Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List (4 page)
“Reminder,” I say. “How much do I love you to give up ever having a chance with a Gabriel?”
“Reminder. You have a boyfriend already.”
I do need the reminder. “You’re right. Bruce Two is waiting for me. I gotta go.”
My boyfriend and I have our own study session planned: He studies while I avoid studying. I like to iron Bruce’s shirts while he studies at his desk, occasionally looking up from his laptop or his textbooks to smile at me in his boring but pleasing kind of way. Great teeth. Bruce will say, “Naomi, I wear plain black T-shirts from the Gap. They really don’t need ironing.” And I’ll say, “So?” Because ironing for him is somewhat more fun than making out with him. It’s, like, orderly, and reasonably fine time suckage. The ironing, and the kissing. And when the mandated interval of Bruce’s five-minute study-break time beeps from his cell phone alarm clock, he’ll stand up and cuddle me from behind, nestling his head into the curve between my neck and shoulder. Probably not developing a woody while pressed against me because that would interfere with his study schedule. But he will whisper into my ear, “God, you’re pretty.” Like he’s so proud of that. Like I had anything to do with a set of fucked-up genes delivering me shiny hair, a pleasant enough face, and a desirable body I don’t really put to use.
Let’s be honest. Even counting the No Kiss List List
TM
members stricken from my lair, this body does not lack for attention, if I want it. But I should wait for Ely to inaugurate it. I owe him that. We’ve been planning our wedding since we were twelve, when Ely proposed as a means to extract from me the first real kiss we shared, together.
Gay
doesn’t change that—our shared past, our committed future.
Gay
doesn’t mean I shouldn’t wait for that one moment when he won’t be.
I reach for Ely’s hand. Game over. Time for us to leave.
But Ely stays rooted on the sidewalk, slumped against the fence.
Wait a minute.
Shazam
alacazam!
as Ely and I used to scream in the building elevator before lighting up all the floors to annoy Mr. McAllister. Ely gave in too easily—to vaulting Gabriel to #2 on the No Kiss List List
TM
and to enabling my class-skipping habit by showing up when he had a study session. Ely busts his ass maintaining a high GPA to keep his freshman scholarship in good standing. He’s got to. His parents make too much money for them to qualify for need-based financial aid but not enough to pay the full tuition tab and their mortgage. Ely is trapped by that scholarship as much as my mother and I are trapped in the apartment across the hall from his. Mom’s administrative job at the university may cover the tuition for my general studies program, but she could never finance us moving from The Building, no matter how awkward the situation might be with the neighbors. Mom could never afford on her own a place as nice as the one her parents bought for us.
“What’s wrong?” I ask Ely. His face has warmed up a little, and without the shiver-flush reddening his cheeks, I can see the worry lines around his beautiful blue Ely-eyes.
“I have to tell you something.”
“What?” I ask, concerned. What if Ely has cancer, or he’s decided to take out a student loan to move into student housing and out of The Building; or maybe he’s so mad about my lies he’s no longer going to care if I skip school and fail out entirely.
Ely says, “I kissed Bruce the Second.”
There are all kinds of ways to force yourself to decide. We do it all the time, make decisions. If we actually thought about every decision we made, we’d be paralyzed. Which word to say next. Which way to turn. What to look at. Which number to dial. You have to decide which decisions you’re actually going to make, and then you have to let the rest of them go. It’s the places where you think you have a choice that can really mess you up.
She wasn’t home. That’s the first factor. The doorman let me up, I rang the bell, and she wasn’t there, where she said she would be. Two months ago this would have surprised me, but now it just annoyed me. You know that feeling of waiting for someone. I mean
really
waiting for someone—standing in front of a restaurant in the cold and having hundreds of people pass you on the sidewalk. And you don’t want to do anything else, because you’re afraid you might miss something—that somehow if you don’t spot her right away, she’ll walk right by. So you stand there and you don’t do anything except think about how you’re standing there. Occasionally you might look at your watch, or check your cell phone to see if it’s accidentally on silent, even though you already checked for that a minute ago.
That’s what dating Naomi was starting to feel like.
I called her and hung up when it answered without ringing, because what good would it be to leave a third voice mail message? What good is it
ever
to leave a third voice mail message? I was just standing there, trying to figure out how long I should wait. Then Ely’s door opened and he came out in his bare feet, carrying a garbage bag to the chute. He took one look at me, smiled, and said, “Let me guess.”
We’d never really made it past
comes with the territory
territory. He wasn’t really into me, because he thought I was boring, and I wasn’t really into him, because he thought I was boring. But when Naomi wanted us to hang out together, we were fine. I got to be the innocent bystander. I wasn’t jealous of him—how could I be, when he was gay? No, I was jealous of
them
—the way it was like they had grown up watching all the same TV shows, only the TV show they always kept referring to was their own life together, and each episode was funnier than the last. Every now and then, Naomi (and even Ely) would make the effort to explain one of their references to me, but the act of explaining made it even more awkward, even more obvious. My only comfort was that eventually the night would end and Naomi would go home with me, not him. I knew Ely didn’t think I was worthy, but I had a feeling he’d never think anyone was worthy of Naomi. Just like she’d never be happy if he was with anyone else. In old-movie terms, you had to think of it like this: Fred Astaire had a wife who wasn’t Ginger Rogers, and Ginger Rogers had a husband (actually, a few of them, I think) who wasn’t Fred Astaire. But was there ever any doubt who their true dance partners were? I could be Naomi’s boyfriend, sure. I could be the one she slept with (or didn’t). But I was pretty certain I’d never be her dance partner.
Ely asked me if I wanted to come inside, and I figured why not. I mean, I figured this would give me a reason to leave a third message, and would give Naomi a place to find me when she showed up. It was much better than waiting in the hallway.
