Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (38 page)

Albert’s limp body lay near his humble pee-stained bed. He was as ugly in death as he had been in life. He had not been an ideal dog, but he had certainly been a useful one. He was the one living link in the chain of love uniting
Sheeni and me. Within hours, she will be home. How can I tell her our love child is no more? She knows I had been drinking. Will she blame me—unjust and irrational though it may be—for his death? Will she seek solace for her loss in the arms of Trent? Or Bruno? Or, God forbid, Ed Smith? Have all my hopes been electrocuted?

9:30
A.M
. A dismal morning. Everyone is bleary-eyed and short-tempered from lack of sleep. Despite a grossly swollen toe, Mr. Ferguson was able to crawl under the house and tape the teeth-marked cable. Power has been restored. Dad made me bury Albert before I had a chance to take a shower or eat my breakfast. After age 40 any association with death must come as a terrifying reminder of one’s own mortality.

It almost felt like I was digging my own grave. I laid Albert to rest with two of his favorite bones in the back yard behind the metal storage shed. It’s shady there and he has a nice view of the concrete plant.

10:15
A.M
. I called Sheeni, but reached Taggarty instead.

“Hello, Nick. What a surprise. Sheeni went out for breakfast with her parents. Quite an extraordinary couple. Have you met them?”

“Yes, I’ve had the pleasure,” I said. “Did Sheeni say when she expected to arrive in Ukiah?”

“Sheeni’s not going anywhere, Nick.”

“What!”

“Oh, her parents made a fuss, but they came around. It was my argument, I think, that finally persuaded them. I have a great deal of experience in these matters, you see.”

“What did you say?” I asked, struggling to remain calm.

“Well, I quickly deduced that the primary motivational factor behind their anger was—I’m sorry to have to tell you this—their extreme, nay their overwhelming dislike of you. You really are anathema to them, Nick—at some profoundly visceral level.”

“So what did you say?” I repeated.

“Well, I pointed out that if they brought Sheeni back to Ukiah, she would have that many more opportunities to be with you. Whereas, if she remained here under my watchful scrutiny, she would see you seldom if ever. Not only that, here she would, in all probability, soon develop an emotional attachment to someone else far more suitable. Of course, she has also had to promise never to see or speak to you again.”

“What!”

“I’m afraid so, Nick. You may be out of her life for good this time. I know it’s hard, but look on the bright side. Better now than later. Sheeni is destined
to know many men, Nick. You are but an early milestone on a very long journey.”

“We’ll just see about that,” I replied with icy calmness. “Could you have her call me when she gets back?”

“Well, I’ll give her the message after her parents leave. But I can’t promise she’ll call. It was nice meeting you, Nick. Tell Vijay thanks for the picture and to look me up next time he’s in Santa Cruz.
Ciao
, Nick. Don’t be sad. It really is all for the best.”

I hung up. Move over, Albert. I may be joining you soon. Right after I assassinate a certain meddlesome roommate.

11:30 A.M. After much maddening badinage with obnoxious French-speakers, I finally succeeded in having Bernice Lynch brought to the phone.

“Hello, Nick,” she said breathlessly. “What a surprise. I was just dusting all the second-floor fire extinguishers.”

“Bernice, we have a crisis. Taggarty has wrecked our plot to have Sheeni withdrawn from school.”

“That interfering bitch! What did she do?”

Briefly, I summarized Taggarty’s treacherous machinations.

“I should have expected it,” sighed Bernice. “In some ways, Taggarty is almost as bad as Sheeni. What can we do now, Nick?”

“We have to get rid of Taggarty!”

“You want her snuffed!” she whispered. “That’s asking a lot, Nick.”

“You misunderstand me, Bernice. We have to get Taggarty expelled. As quickly as possible.”

“I don’t know, Nick. This is a pretty permissive school. I’m not sure you could do anything bad enough to get expelled. It might be simpler just to waste her.”

“Think, Bernice. Kids must leave your school for some reason!”

“Well, once in a while a girl gets suspended for being in a family way. I could sneak into Taggarty’s room and sabotage her diaphragm. I know where she hides it. I could stab it with a hairpin.”

