Revoltingly Young (36 page)

MONDAY, September 26 – I spent 45 minutes this morning waiting outside the office of Mr. Tweedy, Winnemucca High School’s crankiest guidance counselor. As usual, no one who passed by said hi or acknowledged my existence.

Finally, I was called in, and Mr. Tweedy looked me over with his patented frown.

“
You’re back, huh, Wescott? I thought you were in jail in Southern California.”

“
No, that’s Carlyle Bogy.”

“
Aren’t you guys gang brothers?”

“
Well, it wasn’t much of a gang. And I’ve changed my name to Jake Twisp.”

“
Oh,” he sneered, “since when?”

“
Since my brother’s lawyer petitioned the court for a name change.”

“
Well, I’m not altering anything in this computer until I see a legal document.”

That didn’t surprise me. As everyone knows, Mr. Tweedy hates high school students and goes out of his way to be as unhelpful as possible. A few years ago he achieved notoriety throughout Northern Nevada by suspending 47 girls in one day for showing up for class with their midriffs exposed. The sight of a bare navel drives him wild. He also despises baggy trousers on boys, except he can’t really ban them since all objectionable areas are more than covered. He’s been known to stop the baggiest boys in the halls to inquire sarcastically if they just lost 200 pounds.

Mr. Tweedy turned to his computer and called up my records.

“
Any requests?” he asked.

I told him I thought it would be nice if they piped hip-hop music into the classrooms over the P.A. system to help the students concentrate on their studies.

“
How would you like a three-day suspension for that smart-ass remark?” he asked.

“
Sorry, Mr. Tweedy. I misunderstood your question.”

“
I repeat, do you have any
class
requests?”

“
Well, I was thinking it might be interesting to take Spanish or Hungarian.”

I was in luck. Mr. Tweedy said there was an opening in Spanish I. He also plugged me into some other classes in his usual capricious and arbitrary way, then handed me a printout of my schedule.

I thanked him and told him I would need to be excused for the balance of the day as I had a hearing scheduled at 10:30 in Juvenile Court.

Mr. Tweedy smiled and said in that case I’d probably need to be excused for the next two or three years.

The judge gave me a long lecture on the dire consequences I would face if I didn’t give up my trouble-making and gang-ridden ways. She said it was only luck that I hadn’t gotten into more serious trouble and wasn’t facing “prolonged incarceration” like my peer Carlyle Bogy. She also regarded it as a very bad sign that my face bore evidence of recent hooliganism. I stated I was truly sorry for all the grief and worry I had caused my family and guardian. I got choked up and started bawling into my shirttail. Next time I’ll try to remember to take along a handkerchief. She said I appeared remorseful, and she hoped very much that I would reform and never again have to face her in court. She gave me six months probation and 50 hours of community service. In Winnemucca that usually means being trucked out to the interstate highway to pick up litter. Fortunately, I’ve had a lot of recent experience at that.

So now Noel Wescott has a police record, a parole officer, and a rap sheet.

All in all, it’s a good thing I’m changing my name.

TUESDAY, September 27 – My first day back at school. The biggest problem with missing an entire month is that there are now kids who have gone out, flourished as couples, and subsequently split up whose fleeting connection I may never have any knowledge of. It’s like if you go on a long camping trip in the wilderness and never find out that the Pope died or Brad Pitt got divorced.

There was a big pep rally for the football team during the first period; attendance was compulsory. OK, as I view it here’s the basic Winnemucca High School dilemma: Are you demonstrating poor school spirit if you’re unenthusiastic about supporting sporting competitions in a town that has no reason to exist? Why exactly are we all stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, and why should we care if our football team beats Elko (another totally pointless town)? Like me, Stoney Holt used to sit on her hands at these functions, but today I noticed she was screaming and chanting with the rest of the automatons. Is that the price one must pay for being popular and dating Scott Chandler?

I didn’t run into Uma until fifth-period study hall. To my surprise she came in and took the desk right next to mine. Even without her midriff exposed, she immediately got my heart beating wildly.

