Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

by Rachel Cohn

  And I'm thinking: She's fighting over me. Tris is fighting over me.

  But for some reason it's Norah who's putting her arm around me and putting her hand in my back pocket.

  I'm about to shudder her off, but then Tris says, "Come on, Nick-we're really late and need the car. I'll pay you back for the gas." And I know right away that I'm not a part of her "we." I've been fucking exiled from her "we."

  "I'm going to find Randy," Caroline decides.

  "Hell, no, you're not," Norah says, taking her arm from my shoulder and linking it around Caroline's elbow. Which leaves us in this weird we're off to see the Wizard pose, with Tris blocking us like the Wicked Witch of the Past.

  She could have me so easily. But instead she snorts and says, "You can take him. I only wanted his car."

  And with that, Tris leaves me for good. Every time I see her, from now until I die, she will leave me for good. Over and over and over again.

  Norah takes her hand out of my back pocket and steadies Caroline with her full body. It's my turn to lead now, and I can barely do it. It's not that I'm drunk or stoned or spiraling high. It's just that I'm defeated. And that's impairing all of my senses.

  There's only one hopeful chord in this cacophony, and it's this girl I'm following. I know I could tell her to get a cab-I have a feeling she can more than afford it-but I like the idea of leaving with her and staying with her. She says good-bye to the club manager as we reach the door and are released onto the street. The sidewalk is full of smokers, talking or posing their way to ash. I get the nod from a couple of people I vaguely know. Ordinarily if I left with two hot girls, there'd also be some looks of admiration. Maybe it's because of the clear anger between Norah and Caroline, or maybe it's because they all think I'm gay-whatever the case, I get no more congratulations than a cabdriver does for picking up a fare.

  I know I should offer to help Norah propel Caroline forward, but the truth is that I don't feel like I can carry anyone but myself right now. The streets are empty. I am empty. Or, no-I am full of pain. It's my life that's empty.

  I stumble for my keys. Tris will not be waiting for me inside the car. Tris will not be waiting for me ever again.

  I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have been anywhere that she could find.

  We're at my car.

  "What the fuck is that?" Norah asks.

  I shrug and say, "It's a Yugo."

  4. NORAH

  So this is what my promising life has been reduced to. The Jewish princess from Englewood Cliffs, fucking valedictorian who chose a Catholic girls' high school to accompany her best friend through the experience, who chose to turn down Brown, the girl whose possibilities now that she's about to be let loose upon the world should supposedly be infinite, is sitting through the middle of an April night in the passenger side of a Yugo that smells like Tris's patchouli aromatherapy oil. Perhaps it's only the vehicle that won't start, but it feels like it's my life that won't start. Yes, this Yugo with the passenger-side seat metal coming through the torn seat fabric, scratching against the back of my thigh, this Cold War relic that won't respond to Nick's turn of the ignition key, is like a fucking metaphor for my sorry-ass life: STALLED.

  Nick might be a bass god but he's also a parking god because he scored a spot right in front of the club, the unfortunate consequence of which is that now my stalled ears are receiving the listening benefit of the band playing inside the club and they're really fucking good and that's really pissing me off. I'm not sure if I backed into my life by getting into this Yugo with my new almost-boyfriend, or if I backed out of it by leaving the club to save Caroline once again, but whichever end it is, I'm left wanting more music. It's still Hunter on the stage but now I can hear that the Dev dude is singing some strange harmony with Hunter on another Green Day cover, "Time of Your Life." Hunter Does Hunter have accelerated the lite-FM classic song (because how much more punk can you go than producing an elevator song staple-bless you, Billie Joe) up to Parliament tempo and I swear there's a DJ mixing a sample of that Michael Jackson freak moaning about how Billie Jean is not my lover, the kid is not my son into the groove. How is that possible and why does it sound so damn good and if the Yugo doesn't start within one second I am outta here, I don't care how tempted I am to try for another seven minutes of being Nick's girlfriend after we've got Caroline back to my place. For a poor schmuck, he's temptatiously fucking cute.

  "Do you hear that?" I ask Nick.

