Rachel Cohn: Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List

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.

Sue/Bruce asks, “I’m still waiting to hear from you , Gabriel, about when you’re going to make college plans. I know you’ve said you wanted to take some time off after high school, but how old are you now? Nineteen? Almost twenty? It’s time, son. I’d be glad to write a recommendation letter for you. What schools interest you? Have you heard of Vassar?”

Like it’s not obvious Ely put his mother up to gay-baiting Gabriel. Vassar . Right. A stud like Gabriel? So not gay, Ely. Keep on dreaming. Just like I dream of you being dipped in a vat of vinegar long enough so the smell permanently attaches to your skin and Naomi can’t stand to be around you anymore. Skunk.

“Dunno.” Gabriel shrugs.

Dunno? Dunno! This Bruce knows. Case solved: Gabriel the doorman, you are hereby proclaimed a Heterosexual. Make mine a Michelob, too, pal. You know what will also work? The beer that comes with the lederhosen girl whose breasts are spilling out of her uniform as she hands out the brewskis. Yeah.

Naomi would look awesome as the lederhosen beer girl. I bet she wouldn’t wear panties underneath.

The Chihuahua barks from my lap, and believe me, my lap is relieved for the distraction. With a tail wag and puppy yelp, Cutie Pie indicates the lobby door, where a new person has arrived. We all look up to see the cause of the disturbance.

Bruce the Second stands at the lobby entrance. He looks as tired as I don’t feel. Ruined. Or maybe that’s how I want to see him. Really he just looks like Bruce the Second, the main difference being now he appears as confused as he is moronic. Gabriel Bruce the Doorman asks him, “Who are you here to see?”

It’s like some psychic connection between Cutie Pie and me, because I’m sure her continued barking is really gossip code for “Check it over there, papi . Cuz don’t you know about wha’happen’d?”

“I’m not sure,” says Bruce the Second, fidgeting with the cell phone in his hand.

Excuse me? Everyone knows Naomi’s mom is out by 11:00 p.m. – and hell hath no fury like a divorcée on antidepressants who’s awoken by a doorbell or the ring of her daughter’s cell phone. Who else could other-Bruce be here to see?

I’m so not getting to sleep ’til I find out wha’happen’d.

It’s 12:08 a.m. and I look hot. I mean, I should look hot, since I’ve spent the past hour working it. As Naomi always says, I’d fuck me. Of course, I always tell her, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re gonna fuck you, cuz it ain’t gonna be me.” She loves it. Loves it.

The door chime’s ringing, and I can’t believe that bitch is picking tonight of all nights to be only eight minutes late. If I’d known she would be this early-late, I would have told her twelve-thirty. Then I realize: She probably just wants to borrow something. No fucking way is Naomi ready before one.

I open the door and it’s Bruce the Second.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says.

“No you weren’t,” I say, just joking.

He looks down at his feet, embarrassed.

Fuck.

“Well, I’m glad you weren’t in the neighborhood,” I say. “Come in.”

I feel like Naomi’s going to open her door at any moment, and I don’t want that to happen.

It’s not that she took the news badly. I said, “Hey, I kissed Bruce the Second,” and she was all like, “Yeah, whatever.” Then she said, “I hope you had a better time with him than I have.”

And I actually kept my mouth shut. Because I didn’t say, “Yeah, I probably did.” Instead I pointed out that she’d never put him on the No Kiss List.

And she said, “Well, I didn’t bother to put your grandma on the list, either. Some things are just obvious. Bruce the Second’s not exactly your type.”

I told her she was right. Because she was. Is. He’s totally not my type.

Although lately, I have to say, my type has seemed to be total bullshit.

It’s Seventeen that’s letting me down, I tell you. Naomi and me both. I swear, we take those quizzes like they were sponsored by the College Board. When the boy you like walks you to his car, does he: (a) go around and open the door for you, (b) get in the car and then lean over to unlock your door, (c) put you in the trunk, (d) sit you in the backseat and say, “Take off your clothes and I’ll be with you in a second”? Naomi and I were never satisfied with the answers, just like we were never satisfied by the kind of guys who would be photographed for Seventeen , looking so goofy in their board shorts that you had to know they were the managing editor’s nephews or sons. We’d make up new quizzes for each other – Would your ideal date be underwater or atop a sea of lava? – and the prize at the end would always be dinner for two at whatever restaurant we were walking toward. More often than not, we’d take the quizzes for each other. And we were almost always right.