Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (44 page)

At work I announced that Dad had reached the outskirts of Salem and was reporting fresh discoveries of lasting significance. Mr. Preston was so
pleased, he excused me early for Halloween costume and party-favor shopping. I made my purchases quickly in Flampert’s variety store, then hurried over to the library. In the reading room, I found The World’s Second Most Desirable Teen—looking glum.

“Hello, Nick,” said Apurva. “Did you have head lice too?”

“Certainly not,” I replied. “I paid $20 I could ill afford for this haircut. How do you like it?”

“I like it better than Vijay’s,” she replied diplomatically. “Oh, Nick, what am I to do?”

“What’s wrong, darling?” asked François, kissing her mint-flavored lips as a phalanx of prim librarians flashed disapproving frowns.

“I had a long conversation with Trent by telephone,” she sighed. “He is most distressed.”

“Well, he’s jealous. That’s good!” I replied.

“Yes, but you see, I love him,” she explained. “It pains me more than I can say to cause him any unhappiness.”

Why did Apurva’s heartfelt vow of love for another man cause her to become even more feverishly desirable in my eyes? Perplexed, François put my arm around her.

“I know just how you feel,” I said. “Sheeni hung up on me the other night and I’ve felt like moldy cat vomit ever since.”

“Trent hung up on me as well,” said Apurva. “You Americans can be so rude at times. I was quite taken aback.”

“Hi, fellows, having another strategy session?” We looked up in surprise as Vijay sat down opposite us.

“Vijay, have you been spying on me?” demanded Apurva.

“Nothing so tiresome as that,” he replied. “I understood this was a public library. I am here looking for books.”

“You’ll find the Richard Nixon biographies on aisle six,” I said, smiling helpfully.

“You might do well to read a few yourself,” smiled Vijay in reply. “And I don’t think this jealousy plot of yours is going to work.” “Why not?” demanded Apurva.

“I’ll tell you why not,” he said. “What is every teenager’s dream?”

“Being recognized for outstanding academic achievement?” suggested Apurva.

“Having an around-the-clock live-in girlfriend?” ventured François.

“No,” said Vijay. “It is getting away from your parents. Sheeni and Trent are living the golden life. They can do what they want, wear what they want,
go where they want. They’re free. They’re not going to give that up under any circumstances. The only way they will come back is if they are compelled to return.”

Apurva looked even glummer. “You mean I have been risking my reputation kissing Nick all over for nothing?”

“You haven’t kissed me all over,” I objected. “Only on the lips. And I thought you liked it.”

“I do like kissing you, Nick,” said Apurva. “But it is not in my nature to be so demonstratively affectionate in public. I do not believe it is proper. Perhaps you could remove your hand?”

François reluctantly withdrew the offending limb. I turned to Vijay. “Well, bright guy, what do you suggest?”

“I believe the key here is the parents,” said Vijay. “Now, what is every parent’s worst fear about their children?”

“That you will marry an American?” suggested Apurva.

“That you will never leave home?” proposed François.

“No,” replied Vijay, “it is that you will ruin your life and bring disgrace and financial hardship upon the family.”

Wow, if that’s true I may qualify as my parents’ worst nightmare come true.

“That’s correct,” confirmed Apurva. “Parents have much to worry about. No wonder they age so rapidly. But how do we make Trent’s and Sheeni’s parents begin to worry?”

“We start a rumor campaign,” whispered Vijay. Apurva and I leaned closer.

“What sort of rumor campaign,” asked Apurva, intrigued.

Vijay looked around. In his most conspiratorial voice, he said, “We start a rumor that Sheeni and Trent are running drugs from Santa Cruz.”

“You mean like cocaine?” I asked.

“No, there’s plenty of coke here already. Everyone knows that. I was thinking of something more controversial.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Birth control pills,” whispered Vijay. “Bootleg ones.”

“But that’s absurd,” exclaimed Apurva. “Their parents would never believe them capable of that!”

“Sh-sh-sh!” hissed Vijay. “Yes they will. What does history teach us? A mild fabrication may raise suspicion, but a major falsehood invites credulity.”

“People do seem regrettably eager to believe the worst of each other,” sighed Apurva.

“Facts give substance to a rumor,” I said, thinking out loud. “Whom shall we say they are smuggling the pills to?”

“It should be someone we dislike,” said Vijay.

