Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (51 page)

7:30
P.M
. Or perhaps not. Dad came home from work whistling like he’d just been awarded the Nobel Prize for Truck Driving. I immediately dialed Fuzzy for an update.

“Uncle Polly,” he explained. “He’s still pissed at Dad for trying to hijack Grandmama’s car. So he went to bat for your dad. He told my dad your father was their best new driver. He also said your dad’s cement-seat-covers stunt took a lot of balls. But they’re docking his pay for the missing concrete.”

“So they’re not firing him?”

“Firing him? Uncle Polly gave him a raise and a promotion. Dad’s still pissed, though.”

“How about your mother?”

“She laid down the law at dinner. She said if Dad can diddle the entire dispatching department, she’s at least entitled to date one truck driver.”

“You mean they might see each other again?” I asked.

“Could be, Nick. Who knows? But your dad better watch his ass.”

“Does your father have any guns, Frank?”

“Any guns!” exclaimed Fuzzy. “Don’t spread this around, Nick, but we have a room in the basement that looks like a National Guard armory.”

9:45
P.M
. I just found Dad lounging in the living room listening to my most prized F.S. album. The front drapes were open, giving any passersby a clear shot at his head.

“Since when are you interested in this kind of music?” I asked. Dad, as a confirmed culture climber, pretends to appreciate only rigorously unmelodious music of the modern Progressive Ennui school.

“I’m not, as a rule,” he replied, “but a friend of mine claims to dig it. Pretty syrupy in a turgid sort of way, if you ask me.”

I, of course, did not. Nor did I close the drapes.

FRIDAY, November 16
— Life is full of surprises. Take, for instance, the phone call I received this afternoon after school.

“I’d like to speak with Nick Twisp, please,” said a distinguished masculine voice.

“This is Nick.”

“Hello, Nick,” said the voice. “We haven’t met. This is Trent Preston.”

Alarming heart fibrillations.

“Oh. Hello, Trent.”

“How are you, Nick?”

“I’m …fine. How are you?”

“Not so good, Nick.”

“Sorry to hear that, Trent. Did you take a bad spill windsurfing?”

Prolonged silence.

“Nick,” Trent said finally, “I called to ask you just what you think you are doing?”

“Well, at the moment I imagine I’m talking on the phone,” I said, chuckling nervously. I wanted to hand this conversation over to François, but he seemed to be off somewhere on an espresso break.

More silence.

“Nick,” Trent continued, “my parents are forcing me to withdraw from school.”

“Well, the economy certainly is not as robust as one might wish,” I said. “Private schools can be quite a hardship for parents. I know—my parents recently found they could no longer financially sustain my private instruction.”

“It’s not the money, Nick.”

“Oh.”

“It’s all the lies you’ve been spreading about me. And Sheeni.”

“Pardon me, Trent,” I said indignantly. “I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do, Nick. I think you’re deliberately trying to wreak havoc in our lives.”

“Why, why would I want to do that?” I asked innocently.

“You tell me, Nick.” More silence.

“No answer. I see. Then tell me this, Nick,” he continued. “Do you care anything at all for Apurva?”

“I like her, sure. She’s very nice.”

“Have you slept with her?”

“Uh, what exactly do you mean?”

“I mean have you callously possessed her body?”

“Not callously, no.” I replied. “Have you slept with Sheeni?”

“Yes.”

This was not the reply I had anticipated.

“Recently?” I croaked.

“Fairly recently. Two days ago.”

François muscled the receiver out of my hand. “You’re a fucking liar, Trent!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, so now I meet the real Nick Twisp,” said Trent.

“You met him, asshole! I’m glad your flunky parents are yanking you out of that cake eaters’ school!” I had seldom seen François so inflamed.

“Nick, I’ve spent the last four months trying to convince myself you’re a decent person. I wanted to like you for Sheeni’s sake. But now, fella, the gloves are off. Two can play your nasty games, pal.”

“It’s a fight to the finish,” agreed François, seizing the gauntlet.

“May the best man win,” said Trent.

“Hey, shark bait,” added François, “suck my surfboard!”

“Kiss my hydraulics, hamster humper,” replied my enemy.

SATURDAY, November 17
— More scab overtime for Dad. He left at 6:30
A.M
. with Mrs. Crampton’s famous Blue-Collar Bagged Lunch: one-half fried chicken, three deviled eggs, a Danish (for morning break), carrot sticks (for fiber), one pint potato salad, two large homemade brownies, an apple, and a cherry cupcake (for afternoon break). I just hope Dad’s fringe-benefit package includes an hour off after lunch. He may feel the need for a nap.

