Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List
Page 17
As I’m leaving the apartment, Naomi signs to me, “Don’t worry, be happy.”
I remember when we first decided to learn sign language— it was fourth grade, and we wanted to have our secrets even when our parents or our other friends were looking. Later on, it was great for clubs where the music was way too loud—we could still have a conversation without having to shout. Sometimes we’d bump into other people who knew ASL and we’d all talk to each other. But most of the time it was just me and Naomi, as always in our own two-person world.
I think about that as I head over to Bruce’s, and I think that as hard as we try, it still sometimes feels like we all speak different languages. Even if we share all the same words, meanings can be different. And the mistake isn’t in speaking the different languages, but in ignoring the fact. I thought Naomi and I had perfectly matched up our vocabularies and our definitions. But that’s just not possible. There are always meanings that are different, words that are heard differently than they’re said. There’s no such thing as a soulmate . . . and who would want there to be? I don’t want half of a shared soul. I want my own damn soul.
I think I’m going to learn to appreciate the word close. Because that’s what Naomi and I are. We’re close. Not all the way there. Not identical. Not soulmates. But close. Because that’s as far as you should ever get with another person: very, very close.
That’s what I want with Bruce, too.
I want to be close.
It’s bullshit to think of friendship and romance as being different. They’re not. They’re just variations of the same love. Variations of the same desire to be close.
Robin and Robin come down to let me into the dorm— I want my first appearance to Bruce to be a knock on the door, not a buzz on the intercom.
Robin and Robin are in the middle of a fight over what Bill Murray whispers to Scarlett Johansson at the end of Lost in Translation—it’s one of those total couple-fights where you can tell they’re getting off on it even as they’re slamming each other. It’s fun to be in, I guess, but hell to be around.
I duck out and wind my way through the halls to Bruce’s door. I’m so nervous I actually debate the proper way to knock. Friendly tap? Enthusiastic pound? Nursery-rhyme beat?
I go for the friendly tap. His “Who is it?” actually giddifies me further.
“It’s me,” I say. “Your long-lost boyfriend.”
The door opens and Bruce takes in my suit, my anxious smile. I take in . . . well, his I’m-not-going-out clothes. Stained green T-shirt, torn jeans.
Stop judging his clothes. Stop judging his clothes. Stop judging his clothes.
“Hi,” he says, and from his voice I can tell I’m not the only nervous one here.
I guess I never got past the what-to-wear part of the planning stage, because I stand there like a statue of someone really stupid.
And that’s when it turns into a musical. I mean, not literally. It’s not like an orchestra starts playing or Bruce and I start singing. But I recognize this moment: It’s the moment in the musical when the traveling salesman proclaims his love for the shy librarian. She doesn’t believe it. He has to let her know. They’re meant for each other—they both feel it—but only one of them believes it. It’s time to take action, even if it’s not easy. It’s time to use the truth as a form of persuasion. I realize that.
As soon as I get into the room, as soon as the door closes, I’m singing the truth to him. The words are just coming out, and if there isn’t any music, there’s still a tune to what I’m saying. I’m telling him I’ve missed him. I’m telling him I don’t understand what I did to make him disappear, but that whatever it was, I want to prevent it from happening again. I’m telling him that I know I’m not good enough for him, that I am this unreliable gay boy who always manages to mess up the things that mean the most to me. This is my language. This is how I can say what I need to say. This sudden musical number.
I don’t say “I’m in love with you,” because that’s the sentence that’s in every sentence, the feeling that’s behind every word.
“I’m in love with you” comes out as “I know I’m a total flirty slut and I know that dating me is probably the kiss of death, and I’m sure if you polled my ex-boyfriends, eleven out of eleven of them would tell you to run screaming away from me. I know that I probably move too fast and I know that I get everything wrong all of the time and I know that you probably feel that you’ve come to your senses by deciding to get me out of your life. I know I am probably not worthy of how sweet you are and how nice you are and how smart you are. I know that I totally sprung myself on you and you’ve probably regretted it ever since. But I really, really hope that you feel that maybe there was something there, because I have a great time when I’m with you, and I feel like I could be the person I want to be when I’m with you, and I think I could treat you the way you deserve when I’m with you. And I realize that I’ll probably fuck it all up, if I haven’t fucked it up already, but I’m hoping that you might find it in your heart to maybe risk that and see what happens.”
I stop then, and all the music is frozen in the air, waiting for the librarian’s response. Either the notes are going to come to life again or they’re going to fall to the ground and shatter like ice.
A pause. Then . . .
Bruce opens his mouth and sings back to me: “No—you don’t understand. I’m the one who’s not good enough for you.”
And suddenly it’s a duet.
“I’m not sexy,” he sings.
“Yes, you are,” I sing back.
“I’m too selfish,” I sing.
“No, you’re not,” he sings back.
“I’m afraid,” he sings.
“That’s okay,” I sing back.
“I’m afraid,” I sing.
“That’s okay,” he sings back.
We always see our worst selves. Our most vulnerable selves. We need someone else to get close enough to tell us we’re wrong. Someone we trust.
Yes, I know Bruce will never look good on the dance floor. I know he’s got issues. I know he’s a mutant.
But I like that.
