Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist Read online

  He said I wear his jacket better than he or anyone else ever could. So why isn't he going for an encore Johnny Castle performance with me instead of sitting opposite me acting all casual, looking perhaps a little distracted? He could at least do me the courtesy of trying for some furtive cleavage views, or if nothing else, pretend that he's as interested in learning as much about me as I'd like to know about him. Like, everything. Like, NOW.

  If Caroline was here, she'd give me her Patience, grasshopper speech. But she's not and I am left to wonder on my own: How does this work, the getting to know a new guy without revealing too much desperation for his undivided attention?

  It helps that the club has gone from full to packed, because the energy and noise help drown out what is fast becoming a sinking ship between Nick and me, probably courtesy of me and the trying-too-hard conversation. I came back from the bathroom, we had virgin drinks along with toasted clinks, but I seem to have made the ultimate mistake. I try to learn something about him (isn't that what you do?), dig a little deeper, and I'm getting sucked down fast into the vortex of Awkward First Date.

  "So, where do you live?" I ask him, even though I know. Just to say something. And because E.T. tanked, and How long have you been in a band? and Are you guys serious or just fucking around? got me only Since the dawn of time and No, we've only been rehearsing together since freshman year, spent every fucking dollar we made at minimum-wage jobs to support this band, but no, we're not fucking serious. I'm all for sarcasm but sometimes it's tiring, especially when it's near morning and I thought we were finally getting somewhere and I might as well be taking a nap at this point. Nick was so with me a while ago, but now without the diversion of a stage show, and with the (I think) mutual admittance of a mutual- something,it's like the pendulum is swinging perilously in the wrong direction for us, and I don't know if it's that something changed, or I said something stupid again (fucking E.T.-I HATE you!), or I just dared to fly too close to the sun in my desire to thaw.

  "I live in Hoboken," Nick mumbles, and I am remembering a Sinatra-centric mix he made for Tris that made me so hot with envy of her that I wouldn't let her copy my Latin test answers that day.

  "College?" I ask him.

  "Haven't figured that one out yet."

  Brick. Fucking. Wall.

  This is why I should consider breaking my straight-edge vow. Beer most certainly would help this situation. It probably couldn't make it any worse.

  Basic quiz-show format isn't working here, so I take inspiration from the divine beings that have performed on this stage this evening. I sing this next question, all fake Julie Andrews shit operetta stylee: "Care to name a few of your favorite things?"

  His half smile creeps back. "Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream, original Tiffany stained-glass windows at random houses in Weehawken, my iPod. A hot-oil massage from Reba McIntyre."

  I rest my case.

  Did DJ Irony plan to spin "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" by The Smiths right now to appease the crowd during the interim stage setup between acts, or is it just coincidence?

  What did I miss? What changed?

  I take one last shot. Come back to Mama, Nick. You can do it.

  "Last moment of true happiness you experienced?" I ask him.

  "Sometime before three weeks, three days ago-"

  And he's gone again. Ohhhhh---.

  The air is hot here from the surge of people coming in and I watch him watching the door and I realize he's scared Tris is going to show. She probably will. An underground band about to hit it big performing in the middle of the night for a secret show, surely there's an almost-famous musician about to come onstage looking for some groupie Tris love.

  I feel for Nick. He doesn't know yet that he'll be okay without her. Part of me wonders if I should even bother here. The other part of me wants to scream at him: What did you see in her? Why did you waste your life on her?

  Only I already know the answers to the Tris quiz show. If I can suck it up enough to look past the obvious-the blond hair, the big tits, the long legs, the tight skirts-I know that there's this other Tris, this girl who can show a guy a good time without the Caroline variety hangover, make him feel wanted and special until her attention inevitably wanes, this girl who will kick ass at FIT next year, this girl who will have your back, no questions asked.

