Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List (5 page)
And that’s when he leaned in and kissed me once, lightly, on the lips. As if he’d read exactly what I needed.
It broke the spell. It’s not that I stopped being happy. I was still inexplicably, utterly happy. But suddenly the happiness had implications.
My face must have shown it.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Ely said, his voice freaking out a little.
“No,” I told him.
“Really, I shouldn’t have.”
He sat up, and I lay there a few seconds more, staring at the space he’d just left. Then I sat up, too. And stood up. And found myself leaving, without actually deciding to leave.
He stayed where he was, but turned to face me when I got to the doorway. I made noises that sounded like excuses for leaving, and he made noises that sounded like understanding why I had to leave.
But before I could go, he said, simply, “I wanted to.”
And I waited until I had decided to really leave before I told him, “I did, too.”
Then I was gone—out his door, putting my shoes on, grabbing my jacket, then out the front door, past her front door, down the elevator, out of the building, deciding to cross streets, deciding to wait for lights, deciding to put my hands in my pockets. Deciding that none of these things mattered. None of these things involved who I was, only what I did.
The whole night, the whole morning, the whole afternoon now . . . I miss Ely, and I miss Naomi. I miss how much easier life was just twenty-four hours ago.
I think about him a lot.
I think about her a lot.
But I think about him more.
“Really. I like you.”
I decide to take out my phone for the first time since I scared myself away from him. I decide not to check the three new messages. I decide to make a call. To start to wrestle with the implications. To maybe get back closer to the happiness.
I just have to decide who to call.
I’ve tried everything. Ambien, Lunesta, melatonin, counting sheep, The Best of Johnny Carson: The 1970s, Charlie Rose: The Present, Charlie Daniels, MTV2, 976-SLUTS4U, the complete works of Dostoyevsky, the complete works of Nicholas Sparks, completely jacking off, Jack Daniel’s, the Jackie Chan oeuvre. But nothing and no one can get me to sleep at night.
Blame Naomi.
She was seven. I was five. Our mommies had hustled us into the elevator, but in their two-second pause in the hallway to exchange mismatched mail, the elevator door closed and Naomi and I were left unattended. The elevator went up. Naomi said, “Would you like to see my underwear?” I nodded. She lifted her dress to her stomach. She wore the same kind of pink hipster briefs with elastic lace around the waist that my twin sister, Kelly, wore, but on Naomi, the hipster briefs looked entirely different. Bewitching instead of stupid. I can still recall that exact moment when Naomi dropped her dress back down to her knees and stuck her tongue out at me. Because my heart? It actually leaped, and hasn’t returned to me since. Naomi owned it forevermore.
Flash forward ten years to last spring, Naomi and I in the elevator at the same time again, only this time we’re taller, curvier (her), hairier (me). It’s not like we didn’t see each other regularly at school and in the building, but somehow, for reasons the universe has never bothered to explain to me, this time was different. Naomi appraised me head to toe as the elevator went up. She announced, “You’ve filled out nicely, fresh-person.” “I’m a sophomore,” I corrected her, grateful my squeaky-voice stage had long passed. “Even better,” she said. “Come here, sophomore.” I ventured closer to her. She smelled like baby powder and pretty girl shampoo. She leaned into me, her head slanted, her mouth opened ever so slightly. I thought,
No, the wet dream of what I think is about to happen could not actually be about to happen.
I mean, it’s not like I’d never kissed a girl before. How many Spin the Bottle parties had I thrown just trying to make such contact with Naomi, anyway? If only I’d known all I needed to do was trap myself in an elevator and wait for Naomi. Then, contact. It happened. Naomi kissed me—slowly, on the mouth, sucking my soul into hers, floors four through fourteen. She tasted like she’d just eaten a Snickers bar. I love Snickers.
