Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List

  “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 ListTM: Ely.

  The winner, as always.

  ELY

  KNOCKDOWN

  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—no
w 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.

  ROBIN

  VELMA

  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.

  But then came sophomore year. That’s when the girl from Schenectady met Naomi from West Ninth Street. She didn’t have to go wild her first year of college. She grew up in the heart of Greenwich Village. Freshperson madness would be too old-school for her. She’s seen it all, done it all. I’m pretty certain.

  Here’s why I feel sad for her, though. Naomi’s so city-girl tough, she won’t allow herself to cry, even though it’s obvious she really wants to. Instead she reclines on the worn-out sofa in the study lounge, licking the sprinkles off her Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream scoop, with a dog named Cutie Pie or Cutie Patootie, I’m not sure, taking what appears to be a much-needed nap on her stomach. Which is shaking from Naomi’s sob-avoidance, or just appears to be from the dog’s vibration. Naomi stares blankly at the ceiling while her latest appendage, who actually answers to “Bruce the First,” sits in a chair opposite her, assuring her the fight was Ely’s fault. He has a Pink Bubblegum flavor cone in his one hand and uses the remote control in his other hand to switch between sports score rundowns on ESPN and some late-night Dr. Phil replay. He has some involuntary twitching problem every time the word Ely is uttered.

  Awesome. I love New York.

  “So does this mean you and the other Bruce are officially broken up now?” I ask Naomi. That guy was both too nice and too boring for a girl like Naomi. She’s way out of his league. It’s interesting, since that’s the type she appears to go for. Guess that’s what happens when the only guy you want is the only guy who won’t have you.

  I don’t bother with dating. There is the problem of no one actually asking me on a date, but I choose not to think of that problem as a problem. It’s a solution. The Velmas of the world do not intern at CNN, hope to be accepted at Columbia J-School after graduating NYU with honors, and go on to win Pulitzer Prizes by getting bogged down in relationship drama. That’s a problem for the Daphnes of the world. Daphne, you bitch, you can’t even drive the damn van.

  “I guess so,” Naomi mutters. Her jaw clenches, trying to stifle a sob, and I want to grab her hand and tell her everything will be okay, only her hands are occupied by ice cream and dog, and truthfully, I don’t think everything will be okay for her and Ely. “Definitely,” she adds. “Of course. Bruce the Second is history.” An involuntary tear streams down her face, and I know that tear’s name is “Ely” and not “Bruce the Second.”

  “Hey, Bruce the First,” I say, which sounds so funny coming from my mouth. Nobody in Schenectady ever called someone a name like that. At least not on my street. I’m so glad I didn’t go home this weekend, even though I’m really missing Mom’s lasagna and Dad’s boastful griping about my tuition bill. “I’m a Robin, and I’m friends with this film student guy, also named Robin. Isn’t that neat?”

  “Neat?” he asks me. “Neat? Where are you from, anyway?”

  “Schenectady!”

  “Crazy!” he says. I’m not sure if he’s being rude or he just doesn’t like any attention that’s not focused on Naomi. I am sure his tone suggests an awful lot of hubris for a high school junior boy hanging out in the middle of the night in an NYU dorm, even for a mere high school junior who grew up on West Ninth Street.

  “Leave us,” Naomi commands Bruce the First.

  So much for his hubris. Bruce the First jumps to his feet and grabs for the dog. “I think I’m finally ready to fall asleep.”

  “Are you still here, Bruce the First?” Naomi snaps, sitting up and pointing at the door. “DID I NOT JUST SAY ‘LEAVE US’?”

  He’s gone like that and I must probe Naomi deeper. “And Ely says he’s scared of you? Huh, go figure.”

  Now, alone with me, she cries. She sputters. “Ely . . . betrayal . . . how could he kiss a Bruce? . . . he’s all I’ve ever had . . . no, Ely, not Bruce Two!, who cares about that Bruce? . . . I’m all alone now . . . I knew it would happen eventually . . . how could we survive our parents and my lies and his complete lack of desire for me and my complete not lack of it, but still . . . fuck . . . [sob sob sob] . . . I love him, friend or brother or whatever shade of Ely . . . sure we’ve gotten in fights before, but this is different . . . it just is, Robin . . . it’s like a sacred trust that’s broken . . . [sob sniffle sob sniffle] . . . don’t you have a Kleenex-brand tissue, cuz this generic one you have here is really harsh on the skin . . . no, I’m not lying . . . [real Kleenex found and offered to her, snort and blow, sob sob, snort and blow] . . . thanks, Robin . . . you’re the closest friend I have left now . . . Naomi & Ely—we’re lost to each other now.”

  I really should text-message that other Robin about Naomi’s presence here tonight; he wants to make a documentary about her and call it Hot Child in the City, but the real-time footage of her at this moment would be too sad and vulnerable and potentially flamingly soap-operatic, so I don’t. Instead I sit down next to Naomi and let her cry it out onto my shoulder. There, there, city girl. Gosh, her hair smells good. It’s weird, because Velmas aren’t supposed to have this kind of problem, but my heart pounds a little harder with Naomi pressed against me, and it’s not like I have any desire to be one of those college-girl experimental lesbians, but Naomi does have some magnetic effect on people. I can understand why that other Robin chases her for film footage and not me. Fascinating.

  Name-twin powers truly can activate—the shape of he- Robin stands at the lounge entrance as if he knew me-Robin was summoning him. He’s wearing that blue Hawaiian shirt that makes me feel like I can almost smell the flowers pictured on it. The
husky, sweet, imaginary scent those flowers give off could almost inspire a Velma to flip out into some very Daphne-style drunken antics. Aloha.

  “ ’Sup?” he asks.

  How strange. My mouth feels parched and water is not going to cut it right now, because what I crave is taste. It’s probably for the better that I am not a party girl and the only fizzy drink I can stomach is ginger ale. Back home there is this place called the Lost Dog Café that makes the awesomest ginger ale, with like fresh ginger. You have to drive all the way to Binghamton to get it, but it’s completely worth the trip.

  He-Robin’s eyes investigate the room. “Where’s your other half, anyway?” he asks Naomi. “Isn’t it like some law that if you’re out and about in the middle of the night, the Ely appendage is with you?” His blue eyes, lit by shirt, light up bluer still, sparked by idea. “Hey, I know people on the twelfth floor. You just say the word and I will get the karaoke machine down here for you and Ely to do High School Musical again.” He holds up his text pager. “I know the people and I’ve got the necessary accessories, if you know what I’m saying, to get a scene happening in here.”

  Say yes, Naomi, I think, please say yes. With the other Robin here, there’s a wild and amazing party just waiting to happen.

  “No way,” Naomi says. “Lame-ass parties in this dorm building are what started all the trouble in the first place.”

  Darn.

  Robin snorts. “No one from Bruce’s floor has ever figured out how a girl like you ended up making out with an econ major like him at that party here last semester.”