We looked at each other.

“Janice Griffloch!”

“How exactly does one spread a rumor?” asked Apurva.

“We must recruit someone who likes to chat and comes in contact with many people,” said Vijay.

We looked at each other again.

“Lacey!”

In the end Lacey came around. I knew she would. She resisted Apurva’s poetry versus windsurfing argument, she dismissed my evil Iowan influence case, but when Vijay said, “Of course, you realize this will cause considerable distress for Paul’s parents,” she immediately agreed.

“You know what that woman did last night?” asked Lacey. “She sneaked into our apartment over the garage while we were sleeping and started to pray.”

“No!” we exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Lacey, “she got down on her old knobby knees right beside the bed and started wailing to God to strike me dead. With a lightning bolt!” “What did you do?” asked Apurva, appalled.

“I said to Paulie would you
please
ask your mother to respect our privacy. He told her to beat it, but she kept on praying like she didn’t hear a word.”

“Did she finally leave?” I asked, trying not to imagine Mrs. Saunders bursting in on my honeymoon suite.

“Not ’til Paulie threatened to fornicate right in front of her,” replied Lacey. “I wouldn’t have done it, of course. Paulie’s changing the locks today.”

“How’s the apartment hunt going?” I asked.

“Too depressing to think about,” she said. “In our price range we have a choice between stinky basements, chicken coops, and migrant workers’ trailers.”

“Lacey, tell Paul to give me a call,” said the crassly opportunistic Republican. “I might know of an opening for a position fitting his qualifications.”

“Vijay sweetie, if you help Paul find a job,” declared Lacey, “I’ll give you free haircuts for life!”

It would serve him right too.

WEDNESDAY, October 31
— Halloween. Truly a holiday that separates the men from the boys. The boys get to troop around collecting free sweets from total strangers, while the men have to deplete their meager cash reserves
providing high-priced refreshments for freeloading party guests. Oh well, at least the costumes help relieve the tedium.

My theory on costumes is that they provide valuable clues to the personality of the wearer. In the third grade I found the ideal costume for me, and have worn it irreligiously every year since. Yes, I enjoy impersonating a robot. I like walking stiffly, talking like a digital voice synthesizer, and having gears stuck to my chest. It feels right somehow. What does this say about me? What insights into the nature of my being have I gleaned? None, so far. But I do anticipate exploring this rich topic someday with my analyst. At present, the roots of my robot fetish remain obscured. I haven’t a clue.

10:30
P.M
. My Halloween party is over. All the guests have departed, except for Dwayne, who lingers in the kitchen laboring over the washing-up. That is his excuse. I expect he is also gobbling down the last of the donuts. Thankfully, I had the foresight to secrete two choice maple bars for tomorrow’s breakfast in the lint basket of the washing machine.

It was a good party, but probably not a great one. It was at times more than weird and, toward the end, nearly frightening. That is, I suppose, the most any reasonable guest can expect on such an occasion—except, of course, for alcoholic beverages, and only Dad and Mr. Ferguson got any of those. Everyone else had to endure the festivities cold sober.

The party was announced as starting at 7. Dwayne showed up prematurely at 7:45. Everyone else drifted in right on time at 8:15.

Dwayne arrived looking like a cannibal’s feast, ready for the oven. He had smeared his pink blubber with suggestively mottled dark brown paint and wrapped heavy-duty aluminum foil around his corpulent middle.

“What are you supposed to be, boy?” asked Mr. Ferguson, perplexed. “A vacuum tube?”

“No way,” he replied. “I’m a Choc-O-Nougat Nibbler. That’s my fav’rite candy bar. I ate six yes’erday. Where’s the eats?”

By the time the other guests arrived, Dwayne had made a frightening dent in the buffet. Despite repeated imprecations from his host, he continued to graze relentlessly throughout the evening.

Proving piety could be sexy, Apurva came dressed as a nun. “Sister Brenda at school loaned it to me,” she announced. “Wasn’t it clever of Father to suggest it? I find the habit most congenial, but pray it won’t prove inhibiting to the general merriment.”

Uninhibited, François lifted his robot’s mask and attempted to kiss her. She laughed and pushed me away. “Nick, you forget yourself. Robots don’t kiss people.”

“Whom do they kiss?” I demanded.

