Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (52 page)

“I can’t get out of bed,” I explained. “I don’t have any pajamas on.”

“That’s all right, Nick,” she giggled. “I don’t either. Come on. Help a lady in distress.”

I gulped, leaped from my bed, slithered modestly over to the door, freed the cord, then hopped back under the covers.

“Thank you, Nick,” she said, gazing about. “I like your little house.”

“Shall I turn on a light?”

“Oh, please don’t, Nick. My makeup must be a fright.” She sat down heavily on the dinette and studied me with interest across the gloom. “Did our music waken you?”

“Yes, Mrs. DeFalco, but I don’t mind. I enjoy Frank any time of the day or night.”

“That is such a rare quality, Nick. I can sense you are a very special young man.”

“Thank you. I do my best.”

“Good. I hope so. Now, Nick, what do you have on the premises to offer a lady?”

“How do you mean, Mrs. DeFalco?” François asked coyly.

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“Oh,” I said. “Just water, I’m afraid, Mrs. DeFalco.”

She made a face and rearranged her wrap. “Please, Nick. Call me Nancy.”

“OK, Nancy,” said François. “I like that name.”

“So do I,” she replied. “I just wish it was mine.”

“Are you chilly,” I asked. “We could plug in your blanket, if you like.”

“Thank you, no. You are so considerate, Nick. Unlike your father.”

“Uh, where’s Dad?” I asked.

“Your father is asleep,” she sniffed. “He passed out. Somewhat prematurely, I might add. Nick, how old are you?”

“Sixteen,” François lied.

“Your father said you were 12!”

“He’s not very good at math,” I explained.

“He’s not very good at a lot of things,” she huffed. “Nick, could I trouble you for a cigarette?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. DeFalco. I don’t smoke.”

“Please, it’s Nancy. I thought all boys your age smoked. To rebel against authority and appear older.”

“I’d like to smoke, Nancy,” I explained, “but I don’t want to get cancer.”

“I hope, Nick, you’re not going to turn out to be another one of those perfectly sensible young men. Sometimes I despair for your generation.”

“Don’t worry, Nancy,” said François, “I behave quite rashly, as a rule.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, Nick, since you can’t offer me a drink or a smoke, and it’s too late for canasta, would you mind terribly if I squeezed myself into your little bed? Feel free to decline if you’d rather not.”

“No, Nancy,” said François, thrilled to his marrow. “There’s plenty of room for two.”

I pushed over and Mrs. DeFalco slipped under the covers beside me. Her blanket she left behind on the dinette. Radiating waves of perfume-scented heat, she seemed to overwhelm my small bed with extravagant quantities of skin. She draped her warm nakedness against me and giggled. “I’m not squashing you, am I, Nick?”

“No. I’m fine,” I said. I marveled at the ampleness of her untethered bosom now enveloping me. “Shall I kiss you, Mrs. DeFalco?”

“That’s all right, Nick,” she replied. “I’ve found over the years that kissing has lost much of its appeal. I suppose, though, at your age you still enjoy it.”

“From time to time,” I admitted. I gave a slight start as a hot hand grasped my T.E. “Shall, shall I get a condom, Nancy?”

“Why? Do you have any major diseases?”

“I don’t think so. But what about babies?”

Mrs. DeFalco giggled. “I might get pregnant and have to drop out of high school. No, Nick, I don’t think we need worry about that.”

With kissing off the menu, I wasn’t entirely certain how to proceed. “Would you like some foreplay?” I asked.

“Nick, dear, have you ever done this sort of work before?”

“Oh, sure,” lied François.

“Then just go about it in your normal fashion—as if I were the girl next door. If you like I can squeal with innocent surprise at the appropriate times.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, somewhat offended. I moved to climb aboard her perspiring, indeterminant softness when the flash of a powerful explosion lit up the trailer.

“Oh dear,” sighed Mrs. DeFalco, “I was hoping the fireworks would come later.”

I disengaged myself from her smoldering limbs, jumped out of bed, and peered out the front window. Fifty feet away, Dad’s precious BMW was illuminating the night as a fine German bonfire. It was totally engulfed in flames!

“What is it?” asked Mrs. DeFalco, rising—like a mature Phoenix—from my torrid bed. I liked the way the flickering light bathed her Rubensesque curves in gold. Her nipples, I noted with interest, were nearly as large as saucers.

“Someone’s torched Dad’s car!” I exclaimed.

“How rude of them,” she replied, opening my closet door and calmly donning my bathrobe. “And so inconvenient.”

