Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List (9 page)
“What are you saying, Naomi?” Ely asks.
“Are you coming or not?” Mr. McAllister bellows from inside the elevator.
“Not!” Ely responds. The elevator door closes.
My mouth opens in honesty—long overdue. “I’m saying I hope you have a good time tonight with whatever it is you’re not telling me about. Because I changed my mind. Girl’s prerogative. C’mon, Bruce. Let’s take Cutie Patootie out for a walk. You and me. I don’t want to go to that stupid NYU party with you, Ely.”
Stupid NYU parties, that’s what got us into this situation in the first place. Last fall, our first semester at NYU, we went to a party at the Robins’ dorm. Ely and I were the hit of the
High School Musical
sing-and-bong-along crowd as we sang “Breakin’ Free” together. Our routine was well rehearsed— we’d performed the leads in our own high school senior musical the previous spring, me cast as Troy, and Ely cast as Gabriella. But that night, as I danced and sang Troy’s part, “We’re breaking free!” when Ely as Gabriella was supposed to twirl and sing out “We’re soaring!” and together we’d sing “Flying!” all of a sudden Ely flew away instead of singing, just like that. Some real Troy look-alike had caught his eye and demanded his immediate attention.
People think beauty is a blessing, but sometimes it’s not— like at college parties, when your gay best friend dumps you for a cute boy, and every other guy there is too intimidated to talk to you. That’s where Bruce the Second came in. Later he told me he didn’t think he’d ever have a shot with a girl like me, so why not take a chance on talking to her? Become her friend? He sat down next to me as I sulked over Ely’s abandonment. He said, “You know, people think Ginger Rogers was Fred Astaire’s favorite dance partner. But that’s not true. He always said his favorite partner was Rita Hay-worth.”
I must have been really drunk not to have gotten it right then and there.
“I always thought his favorite was Cyd Charisse,” I slurred. I’d never seen one Fred Astaire dance movie; I was merely repeating something my grandmother had once said. Not like that stopped me from talking on the Fred/Ginger/ Rita/Cyd—and who the
fuck
is Gene Kelly, anyway?—topic with Bruce for maybe fifteen minutes. Then I couldn’t take it anymore. The boring subject. I grabbed on to this Bruce; time for distractionary making out.
What can I say? I liked Bruce the Second the accounting major. He added up to easy boyfriend. No pressure. No expectations. He was always available when Ely wasn’t.
And I know it’s like I should be furious with Ely now, and wondering if I was just Bruce the Second’s gay learning curve, but even as I’m about to take off with Bruce the First, really what I’m feeling is
Please, Bruce the Second, please. Don’t take Ely away from me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ely says. “Even for you, Naomi, this is outrageous. You’re going to stand here wearing my belt and tell me you’d rather go out with Bruce the First and that stupid fucking dog?”
The other side of me is thinking,
Go back upstairs, Ely. Fuck off and fly away. Find what you’re looking for, who’s so clearly not me. I wanted you to be my first, Ely, and you laughed at me. I held off Bruce the Second when he tried to be my first, not only because I wondered if he only wanted to do it with me just to prove that he could but because I wanted that first time to be special. Shared with someone I love rather than someone I like. It didn’t have to mean you wouldn’t be gay or I was
in
love with you. It wouldn’t mean I was just trying to get back at Ginny cuz the only thing she’d hate more than you getting it on with a girl would be you getting it on with a girl who happens to be related to my dad.
“Yes,” I tell Ely. I hope the word sounds like a slap. “And don’t curse in front of the children.” I cannot believe we are having a conversation this fucking stupid. I cannot believe I am pushing it farther still. “And how do you know Cutie Pa-tootie is fucking stupid? Is there some IQ test for Chihua—”
“It’s Cutie Pie, not Patootie,” Bruce the First interrupts. He bounces up from his chair. The dog barks, tail wagging, eager for a trot outside.
Bruce the First.
First.
I’m going to show that boy a good time tonight. And it’s not going to be some superficial good time that’s all about pink cocktails and pretty boys and getting laid. There will be no party tonight, there will be no imbibing or ritual dancing to Madonna and Kylie Minogue songs as if I like them, and there will be no Naomi & Ely adventure. I’m taking Bruce and that dog somewhere instead, don’t know where yet, but somewhere nice and wholesome. Maybe a Bible study group for insomniacs. Maybe roller-skating at the under-18 club. Maybe to girl-Robin’s dorm to play Pictionary. We’re going to act our mean age—not our inflated, sophisticated Manhattan age.
