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 pu**ycat “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 f**king 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 f**king 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 f**king 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.