“Where are you going, Mrs. DeFalco?” I asked.

“To call 911, Nick. I suggest you put something on, dear. We mustn’t greet the firemen in our birthday suits.”

Although the firefighters arrived promptly, Dad’s car was a total loss. He, needless to say, was a total wreck. Mrs. DeFalco comforted him in her arms as he sat slumped—whimpering and moaning—on the front stoop. Fortunately, in all the excitement, no one thought to question why Dad’s guest was modeling my robe.

“I bet one of them strikers done it,” suggested D——e.

“You… just… hush!” hissed his mother.

“It was your damn husband!” whined Dad accusingly to his lover.

Wrong. When I looked out my window, I had caught a brief glimpse of the fleeing suspect—gas can still in hand. But I did not mention this to the fire captain when he interrogated me. No, I have no interest in being a party to the prosecution for arson of my future brother-in-law.

10:30
A.M
. A dismal, cold morning. We are deep into late fall—truly the armpit of the year. Fuzzy called me after breakfast and this disquieting conversation ensued:

“Hi, Frank.”

“Hi, Nick.”

“Where’s your mother, Frank?”

“Upstairs in bed. I guess she spent the night with your dad, huh?”

“More or less,” I replied. “How’s your dad taking it?”

“Pretty bad. He hit the wall.”

“He did what?” I asked.

“He hit the wall. With his fist. He does that when he’s totally pissed. Mom accused him of torching your dad’s car and BAM! He hit the wall.”

“Your father must be really strong.”

“Yeah. Sometimes he hits a stud and breaks a few fingers. This time, though, he just punched a hole in the plasterboard. I think he’s memorized now where all the studs are in that wall. Boy, I can’t believe it—your dad’s made it with my mother. That is so gross.”

“Frank, can you keep a secret?”

“Nick, I’ve got secrets I’ve been keeping since before kindergarten.”

“Frank, nothing happened. My dad passed out—from drinking.”

“How do you know that, Nick?”

“Your mom told me.”

“She did?”

“Frank, your mom came to my trailer last night.”

“She did?”

“Frank, she got into bed with me.”

“She did?”

“Frank, we were naked.”

“What are you saying, Nick?”

“Frank, your mother tried to seduce me.”

“You lie!”

“Frank, it’s true.”

“You liar! You sick, perverted liar!”

“OK, don’t believe me,” I said. “Anyway, I shouldn’t have told you.”

“You repulsive degenerate!” raged Fuzzy. “Eat shit and die, sicko!”
Click
.

Confession may be good for the soul, but it certainly can exact a heavy toll on friendships.

11:15
A.M
. TOTAL UNMITIGATED DISASTER! Sheeni just called with dire news.

“Oh, Nick, we’re all in a state of shock!” she declared.

“What happened, Sheeni?”

“Well, it was last night at dinner. I was serving my penalty duty in the cafeteria and Trent had very kindly volunteered to assist me at the steam table. The vegetable was brussels sprouts in a cream sauce, which can be a handful for one person, as you know. Well, he observed that unfortunate girl Bernice Lynch at the drinks station slip something into Taggarty’s cup. Nickie, it was a powerful sedative!”

“How can you be certain?” I asked. “Perhaps it was just a vitamin.”

“Nickie, it wasn’t a vitamin. That became tragically clear later on.”

Once again I felt that familiar, dreaded quivering at the base of my scrotum. “Oh. How so?” I asked weakly.

“Nickie, the dean sent Bernice to her room, pending an investigation, and she swallowed the rest of the pills!”

“She did what?” I gasped.

“She tried to commit suicide!”

“Did, did she succeed?” I asked, not entirely unhopefully.

“No. They found her in time. But she’s in a coma. Nickie, she may not live!”

“That’s, that’s terrible.”

“Yes, we’re all stunned. Taggarty especially. You should see her back. She looks like a human pincushion.”

“Who? Bernice?” I asked, dazed.

“No, Taggarty. From her acupuncture treatments. Nickie, Taggarty was always extremely pleasant to that girl. No one can conceive of a motive for such a criminal act. Can you imagine—surreptitiously sedating someone for weeks!”

“Uh, well, no. I guess I can’t,” I admitted. “Sheeni, can you keep me posted? Will you call me if you hear any news?”

