From behind him I don’t see Caroline but I do see that stupid bitch, Tris, rhymes with bris, cuz that’s what she’ll do to a guy, rip apart his piece. She’s doing her Tris strut with her big boobs sticking out in front of her, wiggling her ass in that way that gets the instant attention of every dumb schmo in her wake, even the g*y boys, who seem to be highly represented here tonight, NoMo notwithstanding. She’s coming right toward me. No No NOOOOOOOOOOO. How did she find out Caroline and I would be here tonight? Does she have lookouts with text pagers set up every place Caroline and I go on a Saturday night, or what?
Boyfriend to the rescue! I answer NoMo’s question by putting my hand around his neck and pulling his face down to mine. God, I would do anything to avoid Tris recognizing me and trying to talk to me.
FUCK! I didn’t expect NoMo to be such a good kisser. Asshole. See this, Randy? NO. MO. Confirmed. But I am not looking for chemistry here, just a ride home for my girl. I am also not looking for tongue, but NoMo’s wastes no time sliding its way into my mouth. My mouth revolts against my mind: Umm, feels good down here, steady girl, steaaaady!
No matter how good he tastes, this five-minute girlfriend still needs a few seconds to come up for air. I separate my mouth from his, hoping to catch my breath and hoping to catch Tris walking away from us without having noticed me after all.
WOW. I feel like in this riot of people, I have been kicked in the stomach, but by the giddy police. Forget about the need for oxygen. My mouth wants to go back to the place it just left.
Unfortunately, Tris is standing right in front of us, hanging on to her latest slobber victim, who is near enough now that I can positively ID him as one of Caroline’s recent rejects; he’s buddies with Hunter from Hunter, whose band, Hunter Does Hunter, is scheduled to play next (you’re welcome, Hunter, for the introduction to Lou). Tris clutches her arm tight around the guy’s waist, probably squeezing out whatever remaining life that soul-sucking skank hasn’t yet gotten out of him in the three weeks or so since Caroline gave him the heave-ho.
Tris says, “Nick? Norah? How do you two, like, know each other?”
That bitch should not be in a club like this. As if her language is not enough indication, there is also the matter of her Hot Topic mallrat outfit: short black leather skirt with buckles up the side, mass-produced “vintage” Ramones T-shirt, and piss-yellow leggings with some horrible pair of pink patent-leather shoes. She looks like a neon sign bumblebee by way of early Debbie Harry rip-off.
I’m going to need another talk with Uncle Lou about standards vis-à-vis owning and operating a club. The guy can snag great new talent—the raw, hungry kind who are ready to bleed their intestines or other useful body parts onto Crazy Lou’s stage for the opportunity to perform on it—but he doesn’t know shit about how to run this business. Look at the underage Jersey riffraff he lets in! He probably even comps the beers for the band members! LOU! Why do you think so many of these ass**les are alcoholics and junkies? They’ve got the music right. They can play the core punk songs with conviction—hard, fast, angry—but they haven’t wised up yet to the fact that the real punk goes down now with a straight edge: no alcohol, no drugs, no cigarettes, no skanks. The real punk now is the only punk left after all the madness: the music, the message.
Well, dudes, drink up, because when I get back from South Africa next year and take over managing this club as Uncle Lou has promised instead of reapplying to Brown as I promised my parents, there’s gonna be a new sheriff here on the Lower East Side, my friends. Have your lecherous, skanky fun now, because the clock is running out on you.
I may reconsider the future make-out ban, however. The making-out part is nice, it has possibilities, with the right pair of lips.
I don’t know why, but I do that thing Caroline does to her male victims, where instead of taking the hand of NoMo, I place my hand at the back of his neck and scratch the nape softly, possessively, while Tris watches. My fingers scan the buzz cut of his hair back there, and I feel goose bumps rising on his neck. I likee. There is some satisfaction in seeing Tris’s bottom lip nearly fall to her chin in shock. That’s the thing about Tris: She’s never subtle.
Whatever I’m doing, it works. She storms away, speechless. Phew. That was easier than I expected.
I look at my watch. I believe my new boyfriend and I have about two minutes forty-five before we break up. I close my eyes and do the slight head turn, angling for another visitation from his lips.
Caroline says I am frigid. Sometimes I think she’s teasing me to repeat the party line of my Evil Ex, so I clarify: You mean I’m not easy? She clarifies: No, bitch, I mean you intimidate guys with a look or a comment before they can even decide if they want a chance with you. You’re so judgmental. Along with frigid.
NoMo must know this about me, because he doesn’t come back in for more mouth-to-mouth contact. He says, “How the hell do you know Tris?”
Then I remember. Tris called him NICK. Noooooooooo. That’s him! NICK! The Hoboken boy! The guy who wrote all the songs and poems about her, the best goddamn boyfriend the rest of us at Sacred Heart never had, the band-boy stud Tris hooked up with after meeting him on the PATH train at the beginning of the school year and has lied to and cheated on ever since. Does NICK not think it’s weird that he dated her that long and never once met any girls from her school? IDIOT!
But of course Tris wouldn’t introduce him to us. She wouldn’t be worried we’d rat out her indiscretions to her boyfriend—she’d be afraid he’d fall for Caroline. Tris can have Caroline’s rejects, but she’d never offer up one of her own to Caroline. Tris is so Single White Female, we like to joke that Caroline should get a restraining order against her, except Tris provides us too much amusement to completely let her out of our reach. It’s like a love-hate thing we have going with her. We don’t feel guilty about it because there’s only a month of school left and I can’t imagine we’ll ever see her again after our “have a great summer, good luck in college” phony sentiment yearbook finales. And karmically, I have repaid my mean-girl debt to Tris many times over. If she passed Chemistry and Calculus this year, it’s because of me. Fuck, if she graduates at all, it’s because of me.