“He’s an accounting major,” Naomi corrects.
“Dude, you don’t even know your own boyfriend. Bruce is an econ major with a possible minor in accounting. He hasn’t decided yet. He’s also intrigued by anthropology.”
“Dude,” Naomi shoots back. “Guess I don’t have to give a fuck, seeing as how Bruce is not my boyfriend anymore.”
“Makes sense.” Robin nods knowingly. “You’re way out of his league. Everyone said so. But seriously, I hope there’s not some trickle-down negative aftershock of depression if you dumped him, because I was going to hit Bruce up to help me study for my—”
“Shut the fuck up, Robin,” Naomi says. “Can you not see I’m in mourning? Show some fucking sensitivity.”
God, I love Naomi. She talks to boys so easily. I don’t know how she does it. She’s like a miracle worker.
“Knew I shoulda brought my Super 8 downstairs,” Robin mutters. “Naomi mourning Bruce. Woulda been classic.”
“Mourning Ely. ELY!” Her flip-out moment ends with the vibration of her cell phone. She wipes the tears from her face, embarrassed, then opens the phone. She looks up at me. Mood stabilized. “Text message. From Gabriel the hot doorman.” That doorman is a fine specimen of hunk, even to a Velma like me, who normally wouldn’t notice such endowment, I mean such shallow observation of one man’s resemblance to either of those main guys from Aerosmith (not the drummer, the other two), who both simply ooze sexual appeal no matter how geriatric they get. I could aspire to be a Daphne if I thought it would attract the likes of either of them to me, or that Gabriel guy, or even the other Robin guy. I’d be a Daphne from Albany for any of those guys. Crazy!
“You text-message with your doorman?” I ask Naomi. I might officially worship her now.
“Yeah, but don’t tell Ely. Gabriel’s currently number two on the No Kiss List.”
Tears, welcome back.
“You gonna be okay?” I ask Naomi, pulling her into another embrace.
She nods onto my bosom, I mean my sensible sweater, stifling a sniffle. Then she looks up at me, goddess face, resplendent in the glow of tear-stained cheeks. “Gabriel’s shift just ended, and he’s headed over to some club on Avenue B. He’s in this band called The Abe Froman Experience. Their set’s gonna start in about an hour. That’s gotta be a better diversion than any dorm party that could be brewing here.”
A Velma is obligated to remind Naomi, “I thought you wanted to slow down.”
“Vrrroooommmm,” Naomi answers. “Wanna go, Robins?”
DO I!
Awesome.
BRUCE THE SECOND
MUTANT
What am I doing in this closet?
Surely, when Ely told me not to leave, he didn’t mean to stay in here.
Right?
After a good two minutes (I count to 120), I step out. I don’t close the door behind me, though. I look in and see all of Ely’s pretty shirts. They look like they’re made of wrapping paper.
I shop at the Gap. I don’t even have the body for Aber-crombie’s non-muscle wear. I own three pairs of jeans and rotate them. (For those, I splurged and went to Banana Republic.) What am I doing here?
I know Ely’s not toying with me. I trust him. But I also feel that life is toying with me. This can’t be right. The Cosmic Screenwriter is doing this as a joke.
Ely would never fall for a guy wearing a Gap button-down and Banana Republic jeans. Especially not L, 34/32.
And I would never fall for a guy who was . . . well . . . a guy. That was the script, right? I mean, I’m all for falling for the person, not the gender . . . but this is not exactly where I thought I’d be. I won’t lie: I’ve definitely thought about the guy thing before. And then I’ve dismissed it. Until this. This won’t be dismissed.
I know I should leave. Just go. Because there’s a point where a mistake turns into a big mistake, and I should probably come to my senses before I get there.
But of course, come to my senses makes no sense. My senses are happy here. Or they will be, when he comes back.
I wonder if I should still be hiding. I crouch down to look under the bed, to see if maybe I could fit there.
And that’s how I find it.
The mother lode.
At first I don’t get it. I see all the plastic sleeves, and since the lode’s under the bed, my first reaction is, He keeps his porn in mint condition?