“Other machines, of course,” she replied. “The microwave looks lonely. Go kiss it.”

“But watch out for jealous toasters,” trilled a counterfeit Indian maiden, swaddled in a brilliant green-and-gold sari. In full makeup, Vijay was almost as drop-dead pulse-quickening as his gorgeous sister. With his well-rouged delicate features and amply padded bust, he could have been a serious contender in any Miss Third World Teen Transvestite competition. His companion in an electric-blue-and-silver sari posed less of a threat—assuming the judges deducted points for inappropriate body hair.

Mr. Ferguson and Dad did not wear costumes, although the former insisted he was dressed like some guy named Eugene V. Debs, and the latter claimed (to Apurva) he was “an international playboy on the make.”

While my guests chatted among themselves, Apurva and I dispensed treats to the few tardy trick-or-treaters still straggling up the drive.

“Have you gotten my dog back from your friend?” whispered the nun.

“He’s not my friend, Apurva. And don’t worry,” I replied, “it will all be taken care of shortly. How is the rumor spreading going?”

“Quite well so far,” she whispered. “I wrote the libelous accusation on all the rest-room stalls at school today. And felt very guilty about it too. I only pray Sister Brenda never finds out it was me.”

“Hey, can we have some better music?” demanded Fuzzy.

“But, Frank, it’s Frank,” I pointed out. Frank was just then launching into his incomparable rendition of “You Go to My Head.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Fuzzy. “But couldn’t we listen to something from this century?”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “All the music for this party has been carefully programmed in advance. If you wished to make special requests, you should have given them to me earlier.”

“I like the music,” said Apurva sweetly. “It’s very romantic.”

At that moment I was swept by a desire to do something extremely sinful with a nun.

After another hour of fatiguing socializing, it was time to adjourn to the back yard. Only guests under the age of 43 were invited to participate in the secret rites of ceremonial exhumation.

A cold, damp wind rustled the brittle trees as we gathered graveside in the deep shadows behind the storage shed. Unseen owls hooted in the distance and a scudding of anxious clouds drifted past the sullen moon. When the blade of my shovel bit into the frigid earth, a shiver ran through the huddled figures—especially those clad in diaphanous silks and aluminum foil.

“Meera, I told you we should have worn our wraps,” complained Vijay.

“You said no such thing, Bina,” retorted Fuzzy. “You told me it was a fashion faux pas to wear a 49ers jacket over a sari.”

“Shh-hhh,” I hissed. “Let us show a little respect for the dead. Apurva, shine the flashlight on the hole. Not in my eyes.”

When I had excavated to a depth of one foot, the shovel brought up a small cardboard box. Inside was a slip of torn paper.

“What’s the writin’ say?” asked the candy bar.

Gravely I read the prophetic words, “I am not dead.” Handing the paper to Dwayne, I added, “It looks to be written in blood.”

“Dog’s blood?” asked Dwayne, his voice quaking.

“That, of course, I cannot say,” I replied.

I resumed digging. Down six more inches, I found another box with another message: “From one will come three.” “Three what?” gasped Dwayne. “Dogs, you twit!” said Vijay.

Another half-foot deeper produced a somewhat larger box. The message inside read, “Obey my commands or your fate will be an ulcerous tongue and death by slow starvation.”

The candy bar gulped. “That’s a nasty way to go,” he observed.

Five minutes later and nine inches deeper, the shovel turned up the final box—a small wooden one. I paused to let the suspense build before reading these words: “The wrong must be righted. Kamu is Jean-Paul.”

“What!” exclaimed Dwayne. “Let me see that!”

I handed him the paper. “There it is in red and white, Dwayne. Albert has spoken.”

“His will must be obeyed!” proclaimed the nun.

“Well…” said Dwayne, wavering. “If Albert says so…”

“Nick, continue your digging,” said Vijay. “We haven’t come to the body yet.”

“Well, it seems to have vanished. And I doubt if…” I was interrupted by an unearthly chorus of small ugly dogs, howling from the crawl space.

“Perhaps they want you to keep on digging, Nick,” said Apurva.

“But this is as deep as I buried Albert,” I objected.

The howling grew louder and the wind increased.

“Get to it, guy!” commanded Fuzzy. “Before we freeze to death.”

As I probed reluctantly into undisturbed soil, someone very close barked softly.

“Cut it out, guys,” I said.