I know I know I know. I shouldn’t love a girl who toys so casually with other people’s feelings, specifically mine, but it’s not like my mind has the ability to overrule my heart—and the other parts of my anatomy. See, what people (and by
people,
I mean my sister, our friends, and most of the MySpace community) don’t understand about Naomi—except maybe Ely, he gets her, but I hate him, so his understanding doesn’t count—is that there’s more to Naomi than just the obvious evil. They don’t know how she tests out gummy bears for me, pressing them between the plastic cover to find the ones that are freshest, the way I like. They don’t know that despite her brazen kisses, her symbols and her lies, her obsession with visiting and chronicling every Starbucks in the universe (though she never orders a single drink; she just plops down in the big purple chair and waits for some guy or girl to fall in love with her), Naomi’s really a nice, simple girl at heart.
I
know this about her.
I
know that for all her boasting,
to her means with your clothes still on, talking about movies and life and dreams, tickling toes.
I
know that I am and shall forevermore be Bruce the First to her—in every way. Bruce the Second— I laugh at you! One, two . . . a
million
lifetimes lived without her since Naomi took up with Bruce the Second, but I remain confident that he who shall have the last laugh will be Bruce the First. HAH!
The problem, says my sister, Kelly, is not that I can’t get over Naomi—it’s that I refuse to. You are correct, sir! Loving Naomi and waiting for her to come back to me—it’s not a stalker thing, but more like a personal mission. A job. Wake up, think about Naomi. Go to school, think about Naomi. Come home, eat dinner, do homework, think about Naomi. A few games of Xbox, a few IMs with whoever’s available while thinking about Naomi (except for Ely—blocked! blocked! blocked!), download some porn that looks like Naomi, try to go to sleep. Count Naomi sheep. Fail to fall asleep. Naomi Naomi Naomi.
When insomnia prevails and I don’t have Naomi physically present to comfort me through it—although in every other way, believe me, she’s there—I know I can count on an emergency meeting of the Bruce Society to get me through the night. In the spacious lobby of our one hundred–unit apartment building, the Bruces Below Fourteenth Street convene to pass the dark hours. Sleepless? Big deal. We’ve got important issues to discuss—specifically, the Burden of Being a Bruce.
We are:
• Mr. McAllister, who alleges to be named Bruce, but I don’t imagine anyone would ever dare address him by a name other than Mr. McAllister.
• Gabriel the graveyard-shift doorman, middle name Bruce (fact-checked on driver’s license).
• One of Ely’s moms, Sue, who may or may not have once been married to someone named Bruce. The University Place Stitch ’n’ Bitch knitting circle is hot with rumor over that one.
• Random persons hanging out in the lobby between late-night laundry loads, Bruces in spirit.
• Bruce the Chihuahua, also known as “Cutie Pie” by her owner, Mrs. Loy, but renamed by the Bruces-inspirit because I’m the one, not Naomi, who feeds and walks her when Mrs. Loy goes out of town. I’m the “nice boy” (take that, Naomi’s sainted Ely) who uses the secret key under Mrs. Loy’s mat to tap on Mrs. Loy’s apartment door for the dog to hear, but not so loud as to wake Mrs. Loy, when Cutie Pie–sometimes–called–Bruce yelps for a midnight walk.
The problem with the Bruce Society is that I want to talk about being a Bruce, but the other Bruces, they want to talk about insomnia. What insomniacs don’t realize is that the more you talk about your inability to sleep, the more you will be unable to sleep. It’s like a whole mathematical problem that equals up to a solution called: Why Not Just Face It, You’re Screwed. The other members—I question their dedication to the Bruce Society. I suspect they care more about their sleepless nights than about what it means to be a Bruce. Because think about it. There’s the legacy of great Bruces whom we should honor and hope to emulate: Lenny the brilliant comedian; Mr. Springsteen; Master Lee; Robert the Bruce, aka “Braveheart.” But there are also those Bruces whom we need to seriously consider repudiating, and striking from our namesake society: Willis, Jenner, Hornsby.
Sue/Bruce never fails to dodge the importance of being Bruceness. Instead she asks me, “Honey, have you talked with a shrink about the sleeping issue? I’m worried you look awful tired. You’re too young to be an insomniac. Don’t you have SATs coming up? You need to get this sleeping issue resolved before then.”