“That’ll take too long. It might be months before she’s knocked up. We haven’t that much time.”

“Well, a few kids leave every term because their parents can’t pay the tuition. And a few more flunk out. The academics are very demanding. But Taggarty’s smart. And her parents are loaded.”

I began to see a glimmer of hope. “Bernice, do you still work in the dining hall?”

“Sure, when I’m not swabbing toilets.”

“Do you ever serve food to Taggarty?”

“Every day. The bitch digs being waited on. You want me slip some arsenic into her sloppy joe?”

“Not poison exactly. I can’t tell you now. These phones may have ears. I’ll write to you. Expect a letter soon.”

“Great, Nick. I really appreciate the mail.”

“Any news of Ed Smith, Bernice?”

“He’s working overtime, Nick. He had a date to take Sheeni to some kind of performance art last night, but she had to cancel when her parents showed up. Ed’s into theater, you know. He wants to be a stage director, the stuck-up creep.”

“What does Mr. Pretentious Aspiring Director look like?” I asked.

“Boring and bland, Nick: six-two, big shoulders, soft blue bedroom eyes. Lots of casually tossed sandy blond hair. Wardrobe of natural fibers in coordinated earth tones. Expensive Italian leather loafers. Some girls find his dimples cute too. Personally, I think he’s a real zero. A perfect match for Sheeni.”

That’s just what I was afraid of. Sheeni must be withdrawn from that corrupting environment as soon as possible.

“OK, Bernice. Thanks for the update. Keep me posted. I really appreciate your help.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble…Nick, you do like me, don’t you?”

“Oh sure.”

“How much?”

“Uh, a lot. You’re, uh, neat. I wish I was there, so I could see you more.”

“Me too. I like you. Uh, Nick, in your letter, could you write about how much you like me? I never got a love letter before.”

“Sure, Bernice. No problem.”

“Goodbye …sweetheart.”

François looked at me accusingly. “Hey, guy, if you’re putting the moves on that chick, I’m parting company, here and now.”

“I’m not putting the moves on anyone,” I retorted. “I am currying favor with an extremely valuable inside operative.”

2:30
P.M
. No word yet from Sheeni. Dwayne came over and started blubbering when Lacey informed him of Albert’s demise. Worse, he’s now refusing to pay the $2 he owes me in accumulated dog-walking fees. He did, however, fork over last night’s unswallowed sedative.

“These are quite effective,” I informed him. “I was testing one last night when you wrote that rude note.”

“Oh, so you wasn’t sleepin’ ’cause you had to?”

“Of course not. I was conducting an experiment. Tell me, Dwayne, does your mother have many of these capsules?”

“She has a whole big bottle! The doctor doubled my dose ’cause I been stayin’ up again. I made it to 3:30 last night and boy am I tired!”

“Good for you, Dwayne. Keep at it. Now, what you must do is bring me about a third of the capsules in that bottle. If we limit our borrowing, your mother likely won’t notice the loss.”

“What’ll you give me if I do?”

“If you do as I say, I won’t inform your mother about your violating my privacy while I was drugged.”

Dwayne reddened. “I didn’t do nothin’, Nick. Say, Nick, you think Albert’s up in heaven now?”

“Of course not. No one’s paid his purgatory fees yet.”

“What’s that?”

I explained the concept of purgatory to Dwayne, and outlined the typical schedule of fees, interest, and installment payments for deceased canines.

“Wow, it’s ’spensive getting into heaven,” he exclaimed. “I just thought you had to be good.”

“Well, every dollar you pay toward someone’s fees is also credited to your own account. It’s called the Purgatory Incentive Plan. Now, how much can you afford every week?”

“I guess about $2.”

Dwayne handed over his first payment in cash and I wrote out a receipt. “You’re doing a very good deed, Dwayne. Albert will appreciate it.”

“Thanks, Nick. How much are you paying?”

“Fifty dollars a week.”

“Wow, Nick. You must’ve really loved that dog!”

“We were very close,” I lied.

