Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List. Rachel Cohn

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.

      Except the Bruce the Second Quiz. When she’d asked me, Would you rather go out with: (a) a former First Lady, (b) gorillas in the mist, (c) a woman who looked like Stephen King, or (d) a future accountant, I went with (b). But it’s not the gorillas at my door now, is it?

      I take Bruce the Second into the living room. He sits down on the couch. I offer him a drink. And then I’m like, whoa, we’re returning to the scene of the crime, aren’t we? But that wasn’t the idea. Not mine. And it doesn’t look like it’s his, either. He doesn’t seem to have the remotest clue about what he’s doing.

      “Are you sure you don’t want to have a drink?” I offer. “I’ve already had two.”

      Truth: It’s three, but since two of them were only about half as strong as the other one, I figure that counts as two. Usually it takes at least four for me to start feeling like life’s a musical. And it takes at least five for me to start feeling like life’s a disco musical. It’s a very expensive habit, unless you happen to have very cheap taste.

      “Bruce?” I ask. Because he’s turned about as expressive as the couch he’s sitting on. Which, incidentally, is beige floral. Very lesbian.

      Lord, I shouldn’t have kissed him. But, Lord, if You hadn’t wanted me to kiss him, why did You put him in my room like that?

      “I’m sorry,” Bruce says. He’s turned away from me again, so it’s like he’s apologizing to the wall.

      “What for?” I ask. It’s a genuine question. I have no idea.

      “For coming here so late. For wanting to see you.”

      “It’s no problem,” I say. “I was just about to go out anyway. So it’s not like you woke me up.”

      I don’t touch the “wanting to see you” part, because honestly it’s setting off the Neediness Alarm in my head.

      The door chime rings again. I hear Naomi scraping at the door, calling, “Let me in!” She doesn’t really care if the moms are home – one of them loves her and the other one owes her. Conveniently Naomi forfeited her key to my apartment a few months ago, when we fought over whether it was wrong of me to give a sweater of hers to a boy I wanted to sleep with. She threw the key at me; I kept it. She asked for it back four days later, after I’d stolen the goddamn sweater from the boy’s apartment, figuring he’d blame his hairy roommate. I kept both the sweater and the key, because I had to teach her to never throw a key at me again. With her aim and my luck, she’d end up poking out both of my eyes.

      “C’mon,” I tell Bruce. I grab his hand and pull him back to my bedroom. He seems to remember the way from yesterday. I figure I can just close him in there for a little while. But then I have one of those brilliant revelations that screams, You. Are. A. Dumbfuck. Because no way is Naomi coming into this apartment without pawing through my room for something.

      So I tell Bruce to get into the closet. He does it, and as I stare at the closed door I think, Did I really just tell Bruce to get into the closet? That is too fucking obvious on so many levels.

      Naomi is treating my apartment door like it’s starring in the seventh sequel to Saw, and I know the assault won’t compare to the barrage of questions I’ll face if I don’t open it in the next thirteen nanoseconds.

      “Where the fuck were you?” she says as soon as she gets in the apartment.

      “I was jerking off and you startled me so much I dropped the photo of you into the toilet,” I say. “Calm down. You’re acting like it’s that time of the month and I’m the OPEC of tampons.”

      She looks good, but unfinished. I give her the once-over while she gives me the third degree. Neither of us needs a mirror when the other one’s around.

      “Is that my wristband? Are you ready to go? Why aren’t you answering your door? Are you ever going to give me that key back?”

      This is all precious, since any gay boy worth his Madonna singles could tell that she’s come over to borrow a belt. Naomi hates hates hates the fact that we fit into the same jeans, but that doesn’t stop her from treating my clothes like I only have them on loan from her.

      “I’m going to wear the red one,” I say. “I know I’m wearing this one right now, but I was about to change to the red one.”

      “Fuck you. You look hot and you know it. You’re just saying the red one to throw me off the trail of your lick-my-hips-with-your-hands glitter belt. And I’m telling you, tonight that baby’s calling this waist Mama.”

      There’s no use arguing, especially since she’s totally paying for my drinks tonight, whether she knows it (awwww, Ely’s puppy dog eyes) or not (stupid waif still hates purses enough to ask me to hold her plastic wallet).

      She bounds into my room, and I swear it’s like I can hear the closet breathing. Bad move bad move bad move.

      “Over here,” I say, thanking the Lord that I’m too goddamn busy to ever get my used clothes beyond my desk chair.

      I hand her the glitter belt.

      “Looks better on me,” I say.

      “Only when it’s fastening you to the bedpost,” she shoots back.

      Spoken like a true ignorant, which is what I love about my girl.

      “All set?” I say.

      “Do you mind if Bruce comes along?” Naomi asks. Clearly I balk, because she laughs and says, “What? He’s downstairs. I needed clean underwear, okay? I went to the laundry room, and he was hanging out with the sleeplessheads in the lobby.”

      I’m so confused.

      “The First,” Naomi says. “Not your cheap-thrill kissing partner. I swear, if he didn’t have such good teeth, I’d let you have your little mindfuck for a little while longer.”

      “That’s not fair,” I say. The words are coming out before I can think, Don’t say that, foolboy.

      “Wait a sec.” Naomi pauses right in front of the closet. “You make out with my boyfriend and I’m the one not being fair? Even a two-year-old on meth would be able to see how wrong that is.”

      “I meant fair in the I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about sense.”

      “Oh, I see. Maybe I need your leather jacket to compensate.”

      She reaches to pull open the closet door. I do the only thing I can think of to stop her.

      “Yeah, if you want to look dumpy,” I say.

      Bingo.

      “You think it makes me look dumpy?” She actually sounds hurt.

      “Sweetheart, the damn thing makes me look dumpy. Why do you think I haven’t been wearing