Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

20. NORAH

I can keep the jacket, I can keep the jacket, lalalalalalalala, Nick loves me, or at least he really likes me, lalalalalalalala, Salvatore and I are so happy, this jacket will only be dry cleaned, no inferior detergent shall ever besmirch it, lalalalalalalalala.

Here we are, back in Jessie. Yugo! Lalalalalalalala.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat next to Nick and it’s just like before when we sat side by side in this car, except not. I’m no longer vague as to whether I even want to be spending my time with this person, in this “vehicle,” but Jessie, like earlier, has doubts about whether to allow me to be Jessie’s Girl. Jessie, once again, is not starting. Nick turns the key and floods the accelerator and even says a couple prayers, but no, Jessie ain’t putting out.

Nick stops the key motion and turns to look at me. “Shit,” he says.

I can’t help but laugh at the sight of him, rumpled clothes, his hair spiked from the rain and the mad earlier rummage of my hands through it, eyes glazed over from the fallout of lust and fatigue, jaw jutted in frustration with Jessie. I tell him, “You look like that Where’s Fluffy song, ‘You Have That Just Fucked Look, Yoko,’” which I believe was on the breakup desolation playlist Nick made for Tris, and in my opinion is the band’s best song from their pre–Evan E. days, when Fluffy’s drummer was a guy called Gus G., who left them in a fit of rage when Lars L. dumped the band’s manager, who also happened to be Gus G.’s girlfriend.

“Oh, be still my heart, Norah,” Nick says. Then, seriously, he says, “Dev claims ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’ is the ultimate song because it captures the essence of what every pop song is really about, what we all really want—simply, I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” Nick takes his right hand from the stick shift and clasps my left hand. “I think Dev might be on to something.”

“I hate The Beatles,” I state. “Except for that song ‘Something.’ Now that’s a fucking love song. And John or Paul didn’t even write it. George did. George was the shit. But The Beatles as a whole? Completely overrated.”

Nick drops my hand. He looks at me as if either I’ve just had a mental breakdown, or he’s about to have one. “I’m gonna pretend I never heard that.”

Musician boys and their Beatles love—what are ya gonna do? I lean over to place a make-up kiss on his neck. Then I ask, “Did you really write a song for me?”

“Yeah. But it’s not finished. And don’t ever speak of The Beatles with such condescension again or I may never finish it.”

“So do I get to hear it, even the unfinished version?”

“No.”

“Never? Or just not now?”

“Just not now. Don’t be so greedy.” He knows me so well already.

He turns the key again. And again and again and again. “Shit,” he repeats.

“What are our options?” I ask.

“Well, we can try to find someone to jump the car. Or we can just leave her here and find our way home on the train and worry about Jessie after some sleep. I could come back later today with Thom and Scot to jump her. Or, you know…I could always admit that Jessie has broken my heart for the last time, and give her away to charity already.”

Poor Nick. Tris broke his heart. Jessie broke his heart.

I whisper in his ear, “I promise I will never break your heart.” Because without a doubt, I will fuck up many things in this whatever-we-have-here, but that, I will never do.

“Uh, thank you?” Nick whispers back.

I’m probably wading close to stalker territory again, so I decide to shut up. Then he leans over and places his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me to him to kiss me again. It’s amazing how often captives start to associate with their captors. And I try the tongue thing again, the yin, the yang, the sucking and pulling, and this time he finds my frenulum all on his own, and check us out, we’re starting to find our rhythm with this. My chakras feel very, very open and Jessie’s windows are looking very, very steamed.

But I pull away because if we don’t stop this already, we’ll never get home. “Tell you what, Nick,” I say. “You keep trying to coax a start out of Jessie, and I’ll go into the Korean grocery and see if anyone in there can help us.”

I step outside the car and some bum is singing “Ride Like the Wind” against a wall and I give him my very last buck to stop. I go inside the store, where I’m supposed to be finding someone to help us with jumper cables, but I’m really standing around debating whether to just call Dad—or better yet, Dad’s assistant—and ask for a call to be placed to a car service to come get us; that method has gotten Caroline and me home on many occasions. With one phone call, I could make this so easy for me and Nick. And if I’m not placing that call as I stand here with my teeth chattering in the freezer section, I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want Nick to think I’m a princess or because I am trying to buy more time with him.

Nick asked for my phone number, but he never said when he was going to call me. We’ve only known each other a few hours, yet we’ve, um, gotten to know each other pretty well I’d say, so I would hope it would at least be implied that we’re going to see each other again soon, but he never said when. And I don’t like waiting to find out.

I pull my phone from Salvatore’s pocket and review the call log. I see Nick’s number. I debate whether to assign a name to his number. If I commit to that, then I will truly be heartbroken if he never calls me again; my heart will knot each and every time I use this phone and see his name in there. I would probably end up having to trash the phone entirely. Then I hear the song on the radio at the counter and it’s Dad’s beloved ol’ Alanis and I think how in one night Nick inspired what Dad calls my “Norah-as-Alanis teenage transformations,” in which Dad says I am capable of instantly converting from raging wildcat “You Oughta Know” Alanis into tender pussycat “Thank U” Alanis, and I decide to program Nick into my phone anyway, despite my misgivings. I consider assigning his number the name NoMo, but suspect that would really piss him off. Salvatore’s babydaddy would take too long to get in there. So I just key in Nick. So simple. So sweet. And I call him.

“Did you find anyone in there with jumper cables?” he asks, hopeful.

“Didn’t ask anyone yet. So, like, if you’re going to call me, can you let me know when that would be?”

“You’re not leaving me room for the element of surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Listen,” I say, serious. “Did Tris ever do that thing with you where she called you from the backseat of your car while you were driving her? Cuz she learned that one from me. That bitch isn’t always the teacher, you know.”

