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 f**k 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 f**k? 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 f**king 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.