Dad won’t be running over any elderly boarders today. Mr. Ferguson is spending the day lying on the sofa in a fetal position. You see, he has sacrificed his principles for love.

To distract her fiancé from his ethical qualms, Mrs. Crampton made us all banana waffles for breakfast. I ate mine with yesterday’s school newspaper propped in front of me—screening from view a large, unsightly silage grinder named D——e. I also enjoyed rereading the page-one lead story by talented journalist Tina Jade Manion. Her style is a marvel: ungrammatical, as wooden as pine, yet steeped in the warm flush of softly throbbing randiness. As I reviewed her ostensibly straightforward narration of my academic accomplishments, I felt the unmistakable sensation of being covertly, yet brazenly, groped—in newsprint. I have decided to respond by writing a letter to the editor—similarly coded—thanking Ms. Manion for her kind words. I only hope I am up to the task.

11:30 A.M. INCREDIBLE, MIND-JOLTING NEWS!

Sheeni just called in tears. HER PARENTS ARE PULLING THE PLUG!

“Oh, Nickie, it’s a tragedy,” she cried. “I know I shall forget all my French. I shall never leave Ukiah. I’ll be trapped there forever—like a prehistoric fly frozen in amber!”

“At least we’ll be together,” I said.

“You’ll be in India!”

“Oh, right. I forgot.” At this delicate stage, I knew I dare not divulge my trip was off. “When are you coming home?” I asked.

“Wednesday is my last day. Trent’s too. His parents are being just as unreasonable as mine. Oh, Nickie, I think I’ll kill myself!”

“Don’t do that, Sheeni!” I said. “Think of me. And Albert. We need you!”

“Yes, at least now I can be with my sweet dog. Has he grown, Nickie?”

“He’s tripled in size,” I said. “Sheeni, did Trent say anything to you about me?”

“He mentioned he talked to you on the phone yesterday. He didn’t say what it was about, though. Just that it was a private matter between you two. Oh, Nickie, I’m so distraught!”

“Sheeni, I hate to tell you this, after you’ve had such an emotional shock, but I have some more bad news. Your friend Trent is spreading disturbing lies about you.”

“Like what?” she demanded.

“He said he slept with you. Three days ago!”

“Oh,” she said weakly. “He said that, huh?”

“Sheeni, is it true?”

“Of course not, Nick. You must have misunderstood him.”

“He said it plain as day, Sheeni. I heard it with my own ears.”

“Must you speak in clichés, Nick?” she asked. “You could hardly have heard it with someone else’s ears.”

“So you haven’t been sleeping with anyone?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “Have you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Good. Then we can all take pride in being equally lonely, miserable, and unloved. I hope you’re satisfied, Nick.”

“Sheeni, don’t be sad. Everything will turn out fine. Trust me.”

“I’m not giving up, Nick. Taggarty’s still coming for Thanksgiving. I’m hoping she’ll be able to persuade my parents to change their minds.”

“Oh, that’s a thought,” I said. “Perhaps I can persuade them too.”

“Nick! You are never going to see or talk to my parents. I’m in enough trouble with them already.”

“But, darling,” I objected, “you said it yourself. We’re supposed to be revolting. Remember? Like Jean-Paul Belmondo in
Breathless.”

“Jean-Paul Belmondo did not have my parents!” she exclaimed.
Click
.

Our plan worked. Like clockwork. My dear friend Vijay is a genius.

12:15
P.M
. I just called Vijay to give him the good news. He sounded nearly as thrilled by today’s developments as I am. Then Apurva joined in on the extension to share in the conviviality.

“Oh, Nick!” she bubbled. “My dear Trent is coming home too. He called me last night practically in tears. I was so happy I screamed. I told Father it was Sister Mary Ann, the choir director, checking up on my high C. I’m not certain he believed me.”

“Where is your father, by the way?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she replied happily. “He’s at the office. Such a workaholic.”

“Will you be able to see Trent?” I asked.

“Oh yes, Nick. Don’t you worry. We’ll find a way. Father won’t even know my dear boy is returning from Santa Cruz. Besides, after our night in your trailer, Father naturally considers you the primary threat to my innocence. Perhaps you can call here occasionally to help foster that illusion.”

