Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (43 page)

Now Dwayne insists Jean-Paul is Kamu and he is refusing to return the disputed pet.

6:30
P.M
. Dad and I ate a nervous dinner alone together. Both the food and the company could quickly induce ulcers. Mr. Ferguson, whose presence suddenly seems much less objectionable, was out on the town, taking in a movie with Mrs. Crampton. I had volunteered to go with them, but was politely snubbed. It was just Dad, me, and the rapidly emptying zin bottle.

“Are you going back to Oregon, Dad?” I asked.

“Why the fuck should I?” he slurred.

“No special reason,” I said hastily.

“Who’s this guy Paul?” he demanded. “Where did she meet him?”

“I don’t know,” I lied.

“What’s his last name?”

“Uh, Saunders, I think.”

“Saunders, huh? Why does that name sound familiar?” he demanded.

“I don’t know, Dad,” I lied. “My kindergarten teacher was named Miss Sanders. Remember, you liked her.”

Dad had had a brief extramarital affair with my kindergarten teacher—a source of considerable confusion for me at the time.

“Yeah, I remember that babe. She liked to…” Dad paused for another swallow of zin.

I was intrigued. “She liked to what, Dad?”

“None of your fucking business, wise guy.”

Someday, when Dad is wasting away from cirrhosis of the liver, I hope his deathbed confession treats in greater detail his relationship with Miss Sanders. Such an unburdening could only be good for his soul.

9:45
P.M
. When Dad finally passed out on the couch, I sneaked into his bedroom to call My One and Only Love. After much lingual swordplay, I succeeded in having Sheeni brought to the phone.

“Hello, Nick,” she said coldly. “What’s up?”

“Sheeni, the person who answered the phone told me you had been arrested!” I exclaimed, employing a small tactical lie to launch the conversation.

“It was just a misunderstanding. Everything’s fine.”

“They said you were arrested in Monterey. What were you doing down there?”

“Oh, a friend and I went down for the day. We wanted to see the Aquarium.”

“Anybody I know?”

“No. Just a friend,” she replied laconically.

“So, uh, everything’s fine with your parents?”

“Certainly. Taggarty talked to them. She explained it was just an unfortunate misunderstanding. They trust Taggarty, you know.”

“She’s a wonderful person,” I lied. “How’s she doing?”

“Well, she felt great today. She really thought she was getting better. But now she’s tired again. I had a little touch of it myself yesterday.”

“You did?”

“Yes—on the way down to Monterey. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open.”

“Perhaps it was the company,” I suggested.

“What?”

“Just kidding, Sheeni. Darling, you sound a little, uh, distant.”

“Do I? I’m tired. It’s been an emotionally fatiguing weekend. My parents are in an uproar over Paul. He’s moved some floozie in with him up in the studio over the garage.”

“Lacey’s not a floozie!” I said indignantly.

“Lacey?” asked Sheeni. “You know her?”

“Of course. She’s my dad’s girlfriend, well, ex-girlfriend.”

“You mean my brother is now living with your father’s erstwhile mistress?”

“Yes. Isn’t it cool? I think it makes you my stepmother-in-law. Don’t worry, sweetheart, we can still get married.”

“Oh really?” said Sheeni. “I thought these days you might be more interested in an Asian bride.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“Stories get around.”

“Yes, well, I hear stories too,” I pointed out, losing my cool. “About overnight trips to Monterey with aspiring stage directors!”

“Who told you that?” asked Sheeni indignantly. “Who have you been talking to?”

“Who have you been talking to?” I demanded.

“You seem to know a lot about my personal life, Nick Twisp. I wonder, have your informants also divulged the fact that my friend Ed is gay?”

I gulped. “He is?”

“Yes, not that it is any of your business.”

“Why?” I asked. “Is he keeping it a secret?”

“Certainly not. Ed is vice president of the Gay Students Association.”

“Oh,” I said weakly. This was a monumentally embarrassing intelligence failure worthy of the CIA itself.

“How was the play?” asked Sheeni archly.
“Hay Fever
, wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t very good,” I replied.

“Perhaps you had too many distractions,” observed Sheeni. “Perhaps your concentration was impaired.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “You’re the biggest impairment to my concentration, Sheeni. You always will be.”

“I wish I could believe that, Nick.”

“Sheeni, why don’t you come back to Ukiah? We could be together. We could go on double dates with Paul and Lacey. Redwood High’s not that bad. I’m learning a lot,” I lied.