Then I reach in and pull one out.
It can’t be.
But it is. It looks like he has every single X-Men comic published in the last ten—no, twenty—years. None of the desperate spin-offs. Just the core series. Wolverine. Jean Grey. Emma Frost. Mmmm . . . Emma Frost.
The X-Men were pivotal heroes for me. Before them, I always liked the more conventional superheroes, the ones like Superman and Batman, who had their “normal” alter egos— their Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne lives to hide behind. But the X-Men were different. They were always exactly who they were. Wolverine couldn’t shave himself and put on a tie and go to work at a newspaper. Rogue couldn’t touch anyone, whether she was at school or at war. Cyclops couldn’t change out of a cape and attend fancy dinner parties. No, the mutants were full-time mutants. Their powers and their weaknesses were all out in the open.
That appealed to me.
I was never allowed to collect comics. My mother didn’t like the clutter. She said I should donate my old comics to poor children who didn’t have any comics of their own to read. How could I argue with that?
Ely, clearly, has a different philosophy.
I leave the comics in their plastic sleeves. I can’t violate them with my fingerprints. Not without asking.
But I look at the covers, all the Jim Lee scenes, so many different shades of mutant. There are even star stickers stuck onto a few of the sleeves. Ely’s favorites, no doubt.
I never would have guessed. Underneath the wrapping paper, there’s an X-Men heart. Uncanny.
I’m so transfixed that I don’t hear the footsteps or the door opening. But I sense a presence in the room, because I look up from my side of the bed and see one of Ely’s moms hovering over it.
“Hello,” she says. She does not seem particularly startled to see me.
“Hey,” I say, starting to stand up.
“No, no—you can stay there. I’m sure you’re just waiting for Ely. Make yourself comfortable.”
And that’s it. She turns around and leaves.
Which makes me wonder if this happens a lot.
Which makes me wonder why I’m still here.
I mean, I know Ely’s slept with a lot of guys. Naomi has certainly mentioned what a boyslut he is. Whenever we were together, she boasted on his behalf. Not just the sex part. Everything. The boys, I sensed, were disposable. Naomi was granite. And Ely was granite to her. There was no way for me to compete with that. So I let her talk. I always let her talk. Mostly about Ely.
Do all the boys feel like this? I mean, is this the way it usually goes?
It’s like I’m joining a club. The Boys Who’ve Fallen For Ely Club. Hundreds throughout the greater metropolitan area. Every year they have a potluck and compare their broken hearts.
How long do they usually wait for him in situations like this? An hour? Two? The whole night?
I’m not even supposed to like boys.
But, yeah. Here I am.
I lie down on the floor. Close my eyes. I can hear a television in another room—maybe his moms’, maybe from the apartment downstairs. If I can hear them, can they hear me? I’m really nothing but a heartbeat and thoughts right now. Not restful or restless. The rest.
“You could use the bed, you know.”
I open my eyes, and Ely is smiling over me. So damn sexy that I can’t help but love it and fear it and resent it and want it.
“What time is it?” I ask. Did I fall asleep? Am I really awake?
“I’ve only been gone about ten minutes,” he answers. “Miss me?”
I just say it. “Yes.?
?? Like that.
Please may this not be a game. Please may this not be a game. Because if it’s a game, I know I’m going to lose.
I sit up and he sits down next to me. His breath smells like Orbit. He looks a little sad, but he’s trying to hide it from me.
“Where’s Naomi?” I ask.
“She left without me. Made a date with Bruce the First.”
This is news. If you separate two people who are usually as fused together as an atom, there’s bound to be an explosion.
But Ely’s keeping it muted.
“I see you found the stash,” he says, gesturing beneath the bed.
“It’s awesome,” I tell him.
I’ve entered the land of Bonus Points.
“You’re into X-Men?” he asks, putting whatever’s going on with Naomi aside in order to be with me.