This city is so fast. Ely is so fast. My heartbeat is so fast. I want to slow down.
“Just so we both clearly understand the stand you are taking, Naomi, I’m going to ask you this once and only once. Do you
really
not want to go out with me tonight? Or are you lying?” Ely asks.
“No.” I’m lying. About what, I’m not sure.
One thing I’m absolutely sure of. Step aside, Donnie Weis-berg, wherever you are, and make way for a new name on the No Kiss List List
TM
: Ely.
The winner, as always.
Last time I offer her gum—I’ll tell you that.
Here I was, thinking we had all these pillars of our friendship in a row. Only it ends up that they’re dominoes. And all it takes is a pack of gum to send ’em tipping over.
She’s lying. I know she’s lying. But if she’s not going to admit that she’s lying, it’s just as bad.
Domino. Domino. Domino.
“You’re lying,” I say.
Domino.
“So are you,” she says back.
Domino.
“Guys?”
“Yes, Bruce,” Naomi asks, clearly annoyed. I take some consolation that it’s not only me.
Cutie Pie starts barking up a storm. Maybe all this lying’s made her want to pee.
“Nothing,” Bruce the First says.
Cutie Pie’s now acting like King Kong’s blowing a dog whistle.
“You see,” Naomi says, “even Cutie Patootie knows you’re lying.”
“Cutie Pie,” Bruce corrects again. And for a millisecond there, I actually like him. He never stands up for himself, but at least he stands up for the dog.
Naomi lets out this pout-snort that’s like her impersonating Madonna impersonating the Queen of England.
Cutie Pie’s straining at his leash, pulling for the door. And I swear Naomi’s looking at him like he’s telling her things about me.
“You’re acting weird, Naomi,” I say.
“And you’re just plain
acting,
Ely,” she says back.
This from the girl who was a drama queen before we were old enough to go to Dairy Queen.
I have no desire to see the night crash to the ground. I want to go out, have a good time, appease Naomi, and get back to Bruce in my bedroom. I don’t see any reason why I can’t do all of these things.
“Look,” I say, “is this about Bruce?” I figure we might as well talk about it instead of using all our energy to avoid it.
“What about me?” Bruce-who’s-downstairs-with-us asks.
“Not you,” Naomi says. “The other one.”
Bruce seems a little pleased that he’s the primary Bruce.
“Is he coming, too?” he asks.
“Why don’t you ask Ely?” Naomi says, both bitter and brittle. Britter.
“Can we just go?” I say.
But Bruce the First is still inspecting the starting block. “Wait—what’s going on?” he asks, dumbwildered. “Isn’t he here with you, Naomi? I saw him go upstairs.”
Oh Lord. Just my luck he chooses this moment to be Encyclopedia Brown.
“Is that right, Bruce?” Naomi says. She looks like she’s about to pet him.
“Naomi—” I start.
“Yeah, he came in a few minutes ago,” Bruce continues.
“Look, Naomi—” I offer again. There are very few situations that can’t be saved with an explanation.
But Naomi isn’t going to let me continue.
“Well,” she huffs, “it looks like it’s Colonel Bastard in Ely’s bedroom with a candlestick. Or is it a bludgeon, Ely?”
“I’m not really sure I’m following you two,” Bruce says.
At least Cutie Pie, quiet now, seems to have pieced it together. He doesn’t want to miss a word.
“Look,” I say, “I was going to go out with you anyway. He can wait. You’re my top priority.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant, Ely. That’s just
super.
I’m so
flattered
that you’d put my needs over the needs of
my boyfriend.”
Okay, if we’re going to start using kneejerks to knock down the dominoes, allow me to add:
“Well,
Naomi,
I think it’s safe to say he’s not your boyfriend anymore.”
Naomi smacks her forehead. “Well, gee, how stupid of me to think that
someone would let me know.”
Oh, enough already. “You know none of us meant for this to happen. It’s like the whole Devon Knox thing.”
“Ely,
DEVON KNOX WAS STRAIGHT.
Your crush didn’t count. And that was
THREE YEARS AGO.”