  "What? Is the engine starting?" The poor schmuck is not only cute and a great head-bob thrash-dancer, he's probably a good guy. At least he proved deft at maneuvering a drunken Caroline goddess into the backseat of a freakin' Yugo and making her think it was her idea. Let's not forget the part about him being a great kisser. He deserves better than a Tris-and a Yugo.

  I tell him, "No. Dude. Listen up, that rhythmic banging inside the club? It's called drumming. It's, like, famous as an underlying staple of sound since primitive cultures." I play drums on the glove compartment of the Yugo. The compartment pops open from my banging. A Polaroid of Tris is taped inside the compartment. I rip it out. Bloody hell! Caroline isn't paranoid-Tris really did swipe Caroline's vintage cutoff white T-shirt with Flea's autograph over the left breast area. I toss the picture out the window and turn to face Nick. "Your fucking band needs a drummer. I saw you grinding to Hunter's earlier Green Day cover of 'Chump' back in the club. I know you feel rhythm more than just your heart-attack-inducing bass skills. Think about it. What would 'Chump' have been without Tres Cool? Get a drummer for your band, guy. Really."

  Caroline has yet to reach her warm-cuddly drunk stage, post-heave and pre-slumber, which would put her in inquisitive stage about now, and right on schedule, from the backseat, she interjects, "Really," because Caroline is always picking up sentences where I leave 'em off. "Driver person. Hey!" She taps Nick's shoulder from behind him. Nick looks around to her but quickly turns back around to face me. Such a pretty girl, such rancid tequila breath. Caroline wants to know, "Why would you wear such ugly shoes? Answer me, driver person. Please?"

  "The shoes go with the car, Caroline," I tell her. "Yugo drivers are required to wear torn-and-graffitied hi-top Chucks shit on their feet. It's like a rule. It's in the manual." I pull the Yugo car manual from the glove compartment. A chewed-up wad of gum extends from the manual back to the compartment. I take the McDonald's napkin stuck inside the compartment and wipe the gum away from the manual. Fucking Tris and her Bubblicious. I throw the manual into the backseat for Caroline's perusal.

  She ignores the Good Book. "Are you Yugoslavian, driver person?" Caroline asks Nick. "Norah, is that why's he's driving us home? He's the taxi driver, right?"

  "Sure," I tell her. He'll be the taxi driver as soon as his Yugo-cab will fucking start. We're operating on a limited window of opportunity here. It took ten minutes just to get Caroline into the backseat. I can see Randy now, loitering outside the club, smoking a cigarette, talking up Crazy Lou but glancing toward the Yugo, ready to pounce on Caroline again, I'm sure, if this Yugo doesn't blow outta here soon.

  "Is there such an ethnicity as Yugoslavian anymore?" Nick asks. "Now that the country's all broken up? That was some bad shit that went down there in Serbia and Croatia, right? Damn shame." He shakes his head and his hand idles on the ignition key, as if he's given up. He knocks his head against the wheel, then slams his fist against the stick shift. He's done. Can't take it anymore. This car ain't going nowhere. He looks so depressed and defeated, I don't have the heart to slam him for acting like he's grieving for Yugoslavia when it's so obvious he's really grieving for Tris.

  Caroline informs us, "I'm part Yugoslavian, you know. On my great-grandpa's side."

  I tell her, "You're part Transylvanian, too, bitch. Be quiet. I need to think." How the hell are we going to get home now? And why do I have to get Caroline home, anyway? There's a hot guy sitting next to me, even if he is a Tris pass-along, but he's got potential to be molded. Here I am in Manhattan, like Dad's fav
orite Stevie Wonder song goes: New York, just like I pictured it-skyscrapers, and everythang. Shit is supposed to be happening here, not stalled Yugo shit. Through the car windshield, I can see the Empire State Building, lit up in pink and green for Easter. I am reminded that Jesus died for Caroline's sins, not mine-I'm from a different tribe-so why am I saving her ass again when I could be outside this Yugo getting some life-living going on? I never properly used up those two add-on minutes of being Nick's girlfriend.

  Caroline says, "You're not the boss of me, Sub Z."

  It's basic instinct, I can't help myself. I turn around to face Dragonbreath and snap, "Don't call me that!" She giggles, satisfied to have gotten a rise out of me.

