Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

"'You Stole My Heart and Left It for Roadkill,'" I tell him. "Go ahead, feel free to come up with some lyrics."

My favorite song title by someone who legitimately thinks up song titles would have to be "Something About What Happens When We Talk," by Lucinda Williams, the song Mom and Dad are still slow-dancing to on their anniversaries (first date, first kiss, first let's not even talk about that, engagement, wedding, etc.-yep, they celebrate 'em all), even though they're way too old and should know better. I'm thinking about that song now, because it's so easy talking with Nick. I have to suppress every stalker instinct in me not to sing to Nick like Lucinda sings, Conversation with you is like a drug. With Tal, discussion was always two parts confrontation and one part actual talking. I loved that Tal could at least say goodnight, and that he cared about something other than partying, but something about what happened when Tal and I talked was more like he manifesto'd and I listened.

As we approach Seventh Avenue, we both automatically turn south, and I realize Nick and I never discussed where we were going after Park Avenue. It's like when Nick and I held hands tight at the club earlier as I led him through the crowd to the closet. Somehow we stay together. Times Square beckons us now in all its glory. Somehow our world is alive with possibility.

My cell phone is ringing again and it says Daddy-O and I have to take it, that's the rule for out-all-night adventures. "Do you mind?" I ask Nick. I feel bad enough I didn't answer Caroline's call when Nick asked me not to.

"Go ahead," he says, like he understands now that no call will dissuade me from this night with him. I stand under a building awning as Nick steps away to the curb to give me privacy, which I really don't need, but I appreciate the gesture anyway, though I'm unsure where his good manners land him on the sexuality meter.

"Hi, Daddy," I say into the phone.

Here I am at the crossroads of the world, with shining red-and-white neon lights and yellow taxis, humming with action and pulsing with music and people, danger and excitement, but hearing Dad's voice, it's like I am five years old again and he's tucking his little princess into bed. "You okay, sweetheart? I've got a motley crew assembled here of two band guys and an inebriated Caroline, but no Norah."

"I'm okay, Dad. Maybe I'm even great?"

"Are you going to tell me his name?"

"No."

"Are you going to be home soon?"

"No."

"Are you ever going to obey a command of mine again?"

"No."

He sighs. "Please be careful." I decide he'd probably rather not know I am standing in Times Square in the early hours of the morning with a boy I've only known for a few hours. "Mom and I will take care of Caroline. Mom's making Thom and Scot scrambled eggs right now. Nice kids."

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I made a mistake turning down Brown."

"No shit."

"I don't know what I'm going to do now. The Tal thing, you and Mom and Caroline were right, I can't do that ever again. But now I don't know what to do."

"I'll tell you what you can do. Go to Brown next year. Your old man took the card you posted turning down the admissions offer out of our mailbox after you left the house this morning. He replaced it with an acceptance and a deposit check."

I should be grateful but I am indignant. "YOU HAD NO RIGHT! THAT IS LIKE A PERSONAL INVASION OF PRIVACY! AND IT'S A FEDERAL OFFENSE TO TAMPER WITH THE MAIL!"

Dad chuckles. "Too fucking bad. Don't be home too late." And he hangs up on me.

Maybe my dad is a fuckin' corporate hippie, but I really love that old bastard.

I can't think about what Dad did because the skies have suddenly opened up and it's a hellacious downpour, but what is Nick doing? He's dancing a jig at the curb, his arms outstretched, his face tilted upward to receive the splash. Joyful.

I don't tell Nick my call is finished. I just watch him. A while ago when I looked at Nick, I felt inspired by the line from that Smiths song playing earlier at Camera Obscura where Morrissey sings about how what she asked of me / at the end of the day / Caligula would have blushed. I don't know that I care anymore about piecing together whether Nick's straight or gay or somewhere in between. I'm thinking I would like to dance in the rain with this person. I would like to lie next to him in the dark and watch him breathe and watch him sleep and wonder what he's dreaming about and not get an inferiority complex if the dreams aren't about me.

I don't know if Nick and I are going to be friends or lovers or if he's going to be Will and I'm going to be Grace, which will be disappointing along with boring, but whatever Nick and I are going to be to each other, it can't be-it won't be-just a one-night-stand thing.

I know this.

17. NICK