“
Hi, Noel,” she said.

“
Hi, Uma. I’ve changed my name.”

“
Not to Toby, I hope.”

“
No. To Jake–Jake Twisp.”

“
Jake Twisp, huh? Well, that will take some getting used to. How was your summer vacation?”

“
I wasn’t on vacation, Uma. I was a teen runaway and fugitive from the law.”

“
Whatever, Jake. Did you have a good time?”

“
Well, uh, it was OK. I’m surprised you’re talking to me, Uma.”

“
Your friend Stoney Holt has been e-mailing me unsolicited updates on your hectic love life, Jake.”

“
She has?”

“
Yes. It appears you’ve been a very busy guy.”

“
I can explain everything, Uma.”

“
There’s nothing to explain, Jake. I’m relieved, in fact. It appears your ego is not as fragile and your devotion to me not so all-consuming as I had first feared. Therefore, I don’t feel I have to worry about wrecking your life by associating with you.”

“
Can you translate that into English, Uma?”

“
In short, Jake, I still like you. Do you know what tomorrow is?”

“
Uh, not offhand.”

“
It’s Bingo Night. Shall I drop by at my usual hour?”

A powerful jolt went through my body, paralyzing my tongue.

“
You look a little sick, Jake. And what the hell happened to your face?”

WEDNESDAY, September 27 – Uma Spurletti lost her virginity tonight to her desired partner: an experienced male. We performed the act–twice–on my narrow bed to the musical accompaniment of the Pickled Punks. Entry was gained without too much struggle, and Uma reported that the experiment probably bears repeating. My expensive Dockweiler condoms performed flawlessly and transmitted far more tingles per stroke than Grandma’s discount brand. Yet another reason it pays to be wealthy.

Of all the girls I have slept with, Uma is the reigning world’s champion. Everything about her is extremely exciting and pleasing to my nervous system. I really can’t get enough of her, although I intend to give it my best shot from now on. Clutching her naked body to mine afterwards was nearly as nice as the actual act. I filled her in on my eventful summer and new nieces, and she brought me up to date on her exciting life. The best news: her aunt Rosa is now in Washington training to be a Peace Corps volunteer. After sampling the Nevada male dating pool, she decided she wasn’t quite ready for marriage, and now intends to go to Latin America to help little Catholic babies. Mr. Spurletti has hired a live-in housekeeper to take her place. This woman is a native Nevadan who believes that her job is to cook and clean, not to worry about whether Uma is leaving the house without a bra.

For any concerned parent who wants to know, I can report that Uma was wearing quite an attractive one tonight, although not for long.

OCTOBER

FRIDAY, October 14 – On the bus to Las Vegas. Sorry, blog readers, for skipping all these weeks. Sometimes life is just too hectic for rigorous introspection. Now, facing many hours of enforced idleness on a bouncing bus, I’ve brought along my $5 laptop. Amazingly, I also brought along darling Uma, who is sitting next to me and reading a book by some long-dead Russian. There’s a butterfly on the cover, but she says it isn’t about insects.

Frankly, I was flabbergasted when her father agreed to let her come along on this trip. Unaccountably, the guy really likes me. He always takes the time to chat when I’m visiting their house or manning the breath-mints kiosk at the Silver Sluice. Yeah, Uma got me a part-time job there–much to fat Marvin Tuelco’s annoyance.

The reason we’re going to Vegas is that I’ve been roped into being the best man at my brother Nick’s wedding. He probably wants me for the job since I’ve had so much professional experience at the Dixie Belle. You don’t want amateurs bungling the ring handoff when you’re paying top dollar to get shackled for life.

10:38 p.m. I quit the party early to come up to my bedroom to work on my speech. My brother informed me that I’ll be expected to propose a toast at the reception tomorrow. I have to do this despite the fact that I am legally too young to drink. That’s called getting the short end of both sticks.