“Nick, please don’t ask that. You know it’s impossible. We’ll be together.”

“When?” I demanded.

“Someday,” she replied.

“That’s not good enough,” I said.

“Then marry Apurva!” she exclaimed. “And live happily ever after in your boring small town!”
Click
.

Well, the good news is I am clearly making Sheeni jealous. The bad news is I feel like hanging myself from the bathroom shower rod with Mr. Ferguson’s truss.

MONDAY, October 29
— Bruno Modjaleski pleaded guilty. For his crimes he was fined $2,000 and sentenced to one year in the county jail. Then the criminal-coddling, soft-on-crime liberal judge reduced the fine to $1,000 and suspended the jail sentence, provided Bruno perform 500 hours of community service. He has volunteered to serve as coach in the local peewee football league, thus assuring another generation of gridiron mediocrity in the valley.

Although they didn’t come out and say so, Vijay and Fuzzy seemed relieved that Bruno was spared the state penitentiary. “He got what he deserved,” commented Fuzzy. “Standing up Candy Pringle is a serious offense.”

While I was altering reality through mycelial ingestion last weekend, Vijay had been dutifully applying himself to my essay. The completed work was a masterpiece of obsequious teen Indomania. Reading it, I could almost imagine myself strolling beside the Bay of Bengal with my guru—a scholar I imagined to be 16, female, and comely in the extreme. Perhaps Apurva has a pretty cousin who might consent to serve as my mentor.

“I made an appointment after school to get your photos for the passport application,” announced Vijay.

“Why do I need a passport if I’m not actually going?” I asked.

“In case the scholarship committee requests your passport number,” he explained. “Besides, you’ll need a passport to visit Sheeni and me in Paris next summer.”

“You’re going to France too?” I asked, shocked.

“Yes, my parents have consented at last,” said Vijay. “It was quite a struggle. I had to promise on my honor I would not be seduced by any French girls.”

“How did you find out about the summer program?” I asked.

“Sheeni mentioned it the last time we talked.”

“You talk to Sheeni?” This was unsettling news.

“Occasionally, on the phone,” said Vijay, smiling innocuously. “It is a way of practicing my French. She’s making remarkable progress, you know.”

It’s not her progress I’m worried about.

“The last time I called,” remarked Vijay, “Sheeni said Taggarty had awarded me an A. I thought, Nick, you said she gave me a B.”

“Perhaps Taggarty altered it upon reflection,” I said. “Or perhaps a run of disappointing performances by subsequent lovers raised the curve. Women often change their minds.”

“I hope so,” said Vijay.

What did he mean by that?

At work, I told Mr. Preston, in answer to his inquiry, that the last I’d heard from Dad he was in Eugene and his research was proving most productive. I told this flagrant lie under orders from you know who. Mr. Preston was so pleased, he graciously permitted me to leave work early.

I rushed over to the photo studio, located on the same downtown commercial block as Heady Triumphs, Ukiah’s most outré hair salon (workplace of Lacey). After Vijay and I had our photos snapped (he felt his exceptional score merited an up-to-date mug shot for Taggarty’s Wall of Fame), we stopped in to see my former stepmistress. She greeted us warmly, but looked worried.

“Paulie’s parents are the pits, Nick,” she complained. “His mother looks like she was run over by a truck and his dad is this big sleazy lawyer who keeps threatening to get an injunction against me. They’re such uptight busy-bodies. No wonder Paulie disappeared for six years.”

“I know, Lacey,” I said. “They’re the all-time Parents from Hell. They’ve been plotting like crazed zealots to keep me away from Sheeni.”

“And succeeding rather well,” noted Vijay.

“Lacey, can’t you move away?” I asked.

“Well, we’re going to look at places tonight,” she replied. “But Paulie doesn’t make much money yet from his music. Do you know of any inexpensive rentals?”

We had to admit we did not, but—to assist the cause—we both got haircuts. It was fortunate I had had my passport picture taken first. After Lacey completed her futuristic razor styling, my appearance would have halted my travels at any international checkpoint.

“What shall I tell my parents?” asked Vijay, studying his disquieting reflection in the store windows as we strolled away from the salon. He looked like the son of the Indian from Outer Space.

“Tell them there was an outbreak of head lice at school and we all had to undergo treatment,” I replied.

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” he said. “They’ll probably believe that.”

