“Do you hear that?” I ask Nick.

“What? Is the engine starting?” The poor schmuck is not only cute and a great head-bob thrash-dancer, he’s probably a good guy. At least he proved deft at maneuvering a drunken Caroline goddess into the backseat of a freakin’ Yugo and making her think it was her idea. Let’s not forget the part about him being a great kisser. He deserves better than a Tris—and a Yugo.

I tell him, “No. Dude. Listen up, that rhythmic banging inside the club? It’s called drumming. It’s, like, famous as an underlying staple of sound since primitive cultures.” I play drums on the glove compartment of the Yugo. The compartment pops open from my banging. A Polaroid of Tris is taped inside the compartment. I rip it out. Bloody hell! Caroline isn’t paranoid—Tris really did swipe Caroline’s vintage cutoff white T-shirt with Flea’s autograph over the left breast area. I toss the picture out the window and turn to face Nick. “Your f**king band needs a drummer. I saw you grinding to Hunter’s earlier Green Day cover of ‘Chump’ back in the club. I know you feel rhythm more than just your heart-attack-inducing bass skills. Think about it. What would ‘Chump’ have been without Tres Cool? Get a drummer for your band, guy. Really.”

Caroline has yet to reach her warm-cuddly drunk stage, post-heave and pre-slumber, which would put her in inquisitive stage about now, and right on schedule, from the backseat, she interjects, “Really,” because Caroline is always picking up sentences where I leave ’em off. “Driver person. Hey!” She taps Nick’s shoulder from behind him. Nick looks around to her but quickly turns back around to face me. Such a pretty girl, such rancid tequila breath. Caroline wants to know, “Why would you wear such ugly shoes? Answer me, driver person. Please?”

“The shoes go with the car, Caroline,” I tell her. “Yugo drivers are required to wear torn-and-graffitied hi-top Chucks shit on their feet. It’s like a rule. It’s in the manual.” I pull the Yugo car manual from the glove compartment. A chewed-up wad of gum extends from the manual back to the compartment. I take the McDonald’s napkin stuck inside the compartment and wipe the gum away from the manual. Fucking Tris and her Bubblicious. I throw the manual into the backseat for Caroline’s perusal.

She ignores the Good Book. “Are you Yugoslavian, driver person?” Caroline asks Nick. “Norah, is that why’s he’s driving us home? He’s the taxi driver, right?”

“Sure,” I tell her. He’ll be the taxi driver as soon as his Yugo-cab will f**king start. We’re operating on a limited window of opportunity here. It took ten minutes just to get Caroline into the backseat. I can see Randy now, loitering outside the club, smoking a cigarette, talking up Crazy Lou but glancing toward the Yugo, ready to pounce on Caroline again, I’m sure, if this Yugo doesn’t blow outta here soon.

“Is there such an ethnicity as Yugoslavian anymore?” Nick asks. “Now that the country’s all broken up? That was some bad shit that went down there in Serbia and Croatia, right? Damn shame.” He shakes his head and his hand idles on the ignition key, as if he’s given up. He knocks his head against the wheel, then slams his fist against the stick shift. He’s done. Can’t take it anymore. This car ain’t going nowhere. He looks so depressed and defeated, I don’t have the heart to slam him for acting like he’s grieving for Yugoslavia when it’s so obvious he’s really grieving for Tris.

Caroline informs us, “I’m part Yugoslavian, you know. On my great-grandpa’s side.”

I tell her, “You’re part Transylvanian, too, bitch. Be quiet. I need to think.” How the hell are we going to get home now? And why do I have to get Caroline home, anyway? There’s a hot guy sitting next to me, even if he is a Tris pass-along, but he’s got potential to be molded. Here I am in Manhattan, like Dad’s favorite Stevie Wonder song goes: New York, just like I pictured it—skyscrapers, and everythang. Shit is supposed to be happening here, not stalled Yugo shit. Through the car windshield, I can see the Empire State Building, lit up in pink and green for Easter. I am reminded that Jesus died for Caroline’s sins, not mine—I’m from a different tribe—so why am I saving her ass again when I could be outside this Yugo getting some life-living going on? I never properly used up those two add-on minutes of being Nick’s girlfriend.

Caroline says, “You’re not the boss of me, Sub Z.”

It’s basic instinct, I can’t help myself. I turn around to face Dragonbreath and snap, “Don’t call me that!” She giggles, satisfied to have gotten a rise out of me.

Caroline’s giggling mercifully transforms to dozing. In the reflection off the passenger-side mirror, I see that Caroline appears to be falling asleep, her cheek pressed against the backseat window. I’ve never seen her pass out without heaving first. Nick and his Yugo may have magical properties, after all. Please, let it last till we can make it back to Jersey.

A heave-snore from the backseat announces that Caroline is indeed out. YES! Sweet Jesus, thank you—for this temporary stay, and hey, I’ll throw in thanks for the dying-for-my-sins thing, too. You ROCK, J.C.! I’m totally gonna not stress on the fact that once I get home, I’ll have to sleep next to Dragonbreath to make sure she doesn’t choke on her own vomit in her sleep. Again.

“That’s one problem solved,” I tell Nick. I place my left hand on his right hand, which is clutched around the stick shift. “Now, what are we gonna do about this other one?”