“Tris who?” he says, and hangs up on me. I am glad I programmed his name for keeps.

I hope Nick has money on him because I am truly using the very last of my dough now, paying in quarters and dimes and pennies for another bag of stale Oreos, and as I shove the coins to the counter person, I shout, for all in the store to hear, “DOES ANYONE FUCKING HAVE A CAR WITH JUMPER CABLES IN HERE OR WHAT?”

No response. Hey, I gave it my best shot. Before I return to the car, though, I listen to the voice mail Caroline left earlier in the night. She must have called during her post-heave stage just before she went to bed, because her voice is all cuddly and happy. “Norah? Norah Norah Norah,” she sings in a whisper, like a lullaby. “Thom and Scot said you’re on a date with their friend! That Nick guy was cute, even if he did wear ugly shoes. And you must really like him if you’re not answering this call, because I know you, and I know you know I am calling you. And I guess all I want to say to you is, you’re always taking care of me and even though it was kinda weird to wake up in a dark van with two strange guys in the parking lot of some fucking 7-Eleven, I’m also glad you’re taking care of yourself instead of me for once. And I hope you’re having a great time, I really do. And tomorrow afternoon when I am hung over and cursing you out for abandoning me, you just play me back this message, okay, bitch? Love you.” I smile. And save the message.

I go back to Jessie. “Sorry, fella,” I tell Nick when I get back into the car. I offer him a stale Oreo.

“I hate Oreos,” he says, and now it’s my turn to say, “I’m gonna pretend I never heard that.”

Nick steps out of Jessie to open the hood. While he’s inspecting the engine, I inspect the notebook of CDs laying on the floor. There’s the usual suspects in there, Green Day and The Clash and The Smiths, yeah, but there’s also Ella and Frank, even Dino, some Curtis Mayfield and Minor Threat and Dusty Springfield and Belle & Sebastian, and as I flip through his musical life, getting to know him through his tastes, I must acknowledge that not only am I not frigid, but I also may be multi-orgasmic. This Nick guy may never call me again after all, but he’s my fucking musical soulmate. I take his portable boom box from the backseat and program a wake-up jam.

Nick steps back inside the car. “That’s it,” he says. “We’ve got to figure out another plan to get home. Jessie’s not going anywhere.” He pulls his wallet out. “And of course I have no money left. But I do have a MetroCard! I’m so sorry, Norah.”

I’m not sorry, because his words have made me think of my favorite Le Tigre song. I mumble, “My! My MetroCard!” and Nick picks up the song by answering with a call of, “OH FUCK / Giuliani,” and we both finish with, “HE’S SUCH / A fucking jerk!”

“Let’s just leave Jessie here for today. I’ll figure out what to do with her after some sleep. If we hop the A train to Port Authority, I know a guy there who drives the early morning van service to Hoboken. He’s in Pretty Girls Named Jen, the hardcore screamo band from Jersey City—do you know them? Anyway, I know he’ll give us a free ride, and once we get back to Hoboken I can take my sister’s car and drive you home. So all we have to do is get to the A train. Though I’m not sure I have the energy to walk all the way to the A train. You?”

At this point, we’ve completely forfeited a night’s sleep so we might as well wake the hell up and enjoy this brand-new day. I respond with a single word: “BEASTIE!” I hit play on the CD player, and like that, Nick and I are singing along together, wailing out “I like to party, not drink Bacardi” and just all-out grooving to “Triple Trouble,” because we’ve got the Beastie funk and it’s damn pleasant and getting louder and louder as we rock Jessie. Nick is head thrashing and I am head thrashing and together we are Johnny Castle meets Johnny Rotten via DJ Norah caffeine jolt. And we are awake, and alive.

We make the long walk to Canal Street—make that, we almost sprint there—and we’re holding hands and laughing and kissing and sing-shouting, “Mommy’s just jealous it’s the BEASTIE BOYS,” and like that we’re there and we’re skipping down the steps into the station. Some spray-painted graffiti on the wall asks, Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by? Lamentations 1:12 and I think, No, Lord, whoever the hell You are, this is not nothing to me. This counts. Like, I could see myself being one of those tourists in Chinatown and I could buy a shirt that says, “I Survived the All-Nighter” or “Nick & Norah Went to the Marriott Marquis and All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt,” as if the experience never happened without the T-shirt to prove it.

Nick slides the MetroCard through the turnstile and we hear a train approaching and it’s early Sunday morning so I better hurry because who knows how long it will be before another train comes through. He passes the card to me but when I try to slide it through, the machine reads Insufficient Fare, because Nick must have just used the last value of the card.

“Fuck!” I say.

“Fuck!” he says.

Nick puts his hand on mine from the other side of the turnstile. He says, “Don’t worry about it, just jump over.”

I hesitate even though I know my wavering could cost us the approaching train. If I make this jump, then this is real, he is real. I will have broken the law for him and that will bind us together forever, outlaws, like Bonnie and Clyde. And look how that worked out for them.

“C’mon, Norah,” Nick says. I hear his urgency, and once again, I think, Oh, poor Nick. I mean, I think I am basically a cool girl, but I am also a pain in the ass. I know this. It’s like he has no idea what he’s setting himself up for. I should just call the car service for myself and let Nick go.

“Norah?”

If I do this, it will be like jumping into the middle of the mosh pit. Dangerous. Exhilarating. Terrifying. It’s only a fucking turnstile, but what if I don’t make it to the other side. Some people never make it out of the mosh alive.

The deafening screech of train brakes announces the train is in the station.

Nick says, “Are we in this or not?”

To throw myself into the breach of our great divide will be a leap of faith.

I grab hold of his warm hand. Deep breath.

Ready.

Set.

Jump.