Dad did not notice my haircut. Mrs. Crampton said it looked “nice,” Dwayne declared it was “totally zinky,” and Mr. Ferguson said, “You wouldn’t
have got a scalp job like that back when all the barbers were unionized.” He was probably right.

Since Mrs. Crampton knew Dad was upset from his emotional loss, she made her famous “soothing” meal: creamed chicken, macaroni and cheese, ambrosia salad, and corn puffs—followed by warm butterscotch pudding with whipped cream. Not even Dad could resist this culinary equivalent of a return to the womb. He began to mellow slightly (the zin helped too).

“Not a bad meal,” he commented.

Mrs. Crampton blushed from this high praise. “Why… thank you…Mr. Twisp.”

“How is Jean-Paul?” I asked Dwayne.

“Kamu
is fine,” he replied, as creamed chicken met its maker in his cavernous maw.

Despite his obstinacy and poor table manners, I invited Dwayne to my Halloween party.

“What party is that?” asked Dad suspiciously.

“Oh, I thought I’d have a few friends over on Wednesday night for donuts and cider. Maybe bob for some apples.”

“Who’s buying the groceries?” demanded Dad.

“Me,” I replied. “Maybe you’d like to charge the guests $5 each for wear and tear on the upholstery?”

“Maybe you’d like to watch your smart mouth,” replied Dad.

I’ve heard that line before.

9:15
P.M
. Mr. Ferguson took Dad out to a bar to cheer him up, so I immediately called Bernice. She answered breathlessly as usual.

“Hi, Nick honey,” she gasped, “I was up on the sixth floor mopping up a bad hair-dye spill. Did you hear the good news? Taggarty got a D-on her History of the Bourbons test!”

“That’s great, Bernice. Listen, I wanted to ask you why you didn’t tell me Ed Smith is gay?”

“Who says he’s gay?”

“Well, Sheeni told me,” I replied.

“And I suppose you believe the lying bitch,” sighed Bernice.

“You mean he’s not gay?” I asked, shocked. Could My Love actually have uttered an untruth?

“No way,” said Bernice. “That stud thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

“But Sheeni said he was vice president of the Gay Students Association.”

“Smoke screen, Nick. She’s blowing you a smoke screen and you’re swallowing it. We don’t have any Gay Students Association. The attitude of the
school administration is that sex—in any form—does not exist. And in most cases they’re right.”

I was virtually speechless. “Bernice, are you sure?”

“Nick honey, if anything I have ever told you is not totally true, may I gain 50 pounds and get pimples for life.”

What teen could fail to put his trust in that sacred oath? It was time to face bitter reality: My One and Only Love has deceived me.

TUESDAY, October 30
— Bruno Modjaleski returned to school today. When he arrived, the Student Council went into emergency session and, after heated debate, ruled narrowly that their fallen quarterback possessed sufficient moral character to resume his captaincy of the Marauding Beavers. If only he could be granted sufficient athletic skill by democratic vote.

At lunch Fuzzy announced that his dad and uncle Polly were now offering $100 finder’s fees for names of men willing to earn good pay driving big trucks over angry guys with signs.

“Wow, that’s some serious dollars,” I exclaimed. “I could use an infusion of cash right now. That passport application wiped me out. I wonder if Paul would be interested in a high-paying job?” It was despicable work to be sure, but the necessity of supporting a beautiful bimbette did provide him with a convenient ethical out.

“I already suggested Paul,” said Vijay. “I have dibs on his bonus.”

“Paul won’t do it anyway,” I sniffed. “I have no doubt it would be morally reprehensible to him.”

Just then, ugly Janice Griffloch drifted by the Nerds’ table. I only pray my zits never reach that state of stupefying repellency. “Hi, Vijay,” she cooed. “Love your haircut!”

“Thank you, Janice,” he replied coldly.

“Where’d you have it done?” she asked. “It’s like totally fashion forward!”

“Heady Triumphs,” replied Vijay laconically. “Ask for Lacey.”

“Thanks, Vij. I will!” she exclaimed, skipping off.

Nice Miss Pomdreck worked all morning typing my application and took it down to the post office herself to send it off airmail to Pune. Dad and Mom both signed proudly by proxy. Vijay has sent an urgent letter to his uncle asking him to expedite the selection process. “Otherwise,” said Vijay, “you might be arriving in my country as a studious pensioner.”