  Caroline's giggling mercifully transforms to dozing. In the reflection off the passenger-side mirror, I see that Caroline appears to be falling asleep, her cheek pressed against the backseat window. I've never seen her pass out without heaving first. Nick and his Yugo may have magical properties, after all. Please, let it last till we can make it back to Jersey.

  A heave-snore from the backseat announces that Caroline is indeed out. YES! Sweet Jesus, thank you-for this temporary stay, and hey, I'll throw in thanks for the dying-for-my-sins thing, too. You ROCK, J.C.! I'm totally gonna not stress on the fact that once I get home, I'll have to sleep next to Dragonbreath to make sure she doesn't choke on her own vomit in her sleep. Again.

  "That's one problem solved," I tell Nick. I place my left hand on his right hand, which is clutched around the stick shift. "Now, what are we gonna do about this other one?"

  He flinches a little at my touch and pulls his hand away to turn the ignition key again. Don't know why I placed my hand on his anyway.

  He wants to know, "Why would you fuck up Tris's Barbies?" and now I'm like, Shit, is this the price of the sacrifice for Caroline passing out unexpectedly early-that Nick has taken over the melancholy stage that usually follows Caroline's inquisitive one? "I have three sisters and I know that's some serious business, messing with another girl's Barbies." Okay, maybe he's not being melancholy because his sarcastic smile lets me know he's back to being standard-issue band-boy irony creature. Damn him that it somewhat makes me wanna jump his bones.

  Still, I can tell he's looking for information, but I am not going into the Tris thing with him. I just can't. Sub Z can only do so much damage to the male psyche in one night.

  On the other hand, perhaps I could make a project out of Nick, detox him from Tris, rehabilitate him, put him through a good-girlfriend immersion program. I like sevens-we could go steady like all sweet and nice, for seven days instead of minutes. Then I'll set him free, less the Tris baggage, molded and perfected into the great guy I know he is under those Tris-heavy eyes. He'll be my gift to womankind, an ideal male specimen of musicianship and making out. I'll send him back out into the world thoroughly cleansed of irony, no longer holding all females in contempt as potential Tris suspects. Now who rocks, J.C.?

  A white van barrels down the one-way street in the wrong direction, stopping in front of the fire hydrant directly ahead of the Yugo.

  "Oh, thank God," Nick says. Interesting. We're in tune on the divine intervention thing. Fate?

  A guy emerges from the van and I recognize him as the guy who made out with the non-singing member of Nick's band after their band's set. I only caught a minute of their kissing before I had to look away. Sub Z is way turned on by two boys kissing. I don't see why ogling same-sex kissing should be the exclusive domain of frat boys whacking off to lesbian action, that's so sexist. Feminism should be all-inclusive-it should be about sexual liberation, equal pay for equal work, and the fundamental girl right of boy2boy appreciation.

  If not for the really hot kissing I witnessed between those two guys, I might not have answered Nick's request to be his five-minute girlfriend by pulling his mouth down to mine. That seems like years ago, not minutes, what with Dragonbreath and the stalled Yugo since, and WHY am I giving so much thought to being suspended in time and in Yugo with this Nick guy, anyway? He's hung up on TRIS!

  The boyfriend of the band guy-he's so emo he's practically a Muppet-leans into Nick's open window. He tells Nick, "Pop the hood and we'll try to jump-start this baby."

  "Yeah," Nick says, like it's their routine. "Thanks, Scot."

  Scot looks my way. He says, "Thom could use some help in the van if you don't mind."

  What the fuck? Whatever.

  I shrug and get out of the Yugo while Scot pops the Yugo hood to attach the jumper cables. I pass Randy leaning against the wall of the club and I give him a shove, just because. Then I step to the passenger side of the van and see band equipment in the back. I knew Nick's band had a van! Why didn't I specify- van,not Yugo, back to Jersey?

  The guy sitting in the driver side of the van says, "Hi. I'm Thom. With an 'h.'"

  I tell him, "I'm Gnorah. With a 'g.' The 'g' is silent. Like 'gnome.'"

  "Really?" Thom says.

  "No, not really. I have an 'h' too. At the end. Used to be just N-O-R-A but then I had the H legally added to my name after my dad failed to sign up Norah Jones when he had the chance. I don't like him to forget these things easily."

  "Really?" Thom says again.