  In Nick's absence of words and his vacant look, I am remembering junior year in the bathroom, after I'd tanked on a Bio exam. I was drying my hands with a paper towel when Tris came from behind me and snatched the paper towel away from me. "You realize you've been drying your hands for about three straight minutes now? You've practically parched your skin. You okay?" And just like that I came out with it: "I'm late. You're paranoid," Caroline had said when I told her, while Tal had said, "Don't you dare make any decisions without consulting me first." But it was Tris who grabbed my arm and said, "C'mon." It was Tris who knew the strictly Jersey public bus that could take us to the nearby CVS and not to the city, Tris who waited outside the bathroom for me at Starbucks while I took the test, Tris who shoved me in the chest afterward and said, "Be more careful next time, bitch." It was Tris who stood in line to buy me a Frappuccino with her back to me after, knowing I wouldn't want her to see me cry. And I know we really don't like each other except for having known each other since elementary school and the whole past and shared childhood of that, and I know she is a lying cheating skank because how could she do what she did to this guy?; but I also know there is like some girl code I should be obeying and not treading into new dangerous territory with her castoff, so maybe that's why it's Nick who's suddenly gone all frigid?

  The Smiths song ends, to a smattering of applause coming from the direction of the bathrooms. The cocktail bunny has responded to the urgent calls of nature of a long line of laddies waiting for the loo and unlocked the bathroom door with the key hanging from the chain around her neck. Even with the dank lighting and through the beads separating the bathroom area from the club, it's clear that it's Hunter wrapped inside the arms of the singer for Nick's band, I think his name was Dev. They're standing against the red wall, locked in one of those deep, soul-enjoined kisses that can only cause observers of the kiss to have a crisis of deep, soul-searching envy.

  Nick finally laughs again, and my heart tries not to leap. "That's our Dev!"

  As their mouths disengage, Dev plucks a strand of hair from Hunter's face and twirls it through his fingers. With his other hand, Dev waves hello to the exasperated line of laddies.

  I point out, "Damn, even from here, you can see the smile on his face."

  "Dev's the reason our band doesn't have a drummer."

  "How's that?" We're going again. Thank you, Dev, you stud, thank you.

  "We used to have a great drummer. The guy killed, he was so good. Then Dev 'turned' him. The dude didn't even know he liked boys before-"

  "Oh, he knew." Because they always do, whether or not they'll admit it.

  Nick shrugs. "Could be. But Dev brought him out. And once the closet door had swung wide open, the poor guy wanted a boyfriend. Dev had just wanted a conquest. Especially one who had been the All-American high school track star."

  "Dev is a slut?"

  "That's our boy."

  Dev's trailing Hunter by the hand now, and they are snaking their way through the club. Their performance has merited the offering of two coveted barstools from the packed bar area. The dynamic duo take these offerings and haul them over to our table and sit themselves down.

  "Nice show," I tell Dev.

  "Wasn't it?" Dev laughs. He looks like the love child of a Bollywood movie star and whoever this year's Adam Brody is. I can't blame Hunter, or the M.I.A. drummer. Dev's a fucking babe, whose point score doesn't even receive deductions for the faded and torn "Lodi Track and Field" shirt he's wearing.

  Dev's animation is the antithesis of casual-boy Nick. "FUCK! You heard about the show? Where's Fluffy! WHERE'S FUCKING FLUFFY!" He plays mock drums on the table and N
ick lifts his eyebrow at me and gives me a knowing smile and for a flash lightning stroke of a moment, I suspect the time-out is ending and we might be getting back in the game.

  And then our ref sashays to our table like the beauty queen s/he is and addresses Nick like they're old sorority sisters: "Girl, be a dear and help me with some of this stage equipment, will you?" Nick jumps to his feet like he's been waiting for Toni's salvation all along. Good-maybe Toni can share some PMS elixir with Nick and send him back revived.

  "WHERE'S FLUFFY!" Dev shouts. He pats my back in excitement then raises his arms like he's Rocky. "WHERE'S FUCKING FLUFFY!"