“Are you kidding?” I tell him. “When I was nine, I actually mailed in an application to go to Xavier’s school. Put a stamp on the envelope, put it in a mailbox—everything. I didn’t hear from them, but the next year I did it again. And again.”
“Their queer quota is probably full up.”
I feel a little weird about him saying that—I don’t think he realizes what new territory this is for me.
“I’m not sure I would’ve put that on the application then,” I tell him. “But, yeah, maybe they have ways of knowing.”
Ely looks at me in a way that feels like he’s touching me.
“And how else are you a mutant?” he asks.
Sometimes attraction is the only truth serum you need. “I dunno,” I begin. But I do know, and I’m going to tell him. “I’m afraid of the number six. I have a microscopic third nipple, which would have made me a witch in medieval times. I can roll my tongue. I’m unable to throw a Frisbee, no matter how hard I try. I avoid red foods.”
“Even foods that have a little red in them?”
“No. They have to be all red. Pizza’s okay, tomatoes—not so much.”
He nods sagely. “I see.”
I’m glad that he sees. But what I really wish he’d see is how much I want him to kiss me right now.
But instead he says, “Naomi never told me what a mutant you were.”
Naomi.
That sound you hear is my spirits falling to earth.
“Where’d she go, anyway?” I ask.
“I actually don’t know.” He seems annoyed when he says it—hurt, even. But then he covers it with “I can’t say I minded. I’d much rather be here with you.”
I don’t know why, but I find myself asking, “Is that really true?”
Ely shakes his head. “Man, I can only imagine what you must think of me.”
“Naomi’s told me stories,” I say.
“I’m sure she has. Were they any good?”
“Not really,” I tell him. “I mean, the one with the T.A. serenading you at BBar with ‘Don’t You Want Me’ was kinda funny. The one with the guy who wanted you to write your phone number on his dick with a Sharpie—not so much. And I’m still not entirely sure why that guy gave you the maple syrup. I guess the truth is, I like you better in person.”
“That’s funny. I’ve always liked Naomi’s version of me the best. I’m always much more interesting when she talks about me.”
“Well, maybe you’re mistaken,” I say.
And he looks me in the eye and says, “Well, maybe I am.”
The two of us are just sitting there. And it’s not as if the air is charged with sexual electricity. But the air isn’t empty, either. It’s just a . . . normal moment. We’re living in real time.
“And how are you a mutant?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “my skull is made of titanium. I have the ability to read minds and part seas. I can make my left arm invisible, if I’m wearing blue. I only need an hour of sleep every night. And I have a third nipple, too.”
“Your skull is made of titanium?”
He leans in. “Yeah. Wanna see?”
And it is like electricity now. That first shock. Then the amazement that it happened. I touch his hair, his skull underneath. All the fragile non-fragile parts.
Hands in his hair, fingers touching the back of his head, I know this is not love.
But I am afraid—I am amazed—that it could be.
I wish my heart were titanium, too.
NAOMI
MO(U)RNING
So maybe I’m sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park, centered inside the pulse at the heart of the city that doesn’t sleep. So maybe it’s just me here, and some joggers, a few commuters rushing to their , the bums, all of us sharing the view of dawn rising over the Empire State Building and Midtown off in the distance.
But I know the difference. Everyone else is a ghost. I exist here alone, stranded by choice. Deserted.
I’m like Columbus. I discovered this island. It’s mine now. I hereby claim sole custody.
Maybe this island bench used to be the one where Ely and I would hunker down around dawn, after parties, before going home. Once upon a time, this was the bench where he’d place my head in his lap and stroke my hair (or vice versa), where we created our private island for passing the time to let the substances subside before we returned to the nightmare our parents created. In the parallel universe of Naomi & Ely, this might be the spot where, if one half of our equation hadn’t decided to kiss my boyfriend, Ely would be coaxing me into a sunrise nap at this very moment, protectively placing a blanket over my body and snarling at any dude who dared ogle me with preying eyes. (Of course, I’d offer up the same Fuck Off glare to all the gay boys returning home from their late-night clubbing who’d dare offer up a smile Ely’s way. I give great snarl. I’m not entirely without talent.)