No one else was home. I was curious to meet his parents; Naomi had alluded to them enough for me to put the story together. I know it’s wrong, but I always pictured his mother, the one Naomi’s father had the affair with, to be attractive. It made more sense that way, at least to me. And Ely was attractive, too. It’s not like I didn’t know that, although I really didn’t think it meant anything to me. It wasn’t like I
felt
it, the way I felt it when there was a hot girl around. Like Naomi, who was not only hot but actually happened to like having thoughts. I’d found, in my very limited dating and only-slightly-less-limited friendship experience, that there were a lot of people who treated thoughts like they were a nuisance. They weren’t intrigued by them. They didn’t go out of their way to prolong them. But Naomi valued the fine art of thinking. The only hitch was that I didn’t know what she was thinking. I imagined Ely would have a better idea.
We went into one of those rooms that’s lined floor-to-ceiling with bookcases, where the books have been sitting on the shelves together for so long that they look like they’ve merged into one multispined line.
“Can I take your coat?” Ely asked. I handed it over and he threw it on a chair. Which should have been obnoxious, but the way he did it—like he was laughing at himself more than me—made it almost charming. I sat down on the couch and he hovered in front of me.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
It would make more sense, perhaps, if I’d decided yes. But I said no.
He said, “Good. Brandy can get you in trouble, I hear.”
“Who’s Brandy?” I asked.
“My mother’s brandy,” he said.
I was confused. “I didn’t think you had a mom named Brandy,” I said.
Now
he
looked confused. “I don’t.”
“But you just said she’s Brandy?”
He laughed. “She’s more ginny than that.”
“She goes by Ginny?”
“You have to stop,” he said, really laughing. “You’re killing me.”
I laughed now, too, still confused. “But who’s Brandy?” I asked.
“I told you—MY MOTHER’S!”
At this point, he was absolutely cracking up, and I found myself laughing right beside him. He was turning bright red, which made me laugh even harder. Anytime it started to subside, he would yell “WHO’S BRANDY?!?” and I would yell “YOUR MOTHER!” and we would break back down into eye-tearing, bladder-threatening snorts and whinnies. I was keeled over, wiping my eyes. He sat down on the couch next to me and laughed and laughed and laughed.
You have to understand: I don’t laugh often. Not out of choice. I just don’t get the opportunity. So when I do, it’s a dam bursting. It’s something opening.
“Knock knock!” I said.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“Orange!” I said.
“Orange who?” he asked.
“ORANGE YOU GLAD TO SEE ME!” I screamed.
It was the funniest thing either of us had ever heard.
“What did the mayonnaise say to the refrigerator?” he yelled to me.
“YOUR MOTHER!” I yelled back.
“Close the door, I’m dressing!”
We went on like this for at least twenty minutes. Every joke we’d ever heard in third grade was dredged up for a command performance. And if we met a pause, we just yelled “ORANGE!” or “YOUR MOTHER!” until the next joke came.
Finally we needed to catch our breath. We were still on the couch. He was leaning into me. I looked at his bare feet and decided to take off my shoes. As I did, he said, “The other shoe drops.”
And I said, “No—that was just the first.”
He looked at me and it honestly felt like the first time he’d ever seen me.
“I like you,” he said.
“Try not to sound so surprised,” I found myself replying.
He leaned his head so far back that he was looking at me upside down. I actually thought,
He’s even attractive upside down.
And I couldn’t even feel attractive right-side up.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m surprised or not,” he told me. “It matters that I like you.”
We heard the elevator stop outside. Gingerly, Ely jumped up and looked through the peephole of his front door. I took off my other shoe.
“Just Mr. McAllister,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
I understood the “Don’t worry.” Because I’ll admit: I didn’t want it to be Naomi in the elevator. I wanted to stay like this. I wasn’t just enjoying Ely’s company; I was enjoying my own as well.
“Let’s listen to music,” Ely said.
I said sure, assuming he’d turn on the stereo in the living room. But instead he led me to his room, which was covered with poems he’d xeroxed and photographs of his friends, Naomi especially. He scanned his computer for the album he wanted, then pressed play. I recognized it immediately—Tori Amos,
From the Choirgirl Hotel.
It seemed to loosen itself from the speakers as it fell into the room. I thought Ely would sit in a chair or lie on the bed, but instead he lowered himself down on the hardwood floor, facing the ceiling as if it was a sky. He didn’t tell me what to do, but I lowered myself next to him, felt the floor beneath my back, felt my breathing, felt . . . happy.
Song followed song. At one point, I realized I’d left my phone in my jacket, which meant I wouldn’t hear it if it rang. I let it go.
There was something about our silence that made me feel comfortable. He wasn’t talking to me, but I didn’t feel ignored. I felt we were part of the same moment, and it didn’t need to be defined.
Finally I said, “Do you think I’m boring?”
He turned his head to me, but I kept looking up.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, a little embarrassed that I’d said anything.
I thought he’d turn back to the ceiling, to the music. But instead he looked at me for almost a minute. Eventually I turned on my side so I could look right back at him.
“No,” he finally said. “I don’t think you’re boring. I do think there are times you don’t allow yourself to be interesting . . . but clearly that can change.”
How can you spend hours every day trying in small ways to figure out who you are, then have a near-stranger give you a sentence of yourself that says it better than you ever could?
We lay there looking at each other. It made both of us smile.
Then, out of the blue—the blue deep within me—I found myself saying, “I like you, too. Really. I like you.”
There is something so intimate about saying the truth out loud. There is something so intimate about hearing the truth said. There is something so intimate about sharing the truth, even if you’re not entirely sure what it means.