Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

"I live in Hoboken," Nick mumbles, and I am remembering a Sinatra-centric mix he made for Tris that made me so hot with envy of her that I wouldn't let her copy my Latin test answers that day.

"College?" I ask him.

"Haven't figured that one out yet."

Brick. Fucking. Wall.

This is why I should consider breaking my straight-edge vow. Beer most certainly would help this situation. It probably couldn't make it any worse.

Basic quiz-show format isn't working here, so I take inspiration from the divine beings that have performed on this stage this evening. I sing this next question, all fake Julie Andrews shit operetta stylee: "Care to name a few of your favorite things?"

His half smile creeps back. "Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream, original Tiffany stained-glass windows at random houses in Weehawken, my iPod. A hot-oil massage from Reba McIntyre."

I rest my case.

Did DJ Irony plan to spin "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" by The Smiths right now to appease the crowd during the interim stage setup between acts, or is it just coincidence?

What did I miss? What changed?

I take one last shot. Come back to Mama, Nick. You can do it.

"Last moment of true happiness you experienced?" I ask him.

"Sometime before three weeks, three days ago-"

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.