She’s lying. I know she’s lying. But if she’s not going to admit that she’s lying, it’s just as bad.

Domino. Domino. Domino.

“You’re lying,” I say.

Domino.

“So are you,” she says back.

Domino.

“Guys?”

“Yes, Bruce,” Naomi asks, clearly annoyed. I take some consolation that it’s not only me.

Cutie Pie starts barking up a storm. Maybe all this lying’s made her want to pee.

“Nothing,” Bruce the First says.

Cutie Pie’s now acting like King Kong’s blowing a dog whistle.

“You see,” Naomi says, “even Cutie Patootie knows you’re lying.”

“Cutie Pie,” Bruce corrects again. And for a millisecond there, I actually like him. He never stands up for himself, but at least he stands up for the dog.

Naomi lets out this pout-snort that’s like her impersonating Madonna impersonating the Queen of England.

Cutie Pie’s straining at his leash, pulling for the door. And I swear Naomi’s looking at him like he’s telling her things about me.

“You’re acting weird, Naomi,” I say.

“And you’re just plain acting, Ely,” she says back.

This from the girl who was a drama queen before we were old enough to go to Dairy Queen.

I have no desire to see the night crash to the ground. I want to go out, have a good time, appease Naomi, and get back to Bruce in my bedroom. I don’t see any reason why I can’t do all of these things.

“Look,” I say, “is this about Bruce?” I figure we might as well talk about it instead of using all our energy to avoid it.

“What about me?” Bruce-who’s-downstairs-with-us asks.

“Not you,” Naomi says. “The other one.”

Bruce seems a little pleased that he’s the primary Bruce.

“Is he coming, too?” he asks.

“Why don’t you ask Ely?” Naomi says, both bitter and brittle. Britter.

“Can we just go?” I say.

But Bruce the First is still inspecting the starting block. “Wait—what’s going on?” he asks, dumbwildered. “Isn’t he here with you, Naomi? I saw him go upstairs.”

Oh Lord. Just my luck he chooses this moment to be Encyclopedia Brown.

“Is that right, Bruce?” Naomi says. She looks like she’s about to pet him.

“Naomi—” I start.

“Yeah, he came in a few minutes ago,” Bruce continues.

“Look, Naomi—” I offer again. There are very few situations that can’t be saved with an explanation.

But Naomi isn’t going to let me continue.

“Well,” she huffs, “it looks like it’s Colonel Bastard in Ely’s bedroom with a candlestick. Or is it a bludgeon, Ely?”

“I’m not really sure I’m following you two,” Bruce says.

At least Cutie Pie, quiet now, seems to have pieced it together. He doesn’t want to miss a word.

“Look,” I say, “I was going to go out with you anyway. He can wait. You’re my top priority.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant, Ely. That’s just super. I’m so flattered that you’d put my needs over the needs of my boyfriend.”

Okay, if we’re going to start using kneejerks to knock down the dominoes, allow me to add:

“Well, Naomi, I think it’s safe to say he’s not your boyfriend anymore.”

Naomi smacks her forehead. “Well, gee, how stupid of me to think that someone would let me know.”

Oh, enough already. “You know none of us meant for this to happen. It’s like the whole Devon Knox thing.”

“Ely, DEVON KNOX WAS STRAIGHT. Your crush didn’t count. And that was THREE YEARS AGO.”

“He was on the list.”

“I forgot, okay?”

Cue: Inspector Bruce.

“What’s happened?” he asks.

“Look, Bruce, could you just leave us alone for a second?”

Okay, so the city has 311 for you to call to ask for repairs and shit, and 411 to get people’s phone numbers, and 911 to call the police or the fire department or paramedics. Well, I propose they add 711, so if you find yourself stuck in the lobby of an apartment building with an irrationally tirading best friend and her unbuff buffoon of an ex (and a hot doorman looking on), you can dial three simple digits and they can send a calm, sane person to help you explain what’s going on. Right now, my best bet is the dog, and he seems to need to pee again.

“Okay,” Original Bruce says to Cutie Pie in an oopsy-woopsy voice. “Brucie’s gonna take you out for a wee-wee.”

Cutie Pie looks like he’s going to rip Bruce’s throat out for talking to him this way. I can’t say I blame him. I’ve lost erections to vocal mannerisms like that.

I’m so absorbed in the dog’s resistance that I almost don’t hear Naomi say, “Ely, I can’t do this anymore.”

Here we go. Moment of truth.

I look her right in the eye. She turns to the side, so I scoot over and face her there.

I know she doesn’t want to hear this. But I have to say it anyway.

“Naomi, I like him. I really do.”

There. It’s out there.

And she doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Is that why you’re hiding him?” she asks. “Because you like him so much?”

“You really want to know why I’m hiding him?”

“Why?” she asks.

I wish she hadn’t.

Why?

“Because I’m afraid of you.”

It’s true. I am. Always have been.

“Well, I’m fucking afraid of you, too.”

We stare at each other for a second.

Bruce jumps in. “Look, you two . . . maybe you should just cool off for a second.”

“SHUT UP, BRUCE!” we both yell.

Well, at least we agree on something.

Hurt, Bruce starts pulling Cutie Pie away.

“C’mon, Cutie,” Bruce says. “Let’s go. I guess we’re not wanted here.”