  Exactly. This was the reaction I expected from Nick when I told him about the show. I mean, they're only the best punk band out there right now, named for the fucking apathy of a xenophobic fucking nation oblivious to the fucking terror its leaders wreak on the rest of the world because they're too busy worrying if their cat might be stuck up a tree or something. Where's Fluffy can actually play instead of just wail like fucking pop-punk goof-offs. They sing everything right about everything wrong-they'll come on pro-NRA, anti-choice, homophobic-to remind listeners what's worth fighting for. Where's Fluffy are the real deal, and if there is anything between me and Nick, it will be determined when the show starts, if we're front and center in jumping throttling exhilaration together, fist-waving and shouting "oi oi oi" at all the right moments, in sync. So to speak.

  The mosh pit will reveal all the answers. The mosh pit never lies.

  9. NICK

  Things are going so well. We're volleying words back and forth. Everything she says, I have something I can say back. We're sparking, and part of me just wants to sit back and watch. We're clicking. Not because a part of me is fitting into a part of her. But because our words are clicking into each other to form sentences and our sentences are clicking into each other to form dialogue and our dialogue is clicking together to form this scene from this ongoing movie that's as comfortable as it is unrehearsed.

  I know she's holding back a little. I know she keeps shooting me questions so I won't get too close to her answers. That's fine. Who is she, really? Fuck if I know. But I care. Yeah, I'm starting to care.

  The club is really packed now, filled with that pre-gig mix of anticipation and extreme impatience. Dev is so completely Dev and ramps himself over to us to lead the WHERE THE FUCK IS FLUFFY? cheer. Tony/i/e comes over and wants me to help with some gear. I look at Norah and almost ask if she's going to miss me while I'm gone. But I don't want to push it.

  It's pretty cool to be in the realm of Fluffy, even if I can't see any of the guys and all I'm doing is making sure the mics work. Just to be standing on their stage is a bit of a rush. I'm testing 1-2-3 and testing FUCK-SHIT-COCK and the crowd is looking at me with this unanimous wish that I'd get the fuck off the stage, and if it wasn't for the presence of a glowering man in Playboy Bunny pose watching over me, I might be having some head-meet-bottle moments. And it would almost be worth it. It's not often that you can shed blood for one of your favorite bands.

  It's all so fucking surreal. And suddenly I'm wanting to tell Tris about it. Which is so fucking wrong, but it's not the kind of thought that's a choice. Where's Fluffy was the second show we went to, and the sixth, and the eleventh, and the fourteenth. She'd never heard of them, so I dragged her well past midnight to see them at Maxwell's, underage but not underambitious. She was so skeptical of bands she'd never heard of-like she couldn't get a buzz if there hadn't been some buzz. Where's Fluffy convinced her, though. She got it on the first song and wasn't afraid to show it. She whooped and hacksawed and knifed up and hair-flailed nonstop for the full 110 rpm set. Afterward she said, "Man, those guys were hot," and I was so entirely jealous of them, until she said, "But not as hot as you right now" and I became a firework waiting to happen.

  But that wasn't all. I'm thinking about the sixth time. I was dancing, doing my thing, and she just stopped for a moment, looking at me. And I screamed, "What?" and she screamed back, "You have to stop that," and I screamed "What?" and she told me, "You're still here. You have to go farther than that." And at first I didn't get it, but then I realized that she was right; I wasn't giving myself up to the music. I was looking at the people around me. I was self-conscious. I was contexting every single note. "Just let go," she yelled. And at first I couldn't, since I was so grounded in the trying. But then the band launched into "Dead Voter" and for the first time ever I freed myself from everything but the chords. I didn't think about Tris-she had hidden herself behind the song, orchestrating it all. After we were done, sweat-glazed and panting, we didn't have to say a fucking word. We just looked at each other and there was this recognition. She'd pushed me and I'd gotten there. I was grateful. Am grateful.

  I look at the crowd for a moment, trying to find her again. I know she's there somewhere, even if she's not in the room. Even if she's making out with some other guy in some other club without one single synapse connecting a thought of me.

  "Wake the fuck up!" some guy pressing against the stage says. I realize that my hands have fallen idle. Like I can't think of Tris and do anything else at the same time. Which is such a lie.

  I finish the connections. The mics are ready for the assault. Tony/i/e nods and the lights dim. I head off, but not before I catch the nod of Evan E., Fluffy's drummer. I smile and nod back, then press back into the crowd. I've lost track of Norah, lost sight of where our table used to be. All the tables have been shoved aside now.

