Why did you stop?
I don’t want her to say it. But it’s there in her face. If she had something to prove, now I’ve disproven it. So the dead equation of our actions lies between us, and I don’t know what the f**k I can do.
“Did you see her?” she asks. And at first I want to ask who. But then I know, and I say no, and I ask, “Did you see him?”
She turns ten degrees away from me, back toward the noise, and answers yes.
10. NORAH
The mosh pit didn’t lie. I knew that and yet I ignored the evidence the pit threw back at me. Why did you stop? Can the oracle answer the one better question now: Why the f**k did I keep going?
I tell Nick, “Yes.” He thinks I mean, Yes, I saw Tal. I didn’t see Tal. I did see Tris. It will be easier for Nick, later, if he thinks it’s Tal I saw. Then he can blame it all on me and my hang-ups. But there’s a reason women go frigid and Nick can f**king go look in the mirror if he wants to view that reason.
WHY AM I SUCH A FUCKING LOSER?
I race out of the closet room, slamming the door behind me with my foot, pleased by the snarl of “OW, THAT FUCKING HURT!” I hear from Nick’s side of the door. I know Nick needs a few minutes to himself to get his parts back in order. I have some time to do what I need to do.
What I did not need to do was what I just did. I got no Oi. I only got Oy. I trusted in the power of the pit, believed in the come-on when Nick tested FUCK-SHIT-COCK on the mic, looking right at me. I knew there was no way Tris would not be showing up at this club, and knew I’d better take my chance before it blew up like Where’s Fluffy in performance. I’ve never been the girl to make a move, which is maybe why night after night I go out with Caroline and the moves are always made on her but never on me. And I wasn’t thinking about Where’s Fluffy opening their set with “Take Me Back, Bitch” when I did what I did, moved what I moved. I was thinking about that second song on the playlist Nick made for Tris, “Take a Chance on Me” by Abba. Either Dev slipped something into my Tina Colada or it was the sensual memory of the song of the Swedes, because I was in the pit with Dev and Hunter and I was believing in the band and in time and in the mosh, maybe even believing in God and Nick. That heaven-hell was hot as f**k in the middle, and that had to be the sign that I needed to just f**king go for it.
First shot at bat? Strikeout. All wrong. My eyes were open for the second half of that horrible-great kiss and right on schedule I saw Toni frisking Tris at the door and I knew my window of opportunity was about to slam shit, I mean shut. I am nothing if not determined, as well as extremely foolish, so it was not my hormones leading Nick to the closet room for a second shit, I mean shot; no, it was worse, it was plain stupidity leading me, the patented Norah-brand stupidity (the kind that writes regression letters to Evil Exes) that my brain holds in higher contempt than ignorance because it’s the exclusive Norah brand that will lead down a path to what I hate most: regret.
I didn’t even bother with foreplay, I lunged right in like I was Tal after too much Manischewitz Passover wine. I knew it was too soon, Nick was too raw, but I was goddamn ready to thaw and prove I wouldn’t leave him cold. And I thought I did prove that, I mean I had him, at least I thought I did, I mean he responded, sort of, at least I thought he did, or maybe what I thought was response and mutual attraction was merely the fact that he’s a guy, and an Elmo doll could accidentally graze it and it would respond. But the moment passed so quickly and if I am being honest, I know it only half responded and barely that because Julio probably knew it was Sub Z calling.
I will not do any more instant replay of that scene. I will not.
I am so humiliated.
I can feel the humiliation burning my face, branding me, making me hotter than frigid could ever imagine being, hot with hate. I hate the regret, pumping through every artery of my body, craving a cheeseburger right now. I hate time and I hate this night and if I truly believed in God outside of that momentary lapse of faith, I’d hate Her too.
I even hate Where’s Fluffy. My former favorite band, now destined to be remembered for the rest of my life as the band I was listening to when I went down like the Titanic, ahem. I hate Caroline for being passed out when I really need to talk to her. I hate Tal for all the times of No, touch it this way and You’re doing it all wrong, Norah, because now Nick, my first shot at redemption, knows it too: I have no f**king idea how to do this. It’s like that mythic God takes human beings at creation and divides us into subsets: Group A gets the hot looks, sex appeal, and lots of action with natural ease (Caroline); Group B is the makeover prospects who will figure it all out and eventually get their action (Tris); and Group C is the rest of the poor schmucks (me) for whom God has decided, You’re on your own. Don’t expect much.
I kind of hate Nick right now, too, but there’s someone else higher on my list, someone I hate more than Saddam Hussein and any ass**le named Bush combined, hate more than that f**khead who canceled My So-Called Life and left me with a too-small boxed DVD set that does not answer the questions of whether Angela and Jordan Catalano ever did it, or if Patty and Graham got a divorce, or if there really was something to all that lesbian subtext between Rayanne and Sharon. I need to f**king find that person I hate most, so I can hopefully at least kill that other hate, the one called regret.
The crowd is surging toward the pit. The band is between songs and an inconceivable lull is taking place onstage while Lars L. gets in tune and adjusts the mic against the feedback Nick probably f**ked up when he tried to help Toni with set-up. Lars L. knows the potential of the crowd to turn against the band if given even a moment of silence and he must be noticing the crowd surge because he shouts at the audience, “What the f**k should we play next?” and a mohawked punk at the top yells, “Just play f**king something!” and the punk hasn’t even finished the statement before Evan E. yells out ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR as he drum-bangs, and in a psychedelic flash Owen O. is raging out Where’s Fluffy’s cover of the gospel song “I’m Living on God’s LSD.” For a moment I forget about hate because my body has to thrash to this divine intervention of sound. For one minute of that two-minute song, I am lost to hate because I am lost to Owen O. and Evan E. and Lars L. because they are G. Gods, and everyone here knows it, feels it, shares it.