  Not really. "Really," I say. "But I can't imagine why I am in this van to talk about H's. What's up?"

  Thom hands me a crumpled fifty-dollar bill. He says, "Scot and I chipped in. We saw that kiss between you and Nick." Thom's not the singer of their band, but he nevertheless can channel the Aretha, not En Vogue, version of a song when he sings out, "Giving him something he can feel!"

  "I don't get it," I say.

  The hood of the van obstructs our view, but we can hear the rattle of the Yugo engine threatening to come to life. "No time to explain," Thom says. "Let's just say Scot and I hate the fucking guts of Nick's ex and we'd like to give him a little assistance with moving on with his life. So, please, take the boy out tonight, see the city, see the backseat of the Yugo, I don't care, just please take our friend out tonight. We've already decided that we like you and that you'll be Nick's salvation. No pressure or anything."

  Flattery could get him everywhere and I am all about salvation right now, but, "Can't," I tell him, though I'm tempted. Really tempted. I'm curious what would happen if I dared another leap toward Nick's hand-or other parts, like that really tasty NoMo mouth. "Nick's giving me and my drunk friend a ride back to Jersey. She's asleep in the back of the Yugo now."

  Thom says, "We've got a mattress in the back of the van. We'll trade you. We'll get her home if you'll take on Nick tonight."

  I decide some living is worth doing. "Done," I tell him. I slip the fifty into my inside shirt pocket, then scribble the directions to my house on Thom's hand. I tell him where to find the house key under the potted plant and not to worry about my parents-they'll probably tip him for getting Caroline home and making me go out on a date with a live male. And I am not feeling frigid about Nick at all. I can't remember the last time I felt anticipation-not of sex (necessarily), but of getting to know a delicious new person, even if he is a poor schmuck.

  So we're settled, and I get out of the van with Thom, who enlists Scot to help him transport Caroline from the Yugo to the van. But once I'm back inside the Yugo, I have no chance to explain to Nick the new order of this middle of the night.

  Because through the windshield, I see that Randy at the wall is doing the soul-brother shake with a new arrival who happens to be the mind-fucking guy who turned me Sub Z last year. Apparently Uncle Lou's actual nephew did not survive his year on the kibbutz in South Africa. The call of the real wild-Manhattan-must have been too great for him. And fuck, the Evil Ex has seen me and now he's at my side at the passenger door of the Yugo and he's saying, "Hey, baby, you ready to pick up where we left off?"

  5. NICK

  I never thought Jessie would betray me like this. I have done nothing but love her and treat her right. I've stood by her side and defended her when people called her trash and said they didn
't understand why I kept her. I thought that meant something. But no. Now when I need her most, she's totally bailed. I turn the key and I turn the key and I turn the key and she doesn't do a damn thing. How alone am I right now? Even my car has decided to give up on me.

  I could be really mad at her. But mostly I'm afraid. That this is it-terminal. That we can volt her till the lights go out in Manhattan, and she'll just sit here. Unblinking. I can't afford to fix her again. If this is it, then this is really it.

  I'm not really paying attention when Scot and Thom remove Caroline from my backseat. After all the time it took to get her in. But I can understand the impulse to abandon ship.

  I'm about to help Scot connect the cables when this guy I've never seen before leans into Norah's window and says, "Hey, baby, you ready to pick up where we left off?"

  What. the. fuck?

  Okay, maybe I hang with a queercore crowd and all, but still-I never, ever, in a million zillion years would have imagined that a guy could use the phrase "hey, baby" and mean it. He says it like he's whistling at some girl's boobs as she walks down the street. Who does that?

  I expect Norah to put him right in his place. But instead she freezes. She looks away, as if she can ignore her way out of it. By some logic, this should mean that she's now looking at me, since I'm 180 degrees away from our uninvited guest. But instead she focuses on the dashboard, on the place where the lighter should be. And I guess I'm a little surprised, because it was just starting to look like we were going to go someplace together. That this wasn't just going to be a ride home. Now it's becoming a ride nowhere, and I'm sad that it's so out of my hands.

  "Baby, I'm back," the guy goes on. "How 'bout getting out of this heap and saying hello?"

  Now, it's one thing to try to harass Norah out of my passenger seat. But to bring Jessie into it is completely uncalled for.