I don’t know why I like Sue so much. Maybe because she’s not the DNA part of the Ely equation (I don’t think), or maybe because she’s not part of the Naomi & Ely parental situation that got the co-op board into such a state. I mean, it’s one thing to turn fifty and all of a sudden cross over into being midlife-crisis “flexibly” gay; it’s an entirely different matter to mess with your neighbor’s real estate standing. The consensus from the Bruce Society, in those middle-of-the-night insomniac gossip sessions when Sue isn’t present, is that if Ginny had needed to “experiment” so badly, it would have been helpful for the fifteenth-floor residents of our building if she had chosen a man who lives in, like, a different building entirely. And, a man more discreet than Naomi’s dad. We’d totally pass a resolution in support of Sue if ever called upon by the co-op board.
Since she doesn’t seem to have a clue, I tell Sue/Bruce, “I like not sleeping. Sleeping is time not spent living.”
Mr. McAllister the Bruce says, “Sixteen is an age not worth living. Too stupid to know any better. I read in
Marie Claire
that sleep apnea is linked to . . .”
Proof! Naomi swears Mr. McAllister steals her mother’s fashion magazines from the garbage-chute-room recycle bin. According to Naomi, the models in those magazines are like porn for old guys too cheap to buy an Internet connection to get it like the rest of us.
Sue / Bruce ignores Mr. McAllister / Bruce like she always does. She pats my shoulder. “Have you given more thought to where you’d like to go to college? Last time we discussed it, you were hung up on colleges that have presidents with Bruce in their names. I’m hoping I was successful in talking you out of that idea?”
She’s so nice, Sue/Bruce. “You were. I have a new college plan, as of today. This morning I saw an ad on the subway for a college called PolyTechnic University. According to their slogan, it’s a university for people who aren’t
mono-
thinkers, but who are
poly
-thinkers. Must mean it’s the college for me.”
“That’s what you are—a poly-thinker?”
“Yes,” I state.
What else could I be? If I were a mono-thinker, I probably wouldn’t be an insomniac. How is a poly-thinker supposed to fall asleep, and more importantly,
stay
asleep, when thoughts just won’t stop darting! darting! darting! through my head?
Lights out.
What is Naomi doing this very minute? Is she naked?
Tucked in.
Has Bruce the Second seen her naked?
Fluff pillow.
I’ve seen Naomi naked.
Mono-hand maneuver. Jesus Christ. Why bother with porn?
Discard Kleenex under bed.
True, she kept her panties on. And I wasn’t allowed to touch. But I’ve SEEN.
Toss. Turn. Torture.
A poly-thinker is left no choice but to get out of bed, retrieve Cutie Pie, and go down to the building lobby for a Bruce Society meeting.
I really want to ask Sue/Bruce, “Do you think Ely has ever seen Naomi naked?” but I don’t. Because I’m sure he has. Gay guys get all the perks with none of the responsibility. It’s so not fair.
I hate that I only got to see Naomi naked because last summer Ely was seeing some boy and Naomi hated not having full access to Ely’s time so she gave me access to hers. And then Ely dumped the boy and Naomi dumped me.
Someone ought to dump something on
Ely.
Did Naomi just walk by, barefoot and carrying a laundry load, or am I dreaming? I’ve got to be, because she is an insomniac’s most dire and darling vision, wearing a tiny, tiny, dreamy, dreamy black dress, the kind she wears when she’s going out partying with Ely, and it’s got to be the highest form of injustice how Naomi does not realize that she could look like a dump truck for all that Ely would notice her in the way she wants him to notice her.
The highlight of Bruce Society meetings comes when Gabriel the doorman notices he has nothing to do after midnight. He leaves his station, walks over to our area, and dumps a deck of cards onto the coffee table in the middle of the square of lobby couches. “Five-card stud?” He sits down with us and shuffles the deck.
Our members dutifully pull the rolls of quarters from our pockets that serve in place of poker chips as Gabriel deals. Since he took over the night shift last June, I think it’s fair to say that Gabriel has become a very rich guy. I don’t know what kind of salary a novice doorman with no experience makes, but Gabriel could easily fund laundry loads lasting into eternity with all the quarters he’s won.