Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List. Rachel Cohn

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Let’s be honest. Even counting the No Kiss List™ members stricken from my lair, this body does not lack for attention, if I want it. But I should wait for Ely to inaugurate it. I owe him that. We’ve been planning our wedding since we were twelve, when Ely proposed as a means to extract from me the first real kiss we shared, together. Gay doesn’t change that – our shared past, our committed future. Gay doesn’t mean I shouldn’t wait for that one moment when he won’t be.

      I reach for Ely’s hand. Game over. Time for us to leave.

      But Ely stays rooted on the sidewalk, slumped against the fence.

      Wait a minute. Shazam alacazam! as Ely and I used to scream in the building elevator before lighting up all the floors to annoy Mr. McAllister. Ely gave in too easily – to vaulting Gabriel to #2 on the No Kiss List™ and to enabling my class-skipping habit by showing up when he had a study session. Ely busts his ass maintaining a high GPA to keep his freshman scholarship in good standing. He’s got to. His parents make too much money for them to qualify for need-based financial aid but not enough to pay the full tuition tab and their mortgage. Ely is trapped by that scholarship as much as my mother and I are trapped in the apartment across the hall from his. Mom’s administrative job at the university may cover the tuition for my general studies program, but she could never finance us moving from The Building, no matter how awkward the situation might be with the neighbors. Mom could never afford on her own a place as nice as the one her parents bought for us.

      “What’s wrong?” I ask Ely. His face has warmed up a little, and without the shiver-flush reddening his cheeks, I can see the worry lines around his beautiful blue Ely-eyes.

      “I have to tell you something.”

      “What?” I ask, concerned. What if Ely has cancer, or he’s decided to take out a student loan to move into student housing and out of The Building; or maybe he’s so mad about my lies he’s no longer going to care if I skip school and fail out entirely.

      Ely says, “I kissed Bruce the Second.”

      There are all kinds of ways to force yourself to decide. We do it all the time, make decisions. If we actually thought about every decision we made, we’d be paralyzed. Which word to say next. Which way to turn. What to look at. Which number to dial. You have to decide which decisions you’re actually going to make, and then you have to let the rest of them go. It’s the places where you think you have a choice that can really mess you up.

      She wasn’t home. That’s the first factor. The doorman let me up, I rang the bell, and she wasn’t there, where she said she would be. Two months ago this would have surprised me, but now it just annoyed me. You know that feeling of waiting for someone. I mean really waiting for someone – standing in front of a restaurant in the cold and having hundreds of people pass you on the sidewalk. And you don’t want to do anything else, because you’re afraid you might miss something – that somehow if you don’t spot her right away, she’ll walk right СКАЧАТЬ