(Maybe Ely didn’t snarl at the men ogling me. Maybe I only wanted him to.)
Is this what divorce feels like—complete failure? Dad may have moved out over a year ago, but only now do I understand why, still, the only time Mom wants to get out of bed is when she has to. She’s yet to file the official papers, but the word— divorce—creeps and crawls, taunts, all over the marital bed where she’s taken refuge. Mom knows the other words— adultery, separation—found their way to her bed. Divorce will, too, when it’s ready.
I’ll take bench over bed. Still.
On weekends when we were in high school, while all hell broke loose between our parents, Ely and I would take refuge in his room and play a game of Turn Back the Clock. We imagined the late ’90s, before all hell broke loose in New York City and the rest of the world, to be a good era to reinvent, so we’d pass lazy Sundays on his bed, listening to early Britney, middle Spice Girls, and late Lilith Fair chicks, or watching DVDs of TV shows that used to air on the former teen angst WB network. I loved to nap on his pillows because they smelled like him, like comfort and boy.
Ely and Bruce the Second are probably wrapped in each other in Ely’s bed together right now. It’s only been a few days, but Ely doesn’t waste time when he’s on the hunt—especially if there’s potential to score a convert over to his team. What challenge! What fun! No time for mourning this morning! Not when Ely’s probably at this very moment laughing and kissing with Bruce the Dead to Me, oblivious that their their is like a gun to my head.
The underneath my apartment’s doormat, Ely’s key, has been removed. The monsters under my bed will have to find someone else to scare them away. Ely’s services shall no longer be required. I don’t need my bed anyway. I’ve got a bench to sit on. Catatonic. Take that, monsters. I will never again lie in my bed alone at night, wishing for Ely.
I feel for Mom, but I’m not going to be her, stranded on the isle of denial. I’m not.
I can’t lie. My deserted island isn’t populated entirely by me and ghosts. An archangel lingers nearby.
Here’s what I want to know: He works graveyard hours as a doorman, plays basketball before his shift, and occasionally performs with his band in Alphabet City in the dead of night when his shift ends early . .
. so when exactly does Gabriel sleep?
If I was Gabriel and it was seven in the morning and I’d just gotten off work after one of my shifts that did not close out in Alphabet City, I would not be sitting on a park bench, hiding my face under a baseball hat, pretending to be immersed in a book. I would be zzzzzzzzzzzz. I would at least be curled up next to my mom, ready to zzzzzzzzzzzz. Which I plan to be as soon as I can haul ass over to the Starbucks off Waverly Place so I can return home with morning caffeine for her.
First I have to know why Gabriel is playing with me.
I know he knows I’m sitting only a few benches away. I know he’s sitting there because I’m sitting here. I know he must be confused that I showed up at his band’s show and then had nothing to say to him after. Does he know I left the club and stayed over at girl-Robin’s because apparently I hadn’t finished the crying I’d started earlier that night at her dorm? I wanted to stay and hang out with him, but more than that, I wanted to turn back time on the end-of-the-world fight with Ely.
I for sure know Gabriel is not actually reading Message in a Bottle. I do know someone needs to salvage Gabriel out of late-night poker games with Bruce the First.
I should stand up, go over to him, break the ice with him finally. Engage.
Ely and I used to have a No Kiss ListTM.
Gabriel is a free agent now. I not only could kiss him, I could go much, much farther with him. I could make real Ely’s fantasies about Gabriel, in ways that Ely never stood a chance.
As far as I recall, Ely and I never created a No Fuck List?
(Should we have?)
All bets are off now, right?
Mom says men can’t be trusted.
I can’t.
I should.
Gabriel has big ears.
I don’t.
I remain alone on my . I have nothing to .
But so much to brood over on my deserted-island bench. Now that Ely has eradicated himself as my best friend, my soulmate, the truth is I’m going to have to figure out what to do with my time. School is a waste. Maybe I’ll find religion. I’ll probably become a X. They have the best food.