  Fuse: lit.

  Fuse: burning.

  Ready.

  Set.

  Explode.

  The guitars rampage. The drums batter. Owen O. snarls bastardizations at the world. A bell rings and Pavlov's dog has a fucking seizure on the dance floor. Since I'm not a part of it yet, I see it: how a group of people can become a blizzard, how all the time spent buying and picking out exactly the right clothes doesn't mean shit now because nobody is looking at clothes or poses. It's about force and pulse and unleashing the gigantic urges. I am pushing through skin and spike to get to Norah. I am jolting through this human turbulence to catch sight of Tris. I am slamming though this bright, bright darkness to figure out who the fuck I'm looking for, and why.

  Norah. She's ten feet away. Not looking for me or for anything else. She is in the middle of this conflagration and she looks entirely alone.

  It scares me.

  I recognize it.

  I am hearing Lars L.'s bassline. I am falling into it, the black of it, the pit of it. It screams that time is an angry machine. Music is an angry machine. We are all angry machines.

  I've lost my kilter. I am downwarding. And it's worse because I know I should be going up.

  Norah. Just make your way to Norah.

  Dev is in my way. I try to maneuver around him, and he responds with a fevered shove. I shove back. He catches my shoulder too hard and I spin out. I stumble. I bodycheck Norah.

  She doesn't laugh. She just throws herself right back at me. Slam and retreat. Then I slam and retreat. We should be smiling and we're not smiling. I throw my whole body at her, full-frontal crash. She is all resistance. She holds her ground and there we are, no distance now, her face so close it's almost a blur.

  "What the fuck?" she yells, and it's not me she's speaking to.

  Dev's elbow hits my back and I press forward and she's right there and I'm reaching out and she's right there and right at that moment the amps amplify and the music takes on such a pulse that it becomes my heartbeat and her heartbeat and I know it and she knows it and this is the point where we could break apart and that would be it, totally it. But I look into her eyes and she looks into my eyes and we recognize it-the excitement of being here, the excitement of being now. And maybe I'm realizing what a part of it she is and maybe she's realizing what a part of it I am, because suddenly we're not crashing as much as we're combining. The chords swirling around us are becoming a tornado, tightening and tightening and tightening, and we are at the center of it, and we
are at the center of each other. My wrist touches hers right at the point of our pulses, and I swear I can feel it. That thrum. We are moving to the music and at the same time we are a stillness. I am not losing myself in the barrage. I am finding her. And she is-yes, she is finding me. The crowd is pressing in on us and the bassline is revealing everything and we are two people who are part of a lot more people, and at the same time we're our own part. There isn't loneliness, only this intense twoliness. There's only one way to test it, and that is to dare a movement, to push it farther and see if she wants it to go there. I find her lips and I make that kiss and she's pulling my hair and I've got the fabric of her jacket bunched in a fist and it's nothing like talking and it's right there and we're taking it and taking it and taking it. And my eyes are closed and then my eyes are open and I see her eyes are open and there's a part of her that's pulling back even as our bodies are pressing and it's the fear, of course there's the fear, and I just hold her close to tell her I understand.

  Lars L. launches straight into "Take Me Back, Bitch" and I flinch and Norah sees it and I have no way of saying it's not her, it's not now, it's the ten thousand thens that she has nothing to do with. I lean in and kiss her again, the same way that you run to your room and blast the music when your parents start shouting. I know it won't work and it doesn't work because some things you don't need to hear in order to hear. The mind has an ear of its own and sometimes memory is the fiercest fucking DJ alive.

  Now Norah's yelling "What?" and it is a question for me. And then she says the hardest question of all-the one that takes so much hurt and bravery to ask-which is "Why did you stop?" and the bassline is too strong and my body is being battered from all sides and one of my favorite bands has turned against me and I'm yelling "I CAN'T TALK TO YOU HERE" and she screams "WHAT?" and I am right in her ear and yell "NOT HERE" and then "I CAN'T TALK."