Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List (8 page)

Fuck Ely for making me crawl through his Ely-
to survive our friendship.

But if I crawl out, where can I go? What’s left? Ely can spin and weave and dart and aim with other boys all he wants, so long as I’ve remained his cen
ter. His queen.

I can’t believe I’m pushing this.

“Why’d you really go back to your apartment?” I ask Ely. “Cuz I saw your dick the first time out of the apartment and Dicky was like,
Mmmm, girl, you and me, we’re going to have us a good ol’ time at Ducky’s tonight.”

“Gum,” Ely says.

Bingo.

I lie all the time, but I hate being lied to.

If only Bruce the Second had been a Wrigley’s gum-chewer, and not an Orbit man. Four out of five dentists can basically guarantee that their sons who chew Wrigley’s turn out to be straight; odds are three out of five dentists would at least reassure a straight girl patient that their sons will stay in the closet where they belong until they’ve figured out their sexuality for sure. No need to place those sons’ names on a No Kiss List
^TM
.

Bruce the Not My Boyfriend Anymore has no idea the jeopardy he’s jumping into. I sort of feel sorry for him. He probably has no idea that when it comes to boy prey, Ely is all about the hunt but doesn’t give a shit about the capture. And I’m not going to be the
to warn him.
time on the
train I tried to warn Bruce the
about me, but we ended up making out instead. I’d rate our chemistry a . Bruce can figure Ely out for himself. Good luck.

Keep moving, Naomi. Don’t react. Don’t give it all away.

As Ely and I approach the lobby seating area, where the sleep-lessheads congregate, I check myself out in the lobby mirror. God, I
am
so pretty. What a waste, if Ely doesn’t notice—at least, notice my looks in the Wow-Naomi-is-boner-hot way, and not in the Wow-those-stilettos-I-picked-out-for-Naomi-go-great-with-her-dress way. Truth: If my little black dress looks amazing on this body, it’s because my waist wears
his
belt around it. If my face shines, the glow is Ely by my side.

Ely is probably right. The best I’ll ever get is if I fuck me. In fact, I’ve tried, but masturbation turns out to be hella time-consuming with not very satisfactory results. Or maybe I’m just doing it wrong. My work ethic has always been weak.

I’ve never understood why looking hot has to be equated with sex and conquest. Whatever happened to anticipation, to courtship, to true love? Can’t a person look hot and not have it mean something? Call me an old-fashioned Naomi bitch, but I’m holding out for true love. Even if it is an unattainable fantasy.

I’m not going to make the mistake of letting beauty (mine or his) guide my attraction to any man. That love-at-first-sight crap does
not
work. My father saw my mother’s picture in a magazine and fell for her before he’d even met her. When I was little, he would spend more time photographing her than photographing the images that were supposed to be supporting our family. But his attachment to her looks could only be sustained so long. Dad eventually tossed aside the beauty myth for the very real lesbian across the hall. He even wanted to leave Mom for her, but then the lesbian remembered she was a lesbian after all, so Dad just left, and Mom decided to cover her beauty under her bedcovers.

I don’t think it was Dad choosing a lesbian over her that most damaged Mom’s sense of her own femininity. I think it was losing her marriage to a woman she’d called “friend.”

The poker players halt their game when Ely and I reach their area of the lobby. We pause at the same time to silently admire Gabriel, dealing cards to the sleeplessheads. Yeah, I’d have
him
—who wouldn’t?—but he’s ranked number two on the No Kiss List List
^TM
, and I UNDERSTAND THE BOUNDARIES.

Sue knows trouble when she sees it. “Naomi, does your mother know you’re going out so late?” I suspect it’s my outfit that concerns Sue, not the hour.

“Yes,” I lie. My mother’s passed out in the pharmaceutical daze she’s been in since Dad left. The doctor finally cut off her sleeping pill supply, but Bruce the First didn’t know that when he gave her his stash in exchange for Mom doing his laundry after his sister went on strike and told him to stop being a big baby and learn to do his own damn laundry.

I do Mom’s laundry, too, now. I don’t mind. She’s very good about separating her whites from her colors. But no matter how many laundry loads I do for her or dinners I prepare for her or nights I spend curled up in bed next to her, I just can’t shake the blue out of her. I wish I could be that gold-standard daughter.

Mr. McAllister stands up from the leather couch, clutching last month’s
Vogue.
Pervert. “ ’Night, all,” he says, taking a bow before walking over and stepping into the elevator.

“Wait!” I call out to him.

The elevator door opens back up. I turn to Ely. “Are you sure you didn’t leave anything else up in your apartment?”

He so looks guilty. I so want to hate him.

“Like what?” Ely mumbles.

“Like your balls, to go along with your dick?”

“Language, young lady!” Sue scolds, gesturing in the direction of sweet Bruce the First with Mrs. Loy’s Chihuahua in his lap. High school boys. So fresh, so clean. So pathetic and yet so irresistible. He breaks my heart for breaking his heart. I kill me.

Well, then. Distraction, thank you so very, very much for seating yourself in the lobby in the middle of the night. No, not
that
distraction. Gabriel’s major league, and I might not look it but I am still farm team. Attention: pinch hitter. Bruce the First, step up to the plate, please.

Ely can buy his own damn drinks tonight. A girl who looks like me should not be such a
. It’s time for a changing of the guard. Why shouldn’t the
be a
instead, or anything or any1 to help me escape the lie of
?