Rachel Cohn - Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

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.

"We used to have a great drummer. The guy killed, he was so good. Then Dev 'turned' him. The dude didn't even know he liked boys before-"

"Oh, he knew." Because they always do, whether or not they'll admit it.

Nick shrugs. "Could be. But Dev brought him out. And once the closet door had swung wide open, the poor guy wanted a boyfriend. Dev had just wanted a conquest. Especially one who had been the All-American high school track star."

"Dev is a slut?"

"That's our boy."

Dev's trailing Hunter by the hand now, and they are snaking their way through the club. Their performance has merited the offering of two coveted barstools from the packed bar area. The dynamic duo take these offerings and haul them over to our table and sit themselves down.

"Nice show," I tell Dev.

"Wasn't it?" Dev laughs. He looks like the love child of a Bollywood movie star and whoever this year's Adam Brody is. I can't blame Hunter, or the M.I.A. drummer. Dev's a fucking babe, whose point score doesn't even receive deductions for the faded and torn "Lodi Track and Field" shirt he's wearing.

Dev's animation is the antithesis of casual-boy Nick. "FUCK! You heard about the show? Where's Fluffy! WHERE'S FUCKING FLUFFY!" He plays mock drums on the table and Nick lifts his eyebrow at me and gives me a knowing smile and for a flash lightning stroke of a moment, I suspect the time-out is ending and we might be getting back in the game.

And then our ref sashays to our table like the beauty queen s/he is and addresses Nick like they're old sorority sisters: "Girl, be a dear and help me with some of this stage equipment, will you?" Nick jumps to his feet like he's been waiting for Toni's salvation all along. Good-maybe Toni can share some PMS elixir with Nick and send him back revived.

"WHERE'S FLUFFY!" Dev shouts. He pats my back in excitement then raises his arms like he's Rocky. "WHERE'S FUCKING FLUFFY!"

Exactly. This was the reaction I expected from Nick when I told him about the show. I mean, they're only the best punk band out there right now, named for the fucking apathy of a xenophobic fucking nation oblivious to the fucking terror its leaders wreak on the rest of the world because they're too busy worrying if their cat might be stuck up a tree or something. Where's Fluffy can actually play instead of just wail like fucking pop-punk goof-offs. They sing everything right about everything wrong-they'll come on pro-NRA, anti-choice, homophobic-to remind listeners what's worth fighting for. Where's Fluffy are the real deal, and if there is anything between me and Nick, it will be determined when the show starts, if we're front and center in jumping throttling exhilaration together, fist-waving and shouting "oi oi oi" at all the right moments, in sync. So to speak.

The mosh pit will reveal all the answers. The mosh pit never lies.

Things are going so well. We're volleying words back and forth. Everything she says, I have something I can say back. We're sparking, and part of me just wants to sit back and watch. We're clicking. Not because a part of me is fitting into a part of her. But because our words are clicking into each other to form sentences and our sentences are clicking into each other to form dialogue and our dialogue is clicking together to form this scene from this ongoing movie that's as comfortable as it is unrehearsed.

I know she's holding back a little. I know she keeps shooting me questions so I won't get too close to her answers. That's fine. Who is she, really? Fuck if I know. But I care. Yeah, I'm starting to care.

The club is really packed now, filled with that pre-gig mix of anticipation and extreme impatience. Dev is so completely Dev and ramps himself over to us to lead the WHERE THE FUCK IS FLUFFY? cheer. Tony/i/e comes over and wants me to help with some gear. I look at Norah and almost ask if she's going to miss me while I'm gone. But I don't want to push it.

It's pretty cool to be in the realm of Fluffy, even if I can't see any of the guys and all I'm doing is making sure the mics work. Just to be standing on their stage is a bit of a rush. I'm testing 1-2-3 and testing FUCK-SHIT-COCK and the crowd is looking at me with this unanimous wish that I'd get the fuck off the stage, and if it wasn't for the presence of a glowering man in Playboy Bunny pose watching over me, I might be having some head-meet-bottle moments. And it would almost be worth it. It's not often that you can shed blood for one of your favorite bands.

It's all so fucking surreal. And suddenly I'm wanting to tell Tris about it. Which is so fucking wrong, but it's not the kind of thought that's a choice. Where's Fluffy was the second show we went to, and the sixth, and the eleventh, and the fourteenth. She'd never heard of them, so I dragged her well past midnight to see them at Maxwell's, underage but not underambitious. She was so skeptical of bands she'd never heard of-like she couldn't get a buzz if there hadn't been some buzz. Where's Fluffy convinced her, though. She got it on the first song and wasn't afraid to show it. She whooped and hacksawed and knifed up and hair-flailed nonstop for the full 110 rpm set. Afterward she said, "Man, those guys were hot," and I was so entirely jealous of them, until she said, "But not as hot as you right now" and I became a firework waiting to happen.