That’s not a bad idea.

After reminding Apurva that Jean-Paul’s support payment was worrisomely overdue, I wished her much happiness in love, hung up, and dialed another number. After 30 rings, someone finally answered.

“The office is closed,” announced an exasperated voice. “Call back after 9 A.M. on Monday.”

“Wait, Mr. Joshi! Don’t hang up,” I said. “I wish to speak with you. It’s urgent.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Nick. Nick Twisp.”

“You dare to call me! What is it you want, you unprincipled scoundrel?”

“Mr. Joshi, it’s about Apurva.”

“You shall never see her again! I’m warning you. I shall prosecute your father for assault!”

“Mr. Joshi, I don’t want to see your daughter. It’s about her real boyfriend, Trent.”

“That pest is in Santa Cruz,” he replied. “Thank God.”

“No, he’s not, Mr. Joshi. He’s coming back on Wednesday. For good. Apurva is planning to see him whenever she can.”

“How do you know that?” Mr. Joshi asked, clearly shocked.

“She just told me,” I confessed.

“Apurva talked to you? That is in direct defiance of my wishes!”

“Mr. Joshi, you can’t tell her I told you.”

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because that will tip her off that you know Trent is back. Then they’ll be extra cautious. This way, you can watch over her without creating suspicion.”

“That is not a bad idea,” he admitted. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I like your daughter, Mr. Joshi. Just as a friend. And I hate to see her get hurt by a twisted character like Trent Preston.”

“I understood he was quite a sober, scholarly young man—for an American.”

“I don’t wish to alarm you, Mr. Joshi, but the guy is a total sicko. That’s why his parents sent him away to school in the first place. They couldn’t cope with him anymore.”

“Then why is he coming back?”

“You don’t want to know, Mr. Joshi.”

“Please, Nick. Tell me!” he pleaded.

“I’m sorry. I’ve said too much already. Just be careful. For Apurva’s sake.”

“Wait, Nick. I want…”

But I hung up.

Sit on that one, Trent. And twirl!

7:00
P.M
. I just checked in with Fuzzy.

“Frank, where’s your mother?” I asked.

“She’s in her bathroom,” he reported, “putting on her makeup.”

“Where’s your dad?”

“He’s down in the den, getting plastered.”

“Frank, are your parents going out?”

“Not with each other. Where’s your dad, Nick?”

“He just left—in his snappiest sport coat.”

“You think they’re going to get together?” asked Fuzzy.

“Does the Pope swear in Latin?” I replied. “This is their second date, Frank. You know what that means.”

“Jesus, Nick. I don’t even want to think about it.”

11:30
P.M
. A quiet night. Time for bed. No sign of Dad yet. I’m so excited and happy, I don’t know if I’ll be able to go to sleep. Sheeni is coming back to me! I feel this is a definite turning point in my life. Things are looking up. Dad is in solid at work too. Nothing to face now but a golden future of sun-dappled happiness and prosperity. I may even hear back soon from Tina Manion. College boyfriend or no, she likes me—François can tell. Women are so transparent to him.

SUNDAY, November 18
— 1:05
A.M
. Awakened from a troubled sleep by the sound of cars pulling into the drive, I rose and peeked out the window. It was Dad’s BMW and a big silver Lincoln. Operation Blood Brother has commenced.

1:10
A.M
. The mellifluous, artfully modulated tones of F.S. are now wafting forth from Dad’s bedroom window. Frank is singing “Full Moon and Empty Arms”—a ballad I imagine at this point is falling somewhat wide of the mark. There’s no moon in sight either.

I’d alert Fuzzy, but the phone is all the way in the house. Dad’s brush with celibacy was certainly short-lived. Adults have all the luck.

3:30
A.M
. Or do they? A loud tapping on my trailer door abruptly parted the gossamer curtains of sleep.

“Who is it?” I mumbled.

“A nymph,” replied a sultry woman’s voice.

I was instantly awake.

“Come in,” François called.

The door opened and Fuzzy’s mother, wearing Dad’s electric blanket, entered in a clatter of dangling cords and control dials.

“Mrs. DeFalco!” I exclaimed.

“Hello, Nick,” she said, smelling of expensive perfume and cheap liquor. “Oh, I’m stuck, honey. Help me with my cords.”

“I can’t, Mrs. DeFalco.”

“Why not?” she demanded, tugging on the dangling power cord snared in the trailer door.