I just have to convince him. The same way he needs to convince me he doesn’t think I’m reckless and heartless.
This is what we need to do.
We know it won’t all happen now. And it can’t ever happen perfectly.
But we can get close.
He asks me why we haven’t slept with each other yet, and I explain to him how I want to wait, how that means something, and I think of how stupid I’ve been not to explain it earlier, not to let him in on the meaning. And I ask him why he left the club that night, and he tells me how scared he was, how irrelevant he felt.
“I took you for granted,” I say.
And he says, “No. I just bolted too soon. I should’ve said something to you. Then I would’ve known it was in my head, not yours.”
I have been guilty before of kissing people to shut them up. I have kissed boys (and girls) out of pity or desire for power or just to be flirty. But when I kiss Bruce now—when we hold each other and kiss each other and try so hard to feel every ounce of it—I’m not trying to dodge anything or avoid anything or tease anything or control anything. It’s love that kisses him. Pure and simple love.
If this were a musical, the orchestra would swoon to a stop, the audience would begin to applaud, the lights would go out. And then there’d be another number.
In this case, the librarian and the traveling salesman remain on the stage. They wait for the audience to file out of their seats. They wait for the orchestra to pack up its instruments and go home for the night. They stand there on the stage until it’s just the two of them left.
Even with no one else around, they sing.
It’s late when I get home to Naomi.
I pass Gabriel on the way to the elevator.
“You better be good to her” is all I say to him.
“I will be” is all he says back to me.
I
tiptoe through my apartment, careful not to wake the moms. I find Naomi sleeping in my bed—sleeping off all the sleeplessness of the past months, sleeping past all the tiredness. Seeing her like that, the sheets scrunched up in her hands (she’s always been a total sheet-snatcher) and her one foot dangling over the side (she always likes it to be free), I feel like I know her. Really know her. And part of really knowing her is also knowing that I don’t necessarily know her as well as I think I do. Which is okay. We should each have our own damn souls.
I take off my shoes, my jacket, my tie. She stirs a little when I climb onto the bed—on top of the sheets, careful. I have four pillows on my bed, each in an identical pillowcase, and yet she always knows the best one to take. I shift a little, make myself comfortable on the second-best pillow. I turn on my side so I can see her in the dark.
“How’d it go?” she asks me in a sleep-infused voice.
“Good,” I say. “Really good.”
“Thank God,” she says, shifting her knee so that it touches mine. This is the closest we’ll get all night—this is both the distance and the closeness that we need.
I could have stayed over with Bruce, but this is where I wanted to end my night. This is what I wanted to come back to. This is as much a part of my story as anything else. Friendship is love as much as any romance. And like any love, it’s difficult and treacherous and confusing. But in the moment when your knees touch, there’s nothing else you could ever want.
“Good night, Robin,” I say.
“Good night, Robin,” Naomi replies.
“Good night, Mrs. Loy.”
“Good night, Kelly.”
“Good night, Cutie Patootie.”
“Cutie Pie.”
“Sorry. Good night, Cutie Pie.”
“Buenas noches, Donnie Weisberg.”
“Good night, Dairy Queens.”
“Good night, Bruce the First.”
“Good night, Moms.”
“Good night, Mom. And Dad.”
“Good night, Gabriel the hot boyfriend.”
“Good night, Bruce the good boyfriend.”
“Good night, Naomi.”
“Good night, Ely.”
It’s a total lie to say there’s only one person you’re going to be with for the rest of your life.
If you’re lucky—and if you try really hard—there will always be more than one.
RACHEL COHN and DAVID LEVITHAN are writing together for the second time with Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List. Both are highly acclaimed young adult authors in their own right.
Rachel’s previous books include Gingerbread, an ALA Best Book for Young Adults, an ALA Top Ten Quick Pick for Young Adults, and a Publishers Weekly and School Library Journal Best Book of the Year, as well as its sequels, Shrimp, a Kirkus Reviews Editors’ Choice and a New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age, and Cupcake.
David’s previous books include Boy Meets Boy, an ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults, an ALA Quick Pick, and a Lambda Literary Award winner; The Realm of Possibility, an ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults; Are We There Yet?, a New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age; and Wide Awake.
Rachel and David’s first novel together, Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist, is also available from Knopf.
Their Web sites are linked: www.rachelcohn.com and www.davidlevithan.com.
Also by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan
Soon to be a major movie!
Table of Contents
COVER PAGE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DEDICATION
CONTENTS
NAOMI: SHIVER
BRUCE THE SECOND: DIAL
BRUCE THE FIRST: INSOMNIA
ELY: KEY
NAOMI: ORBIT
ELY: KNOCKDOWN
ROBIN: VELMA
BRUCE THE SECOND: MUTANT
NAOMI: MO(U)RNING
ELY: WEEKIVERSARY
KELLY: BINGO
NAOMI: REALIZE
GABRIEL: TRACKS
BRUCE THE SECOND: OUT
STARBUCKS: NAOMI
BRUCE THE FIRST: LIKEWISE
ROBIN: FRIENDS
GABRIEL: TIGER
BRUCE THE SECOND: FAIR
NAOMI: UP
ELY: EASY
NAOMI: EXPECTATION
ELY: CORNER
NAOMI: CLOSETS
ELY: CLOSE