Nick hosted a catered wedding-eve buffet dinner at his house tonight for the families and close friends. Great eats, although it was a bit nervous-making sitting on the sofa with Uma, Veeva, and Miren lined up beside me. The famous actor Trent Preston snapped a photo of us that could be captioned “Jake Twisp and His Many Conquests.” The girls are getting along fine so far. They’ve found a common ground in teasing me mercilessly.

This is the first time Veeva has met her new cousins. Seeing them side by side, I can now discern a family resemblance. I’d say the actor they most resemble is Meg Ryan. All three are quite taken with my nephew Tyler, although Veeva has the advantage of being parked all weekend on the same floor at the Normandie as my sister Joanie and her family. Miren and Nerea are staying here at Nick’s house with us. Uma has her own bedroom opposite mine. Fortunately, there are no land mines or barbed wire in the hallway and I’ve always had fairly acute night vision.

My brother said he thought about inviting our mother, but decided there was no reason to spoil everyone’s good time. She missed his first wedding too, so I expect she’s used to being snubbed. Needless to say, our dad will be missing the fun as well. Both will have to shape up drastically to be invited to any of my weddings.

Well, this isn’t getting my speech written. Damn, what do you say in a wedding toast? I suppose everyone expects some snickering allusions to the forthcoming wedding night. But can a nervous 15-year-old really carry that off?

SATURDAY, October 15 – My brother didn’t chicken out. He got married at 1:30 this afternoon to Ada Olson in the Art Deco chapel of the Normandie casino. Performing the service was the sharply uniformed “Captain” of the Normandie. He’s this very distinguished silver-haired gent, ramrod straight and dripping with gold braid, who normally functions as the maitre d’ in the Main Salon. Like my former employer Mr. Dugan, he has a mail-order minister’s degree, so everything was totally legit.

Then we all trooped up two decks to the private “Captain’s Salon” for the lavish reception and banquet. The Normandie management provided piles of shiny silver dollars on every table so the guests could feed the slot machines that lined one wall of the room. I put in a dollar, didn’t win, and pocketed the rest. Uma won $437–proving once again that it pays to hang out with us Twisps.

It’s a good thing Grandma made me take those wretched dancing lessons back in the seventh grade. Nick had sprung for a live (but not lively) band. I had to slow dance with countless females, including the bride, her mother from Connecticut, my own sister, and Violet Preston (Trent’s wife), who was grossly pregnant. As you’d expect, my competitive nephew Tyler danced circles around me all afternoon. He also had the most partners lining up for taxi service. If the sports thing doesn’t work out, he could have a great career as a gigolo.

Fortunately, the waiters at the open bar weren’t checking IDs. The champagne flowed like wine and quite a bit of it flowed into me. At last I’ve discovered something alcoholic that’s an improvement on the original grape juice.

While dancing with Veeva, she told me her mother got monumentally pissed when her husband filed for divorce and completely blames her daughter. To get back at Veeva, she suddenly got honest and informed her that Paul Saunders wasn’t her actual father. Nope, Mrs. Saunders claimed she was forced to resort to a sperm donor–some USC student at the time named Bruno Preston. We agreed that her “confession” was a vile maternal mind-fuck and completely bogus to boot. Young Bruno may have been whacking off for dollars, but anyone with eyes can see it was Veeva’s daddy who did the deed. The family resemblance is too strong for any doubt on that point.

Veeva also confided that she found out the lawyer Nick shot was her own Bible-banging grandfather in Ukiah. Jesus, my brother nearly killed his own ex-father-in-law. Well, at least he kept it in the family. Now Veeva’s worried her grandpa will keel over from shock on that gala future day when she announces her engagement to Tyler Twisp.

I also danced with Miren, who commented that Uma was extremely pretty and seemed very nice. Could be, but I’m still keeping Vrsula Herczegh as backup. Miren reported that Joe College only lasted another week after I left. While he was dusting the office trailer, Mrs. Patsatzis came in and caught him treasure hunting in one of her cash bags.

The Lurrietas will be on the road one more month, then head back to Bilbao for the winter. Miren’s promised to e-mail me regularly.