head, I know this is not love.
But I am afraid—I am amazed—that it could be.
I wish my heart were titanium, too.
So maybe I’m sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park, centered inside the pulse at the heart of the city that doesn’t sleep. So maybe it’s just me here, and some joggers, a few commuters rushing to their
, the
bums, all of us sharing the view of dawn rising over the Empire State Building and Midtown off in the distance.
But I know the difference. Everyone else is a ghost. I exist here alone, stranded by choice. Deserted.
I’m like Columbus. I discovered this island. It’s mine now. I hereby claim sole custody.
Maybe this island bench
used
to be the one where Ely and I would hunker down around dawn, after parties, before going home. Once upon a time, this
was
the bench where he’d place my head in his lap and stroke my hair (or vice versa), where we created our private island for passing the time to let the substances subside before we returned to the nightmare our parents created. In the parallel universe of Naomi & Ely, this
might
be the spot where, if one half of our equation hadn’t decided to kiss my boyfriend, Ely would be coaxing me into a sunrise nap at this very moment, protectively placing a blanket over my body and snarling at any dude who dared ogle me with preying eyes. (Of course, I’d offer up the same Fuck Off glare to all the gay boys returning home from their late-night clubbing who’d dare offer up a smile Ely’s way. I give great snarl. I’m not entirely without talent.)
(Maybe Ely didn’t snarl at the men ogling me. Maybe I only wanted him to.)
Is this what divorce feels like—complete failure? Dad may have moved out over a year ago, but only now do I understand why, still, the only time Mom wants to get out of bed is when she has to. She’s yet to file the official papers, but the word—
divorce
—creeps and crawls, taunts, all over the marital bed where she’s taken refuge. Mom knows the other words—
adultery, separation
—found their way to her bed.
Divorce
will, too, when it’s ready.
I’ll take bench over bed. Still.
On weekends when we were in high school, while all hell broke loose between our parents, Ely and I would take refuge in his room and play a game of Turn Back the Clock. We imagined the late ’90s, before all hell broke loose in New York City and the rest of the world, to be a good era to reinvent, so we’d pass lazy Sundays on his bed, listening to early Britney, middle Spice Girls, and late Lilith Fair chicks, or watching DVDs of TV shows that used to air on the former teen angst WB network. I loved to nap on his pillows because they smelled like him, like comfort and boy.
Ely and Bruce the Second are probably wrapped in each other in Ely’s bed together right now. It’s only been a few days, but Ely doesn’t waste time when he’s on the hunt—especially if there’s potential to score a convert over to his team. What challenge! What fun! No time for mourning this morning! Not when Ely’s probably at this very moment laughing and kissing with Bruce the Dead to Me, oblivious that their
their
is like a gun to my head.
The
underneath my apartment’s doormat, Ely’s key, has been removed. The monsters under my bed will have to find someone else to scare them away. Ely’s services shall no longer be required. I don’t need my bed anyway. I’ve got a bench to sit on. Catatonic. Take
that,
monsters. I will never again lie in my bed alone at night, wishing for Ely.
I feel for Mom, but I’m not going to be her, stranded on the isle of denial. I’m not.
I can’t lie. My deserted island isn’t populated entirely by me and ghosts. An archangel lingers nearby.
Here’s what I want to know: He works graveyard hours as a doorman, plays basketball before his shift, and occasionally performs with his band in Alphabet City in the dead of night when his shift ends early . . . so when exactly
does
Gabriel sleep?
If I was Gabriel and it was seven in the morning and I’d just gotten off work after one of my shifts that did not close out in Alphabet City, I would not be sitting on a park bench, hiding my face under a baseball hat, pretending to be immersed in a book. I would be zzzzzzzzzzzz. I would at least be curled up next to my mom, ready to zzzzzzzzzzzz. Which I plan to be as soon as I can haul ass over to the Starbucks off Waverly Place so I can return home with morning caffeine for her.
First I have to know why Gabriel is playing with me.
I know he knows I’m sitting only a few benches away. I know he’s sitting there because I’m sitting here. I know he must be confused that I showed up at his band’s show and then had nothing to say to him after. Does he know I left the club and stayed over at girl-Robin’s because apparently I hadn’t finished the crying I’d started earlier that night at her dorm? I wanted to stay and hang out with him, but more than that, I wanted to turn back time on the end-of-the-world fight with Ely.
I for sure know Gabriel is not actually reading
Message in a Bottle.
I do know someone needs to salvage Gabriel out of late-night poker games with Bruce the First.
I should stand up, go over to him, break the ice with him finally. Engage.