“Of course, Nickie,” she replied. “You’ll be the first to be informed.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

6:30
P.M
. Too scared to eat my dinner. I gave my pork chop to D——e, who devoured it without scruples. Yet, who am I to talk? I wish now I had never befriended Bernice. She’s been nothing but bad news. Her last letter was unnerving in the extreme. I should have quashed the scheme right then. Imagine—thinking I’d want to marry her someday and have “four beautiful children: two boys for you and two girls for me.” I’m still a kid. Besides, I’m already engaged.

10:00
P.M
. So distraught by lack of news, I called Sheeni. Now, I wish I hadn’t.

“Any news from the hospital?” I asked.

“No,” replied Sheeni frostily, “I said I’d call you.”

“What’s the matter, Sheeni?”

“I just received a rather disturbing fax,” she replied.

“I didn’t know you had a fax machine, darling.”

“Our school is fully equipped with every modern educational tool. And please don’t call me darling. Such endearments reek of hypocrisy.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“Shall I read you the fax?”

“OK. Read it.”

In her exquisite voice, Sheeni read these alarmingly familiar words: “Dear Apurva, I feel exactly the same. Let us be bad together. I am now living behind my house in a small, extremely private recreational vehicle. Come to me there as soon you can. Awaiting your lips, Nick. P.S. Don’t worry, I have some you-know-whats.”

“How did you get that?” I demanded.

“It arrived anonymously,” she replied.

“It’s a forgery, Sheeni!”

“I recognize your affected handwriting, Nick. Don’t bother to lie. Your treachery is all too apparent. Goodbye.”
Click
.

I can’t believe sweet Apurva would stab me in the back like that. I thought she was supposed to be my friend.

MONDAY, November 18
— Still no news from Santa Cruz. I haven’t been able to eat anything in 24 hours. I wonder if Richard Nixon was this stressed out during Watergate? At least he had all those Secret Service guys and Bebe Rebozo to comfort him.

Fuzzy cut me dead in gym class. He chose D——e to be his tumbling partner. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face.

Then at lunch Vijay made a shocking announcement. “I’ve seen the error of my ways,” he declared. “After much soul-searching, I’ve decided to renounce my membership in the Republican Party.”

“You have?” I asked, astounded.

“Yes, Nick. Aren’t you pleased?” he said cheerily. “I’ve decided to become a Democrat.”

I was not pleased. Suddenly, everything was perfectly clear. Yes, I had been stabbed in the back. But not by Apurva. My assassin was her scheming brother—the “loyal friend” to whom I had foolishly entrusted my most private correspondence. Yes, I had handed him a sword and he had used it against me. Now that he had driven a wedge between me and my love, I realized, he intended to woo my beloved Sheeni under the false cloak of insincere liberality. Was there no limit to his malevolence? Was a committed vegetarian really capable of such deceit?

“Tell me, as one Democrat to another,” I said coolly. “Do you, by any chance, have access to a facsimile machine?”

“Yes, my father has one at home,” smiled Vijay. “I find it a great convenience at times.”

A blatant confession!

“When did you say Sheeni was coming back, Nick?” continued Vijay. “I do so look forward to her return!”

6:30
P.M
. No updates on the coma front. I just had this surprisingly productive conversation with an Oakland policeman:

“Your mother’s out, dipshit.”

“Uh, actually, Lance, I wanted to speak with you.”

“So talk, punk. Just don’t ask for a handout.”

“No, I’m financially fixed at the moment. Actually, I was calling to see how your burglary investigation was proceeding.”

“What’s it to you, pissant?”

“I was wondering if you’ve checked those mystery fingerprints against the INS files?”

“The guy was illegal,” replied Lance. “INS didn’t even have a record of him.”

“Yes, but his accomplices may have been in this country legally.”

“Oh, that’s possible, I suppose.”

“Well, probably it’s not worth the trouble to check out,” I said.

“Hey, smart-ass,” replied my loving stepdad, “I’ll decide what’s proper investigative procedure.”

“OK, Lance. I know you’ll do your usual splendid job. Say hi to Mom for me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, jerk.”

A great guy. Maybe Vijay can get a letter of recommendation from him for his Stanford application. Or for his parole hearing.

Those damn dogs have been barking like Type A hyenas all evening. I shall write D——e a note instructing him to walk them. That reminds me: no Kamu payments have been received. I must begin foreclosure proceedings at once.

10:15
P.M
. No news from Santa Cruz. A thought has occurred to me: perhaps Bernice will emerge from her coma an amnesiac. I’ll be off the hook and she’ll have a nice clean slate on which to construct a fresh, more appealing personality. Everything could turn out for the best. I must try to find out the common side effects of massive sedative overdoses.