“He was on the list.”
“I forgot, okay?”
Cue: Inspector Bruce.
“What’s happened?” he asks.
“Look, Bruce, could you just leave us alone for a second?”
Okay, so the city has 311 for you to call to ask for repairs and shit, and 411 to get people’s phone numbers, and 911 to call the police or the fire department or paramedics. Well, I propose they add 711, so if you find yourself stuck in the lobby of an apartment building with an irrationally tirading best friend and her unbuff buffoon of an ex (and a hot doorman looking on), you can dial three simple digits and they can send a calm, sane person to help you explain what’s going on. Right now, my best bet is the dog, and he seems to need to pee again.
“Okay,” Original Bruce says to Cutie Pie in an oopsy-woopsy voice. “Brucie’s gonna take you out for a wee-wee.”
Cutie Pie looks like he’s going to rip Bruce’s throat out for talking to him this way. I can’t say I blame him. I’ve lost erections to vocal mannerisms like that.
I’m so absorbed in the dog’s resistance that I almost don’t hear Naomi say, “Ely, I can’t do this anymore.”
Here we go. Moment of truth.
I look her right in the eye. She turns to the side, so I scoot over and face her there.
I know she doesn’t want to hear this. But I have to say it anyway.
“Naomi, I like him. I really do.”
There. It’s out there.
And she doesn’t believe a word of it.
“Is that why you’re hiding him?” she asks. “Because you like him so much?”
“You really want to know why I’m hiding him?”
“Why?” she asks.
I wish she hadn’t.
Why?
“Because I’m afraid of you.”
It’s true. I am. Always have been.
“Well, I’m fucking afraid of you, too.”
We stare at each other for a second.
Bruce jumps in. “Look, you two . . . maybe you should just cool off for a second.”
“SHUT UP, BRUCE!” we both yell.
Well, at least we agree on something.
Hurt, Bruce starts pulling Cutie Pie away.
“C’mon, Cutie,” Bruce says. “Let’s go. I guess we’re not wanted here.”
Oh great—now the wittle boy’s feewings are hurt.
“I’m coming with you,” Naomi says. “I wanna dance with somebody who loves me.”
Shit, girl—I pour out the truth of my heart and you’re going to use
Whitney
against me?
“HAVE FUN!” I yell after them.
All the dominoes are down. No word back. Just the echo of Gabriel the hot midnight doorman wishing them a hot goodnight as they leave. Then the door closing. The elevator behind me making its way up to someone else’s floor. The otherwise silence.
It takes me a second to remember that Bruce is waiting in my closet.
And that I like him.
Here’s what I love about big-city folk. They’ll show up at your dorm room in the middle of the night, slurping cones from 31 Flavors in one hand and cradling sleeping Chihuahuas in the other, asking if you want to play Pictionary in the study lounge, like that’s normal. In Schenectady, I assure you, this doesn’t happen. In Schenectady, you have two parents (male/ female), who generally stay together, and who would freak if their kid’s school friend showed up at their home in the middle of the night. The big-city girl arrives under the guise of playing a board game, but really she’s there to replay the epic smackdown scene that may have cost this girl her best friend. Oh, don’t forget the part about the big-city girl bringing along he who looks like a farm boy, with the body of the Hulk and the face of that kid from
A Christmas Story
who gets his tongue stuck on the icy pole.
I knew it would be exciting to move to New York City, I knew it would be worth the second mortgage Mom and Dad had to take out on the house to finance my NYU education, but I didn’t know it would take waiting until sophomore year for interesting things to finally happen. Freshman year was avoiding keggers and watching half of the Long Island / New Jersey diaspora go wild in their first year of freedom-from-parents. I merely observed this freshman madness. I am the Velma. I am the girl with the bowl haircut and the sensible sweater—the investigator, not the cause of investigation. I am not the thinnest, the prettiest, the coolest, or the loudest. I blend in easily, as should a girl from Schenectady. I am the girl whose freshman year was responsible and dean’s list–worthy, the girl who spent her time studying, joining the school newspaper, and learning the difference between, say, a wacky-but-cute NYU
guy
named Robin who’s worth engaging in conversation in Washington Square Park and just plain wack jobs who only want to sell you dope or Jesus in Washington Square Park. Basic stuff.