5:15
P.M
. Still no call from Sheeni. Surely her parents have left by now. I do not permit myself to imagine she is out with Ed, admiring his corn-fed dimples.

Dwayne returned with 29 purloined capsules. I put them in a small box with the four he had already passed to me and mailed them to Bernice. I also enclosed this tepid mash note:

I could force my epistolary lovemaking no further. One can pursue insincerity only so far before the spirit (and François) rebel. Damn, I wish I had more pills. I’d put Ed asleep 24 hours a day too. He could become living performance art.

10:15
P.M
. Concluding that the wily Taggarty had failed to convey my message to Sheeni, I called My One and Only Love. Macheteing my way through thick undergrowths of French, I finally reached my elusive inamorata.

“Nickie, what an emotionally exhausting day! I feel like I just survived the Siege of Leningrad. My parents were worse than I ever imagined possible. And, as you know, I have an extremely agile imagination. For a time, it really seemed this would be my final day in Santa Cruz. I had reached the nadir of despair!”

“Yes, Taggarty told me how she saved the day,” I said. “Did she tell you I called?”

“I think she mentioned it. Wasn’t she brilliant? Oh, she is such a true friend. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

But you may soon find out.

Sheeni continued, “Of course, the matron helped also. She assured my parents that except for that one minor lapse my conduct has been above reproach. Thankfully, Dean Wilson was away for the weekend. Odd, the matron insists she never informed on us to the dean. What do you make of that, Nickie?”

I was concerned with more important topics. “Sheeni, what is happening with us? Have you promised never to see or speak to me ever again?”

“I have, Nickie. Fortunately, the moral ambiguities inherent in parental contracts made under duress always permit some amelioration of the terms. But we must be extraordinarily careful. My parents must be given no reason to suspect we have any contact with each other. Absolutely none whatsoever!”

“But we’ll still see each other? You still care for me?”

“Of course, darling. You are my one special friend. I’m not going to let my parents separate us. Their intense disapproval of you is one of your most attractive qualities. Besides, there’s our love child to consider.”

“Our love child?”

“Albert. We are raising him jointly. We must think of his welfare as well as our own. A separation now could be extremely traumatic for a young canine. By the way, how is my darling dog?”

I gulped. “Oh, he’s …fine.”

“Still chewing sweet little bones?”

“Yes, bones and other things.”

“Oh, how I miss him, Nickie.”

“He misses you too. In the worst way.”

“It’s late, Nickie. I have to go and collapse now.”

“One more thing, Sheeni. I keep forgetting. What grade did Taggarty give Vijay? He’s dying to know.”

“I believe she gave him an A. It’s perhaps uncharitable of me, but I hope that particular talent does not run through his entire family.”

“Don’t you want Trent to be happy in love?” I asked, playing the devil’s advocate.

“I want everyone to be romantically fulfilled. Trent, however, may not be first on my list for such happiness.”

“Who is?” I cooed.

“Taggarty, I should think,” Sheeni replied. “We owe her a tremendous debt, Nickie.”

Yes, my darling, I know. I intend to work it off as best I can.

MONDAY, October 22
— Bruno Modjaleski is free again. The Mendocino County jail must be porous in the extreme.

At lunch, Vijay was thrilled to hear of his high score. “Taggarty actually gave me a B!” he exclaimed. (To further the cause of humility in my friends, I had altered his grade slightly.) “That must be in the 90th percentile for her.”

Everyone was on edge at work today. Mr. Preston was mad because some big-shot subscribers have been calling in to complain about outrageous
typographical errors in their letters printed in the latest issue. Miss Pliny was upset because Mr. Preston upbraided her for slipshod proofreading. Dad was in a blue funk because his stitches come out tomorrow and he’ll soon have to resume actual work. Mr. Rogavere got a splitting headache and went home early after Mr. Preston suggested they change all the headlines to a typeface called Log Cabin. (The rustic, wood-grained letters appear to have been whittled from pine boughs.) And I was totally pissed because Mr. Preston wouldn’t give me permission to leave early to meet Apurva in the library.