Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist
Page 18
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 f**king babe, whose point score doesn’t even receive deductions for the faded and torn “Lodi Track & 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 Nick 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.
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 f**king babe, whose point score doesn’t even receive deductions for the faded and torn “Lodi Track & 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 Nick 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.
