Rachel Cohn: Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List

It would not be a lie to say I like cold. It’s what I yearn for most. To shiver.

“How can you not be concerned that I might have cancer?” I ask. “I found a lump on my breast.” Touch it, Ely. Touch it.

“Lie. Not only are you biting your lip, which you always do when you lie, but your mom told me about the alleged lump in the elevator this morning. The doctor said it was an overgrown pimple.”

Monkeys!

I must distract Ely from my lie. I stop us at a fence in front of a schoolyard playground. The school building behind it is massive, dank and dirty, graffiti-covered, with bars on the windows. The playground is all blacktop surrounded by dilapidated fence grating.

“I think we should get married here,” I tell Ely.

“Oh, my darling Naomi, you’re making me swoon from the gritty romance of it all. What happened to the Temple of Dendur inside the Met? I agreed to that one just so I can see you wearing the Nefertiti ivory gown, with Cleopatra kohl-eyes. You’re one girl who could totally pull off the ancient Egyptian goddess look.”

“What will the groom wear?”

“The same.”

Wrong wrong wrong. I must correct him.

“Not you and me get married here, Ely. Me and he. ” I point to the hoops player on the blacktop who’s just landed an amazing three-pointer in the netless basketball rim. The player reaches his arms up and out in a V pose, causing the hoodie over his head to fall to his shoulders and present his beautiful face for our full viewing pleasure.

Ely’s eyes meet mine. “So worth missing a study session for,” he says, smiling.

He should know to trust me. Even when I’m lying.

We admire. Gabriel is not only the hottest guy on the court, he’s also the star player. Run. Pass. Jump. Dunk. WOW. Graveyard-shift doorman by night, superstar pickup b-ball player by day.

When the game ends, the players leave the court, sprinting off toward warm homes, I hope. Ely and I duck our heads low as they pass our salivating-at-the-fence, la-di-da , nothing-to-notice-here stance.

Once they’re gone, Ely bows down to me, as I’m owed. Discovering the early-evening hangout place of the new night doorman at our building, whom everyone in our building wants to know more about – but no one really knows anything about him other than how gorgeous he is, and whatever more there is to know, Gabriel’s not telling – that’s some prime sleuthing on my part.

When he raises himself from his bow, Ely turns around and slumps his back against the fence. He lets out an infatuated sigh. “I can’t believe we haven’t done this earlier, but clearly Gabriel belongs on the No Kiss List. Let’s put him at the bottom, since he’s new. He should work his way up.”

Ely and I created the No Kiss List™ in the aftermath of a long-ago Spin the Bottle party, still sometimes referred to as the You-Made-Out-With-Me-To-Make-Donnie-Weisberg-Jealous! ! Incident. Our No Kiss List™ is an ever-changing one, almost like a sentient being, chemically formed by Ely’s ratio of Obsessive Study Time vs. Observational Boy Crush Time, and my ratio of PMS vs. boredom. By agreeing in advance that certain people are off-limits, even truly, madly kissable ones – I’m talking it hurts knowing that person’s lips will never touch yours because of your own vow of no-kissiness – Ely and I keep our friendship free of jealousy. The No Kiss List™ is our insurance against a Naomi & Ely breakup.

If our parents had created a No Kiss List™, they could have saved us all a lot of grief. The next generation won’t make that mistake.

I tell Ely, “Okay to adding Gabriel to this list, but I disagree about his standing. Gabriel’s hotter than anybody on there now. I vote for him to go directly into number two position.”

“Deal,” Ely says.

Interesting. That concession was most easily won.

Bookies, take note. Updated top standings on the No Kiss List™:

#1: Donnie Weisberg, still – the grand symbol over whom we vow to remain chaste, to protect the sanctity of the institution that is Naomi & Ely. The fact that we have no idea where Donnie is these days – we’ve heard rumors he’s doing some Habitat for Humanity shit in Guatemala to dodge a drug rap after that senior skip-day ’shroom party last spring – has no relevance to Donnie’s permanent #1 standing on the No Kiss List™;

#2: Welcome, Gabriel, hot midnight doorman, lusted after by every Building resident with a pulse, except maybe creepy Mr. McAllister, who apparently needs at least C-cup cleavage action to get off;

#3: My cousin Alexander (Kansas All-State tight end – ’nuff said);

#4: Ely’s cousin Alexandra (East Village, standing ovation for her performance in the experimental stage version of The Crying Game – ’nuff said);

#5: Robin ( ), cuz both Ely and I like Robin ( ), who really likes Robin ( ), and Robin ( ) is my symbol proving that I can make friends in college outside of Naomi & Ely; and

#6: The tweedy theology grad student guy who is illegally subletting apartment 15B.

“How’d you know Gabriel plays basketball here?” Ely asks.

“Happened to walk by this playground one day and noticed him here,” I say.

The itsy-bitsy crawls up the lying wall.

I’ve never, ever kissed Gabriel. I’ve never, ever had more than a five-minute conversation with Gabriel without Ely present.

But.

I may have exchanged digits with Gabriel. He may occasionally text me. He might have mentioned where he sometimes plays ball with his boys before his night shift starts.

“Lucky break for us!” Ely says.

Installing Gabriel directly at #2 will keep the Naomi & Ely safe. Otherwise, down may come the and wash Naomi out.

“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.