Oh great—now the wittle boy’s feewings are hurt.

“I’m coming with you,” Naomi says. “I wanna dance with somebody who loves me.”

Shit, girl—I pour out the truth of my heart and you’re going to use Whitney against me?

“HAVE FUN!” I yell after them.

All the dominoes are down. No word back. Just the echo of Gabriel the hot midnight doorman wishing them a hot goodnight as they leave. Then the door closing. The elevator behind me making its way up to someone else’s floor. The otherwise silence.

It takes me a second to remember that Bruce is waiting in my closet.

And that I like him.

ROBIN

VELMA

Here’s what I love about big-city folk. They’ll show up at your dorm room in the middle of the night, slurping cones from 31 Flavors in one hand and cradling sleeping Chihuahuas in the other, asking if you want to play Pictionary in the study lounge, like that’s normal. In Schenectady, I assure you, this doesn’t happen. In Schenectady, you have two parents (male/ female), who generally stay together, and who would freak if their kid’s school friend showed up at their home in the middle of the night. The big-city girl arrives under the guise of playing a board game, but really she’s there to replay the epic smackdown scene that may have cost this girl her best friend. Oh, don’t forget the part about the big-city girl bringing along he who looks like a farm boy, with the body of the Hulk and the face of that kid from A Christmas Story who gets his tongue stuck on the icy pole.

I knew it would be exciting to move to New York City, I knew it would be worth the second mortgage Mom and Dad had to take out on the house to finance my NYU education, but I didn’t know it would take waiting until sophomore year for interesting things to finally happen. Freshman year was avoiding keggers and watching half of the Long Island / New Jersey diaspora go wild in their first year of freedom-from-parents. I merely observed this freshman madness. I am the Velma. I am the girl with the bowl haircut and the sensible sweater—the investigator, not the cause of investigation. I am not the thinnest, the prettiest, the coolest, or the loudest. I blend in easily, as should a girl from Schenectady. I am the girl whose freshman year was responsible and dean’s list–worthy, the girl who spent her time studying, joining the school newspaper, and learning the difference between, say, a wacky-but-cute NYU guy named Robin who’s worth engaging in conversation in Washington Square Park and just plain wack jobs who only want to sell you dope or Jesus in Washington Square Park. Basic stuff.

But then came sophomore year. That’s when the girl from Schenectady met Naomi from West Ninth Street. She didn’t have to go wild her first year of college. She grew up in the heart of Greenwich Village. Freshperson madness would be too old-school for her. She’s seen it all, done it all. I’m pretty certain.

Here’s why I feel sad for her, though. Naomi’s so city-girl tough, she won’t allow herself to cry, even though it’s obvious she really wants to. Instead she reclines on the worn-out sofa in the study lounge, licking the sprinkles off her Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream scoop, with a dog named Cutie Pie or Cutie Patootie, I’m not sure, taking what appears to be a much-needed nap on her stomach. Which is shaking from Naomi’s sob-avoidance, or just appears to be from the dog’s vibration. Naomi stares blankly at the ceiling while her latest appendage, who actually answers to “Bruce the First,” sits in a chair opposite her, assuring her the fight was Ely’s fault. He has a Pink Bubblegum flavor cone in his one hand and uses the remote control in his other hand to switch between sports score rundowns on ESPN and some late-night Dr. Phil replay. He has some involuntary twitching problem every time the word Ely is uttered.

Awesome. I love New York.

“So does this mean you and the other Bruce are officially broken up now?” I ask Naomi. That guy was both too nice and too boring for a girl like Naomi. She’s way out of his league. It’s interesting, since that’s the type she appears to go for. Guess that’s what happens when the only guy you want is the only guy who won’t have you.

I don’t bother with dating. There is the problem of no one actually asking me on a date, but I choose not to think of that problem as a problem. It’s a solution. The Velmas of the world do not intern at CNN, hope to be accepted at Columbia J-School after graduating NYU with honors, and go on to win Pulitzer Prizes by getting bogged down in relationship drama. That’s a problem for the Daphnes of the world. Daphne, you bitch, you can’t even drive the damn van.

“I guess so,” Naomi mutters. Her jaw clenches, trying to stifle a sob, and I want to grab her hand and tell her everything will be okay, only her hands are occupied by ice cream and dog, and truthfully, I don’t think everything will be okay for her and Ely. “Definitely,” she adds. “Of course. Bruce the Second is history.” An involuntary tear streams down her face, and I know that tear’s name is “Ely” and not “Bruce the Second.”

“Hey, Bruce the First,” I say, which sounds so funny coming from my mouth. Nobody in Schenectady ever called someone a name like that. At least not on my street. I’m so glad I didn’t go home this weekend, even though I’m really missing Mom’s lasagna and Dad’s boastful griping about my tuition bill. “I’m a Robin, and I’m friends with this film student guy, also named Robin. Isn’t that neat?”

“Neat?” he asks me. “Neat? Where are you from, anyway?”

“Schenectady!”

“Crazy!” he says. I’m not sure if he’s being rude or he just doesn’t like any attention that’s not focused on Naomi. I am sure his tone suggests an awful lot of hubris for a high school junior boy hanging out in the middle of the night in an NYU dorm, even for a mere high school junior who grew up on West Ninth Street.