Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (61 page)

“Miss, could you possibly pass me the cream?” she asked.

Sheeni looked up and focused her beautiful blue eyes on my rouged countenance. She examined Carlotta with some interest. “I’m afraid my cream is curdled,” she replied.

“That’s all right,” said Carlotta. “No matter. I see now I’ve finished my coffee after all. Silly me.”

Sheeni resumed her reading.

Carlotta cleared her throat. “Miss, can you tell me where one obtains
The New York Times
in this town? I am new here, you see.”

Sheeni marked her place with a lovely finger and looked up. “There’s a news rack in front of Flampert’s. Down the street.”

“Thank you. I want to see if my mother’s new film is reviewed in the entertainment section.”

Sheeni looked at Carlotta with new interest. “Your mother is in films?” she asked.

“Yes, she’s an actress. Bertha Ulansky. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

“I don’t think so. What films has she been in?”

“Oh, dozens. Primarily character roles now, of course. She played the mother in
After Hours
, if you recall that picture.”

“I do, yes. But I don’t remember a mother character.”

“Well, it was a small part. She did it to work with Ridley Scott. The man is a genius.”

“He is gifted,” agreed Sheeni. “But wasn’t
After Hours
directed by Martin Scorsese?”

“Possibly,” admitted Carlotta. “Mother gets confused at times. It’s all that rich food at Spago. I tell her to go easy at her age. By the way, my name is Carlotta Ulansky.”

“I’m Sheeni Saunders,” she said, extending a lovely hand.

Struggling to hold her tremor in check, Carlotta grasped the familiar hand and squeezed it gently. At least one of the parties felt an electric thrill at the moment of contact.

“Have you lived in Ukiah long, Sheeni?” inquired Carlotta.

“Unfortunately yes, Carlotta. I enjoyed a brief escape to Santa Cruz recently. But now I’m back. Thanks to the treachery of a former friend.”

“How unpleasant for you,” gulped Carlotta. “Is your friend entirely beyond forgiveness?”

“I never want to see him again. He revealed himself to be a liar and a cheat.”

“Surely, Sheeni, there are some small extenuating circumstances. Few of us are entirely evil.”

“I should like to think he did what he did out of some sort of affection for me—twisted as it may have been. But that hardly excuses his behavior.”

“Doesn’t it?” asked Carlotta. “Love compels us to desperate acts. People cannot always act rationally. The greater the love, the stronger the passions, the more reckless the crimes. Love is not an emotion that conduces to sensibility. Especially if your friend possessed a fiery, artistic temperament. Did he?”

“Not so fiery, but possibly artistic,” Sheeni admitted. “He was certainly not your ordinary teen.”

“Where is he now?” Carlotta asked.

“Somewhere in India. The FBI is looking for him.”

“How extraordinarily romantic! He sounds to me like quite an exceptional young man. Rather in the rebellious traditions of Errol Flynn or James Dean or—to cross the pond—Jean-Paul Belmondo.”

Sheeni gave a start. “Whom did you say?”

“Jean-Paul Belmondo,” repeated Carlotta. “He’s a French actor.”

“I know who he is!” she affirmed.

“Mother had a small role in one of his pictures, a film called
Breathless
. But I don’t suppose you’ve seen it.”

“It’s my favorite film!” declared Sheeni. “What did she play?”

“Er, she played the streetcar conductress.”

Sheeni looked perplexed. “I don’t remember any scenes on a streetcar.”

“Well, it was a small role. They may have cut those scenes from the American prints. Too bad too. Mother was quite a sensation in France.”

Sheeni and Carlotta chatted on happily for another half hour, until the former excused herself to go meet her loathsome friends (excluding from that adjective only the lovely Apurva).

“It was nice meeting you, Carlotta,” said Sheeni, gathering up her newspaper.

“Oh, Sheeni, the pleasure was entirely mine,” replied Carlotta, extending her hand for another thrilling touch. “It’s nice to encounter a person of intelligence and culture in this town.”

“I agree, Carlotta. Well, perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

I have no doubt of that, Sheeni darling. And our reunion will occur much sooner than you imagine.

1:25
P.M
. As Carlotta sneaked up the alley toward home, Bruno and garbage can emerged from the gate.

“Hi, Carly,” he said, smilingly indifferent to the deafening din as he cheerfully dropped the can.

“Hello, Bruno.”

“I’m enjoying the cookies, Carly. The season’s over so I can eat as many as I want.”

“Good for you, Bruno. I appreciate a man with a hearty appetite.”

“Candy gets on my case when I pig out,” he complained. Head cheerleader Candy Pringle was Bruno’s alluring inamorata.

“You must stand up to her, Bruno,” said Carlotta. “That’s what women like.”

“I’m no wimp,” he said darkly.

“Good, Bruno. Well, thank you for your continued discretion.”

“Huh?”

“About my presence here,” Carlotta reminded him. “My uncle, Mr. DeFalco, wants me to keep a low profile. For tax reasons.”

“No problem, Carly. You want me, uh, come over sometime?”

“Uh, we’ll see,” she replied, hurrying away.

I don’t care for that peculiar glint in Bruno’s eyes when he checks out Carlotta’s legs. Maybe she should switch to a less provocative shade of lipstick. And go a little easier on the perfume.

3:40
P.M
. After prolonged reflection, I decided one source of my lingering malaise is computer deprivation. A writer should not be so long separated from his word processor. I am resolved to rescue my precious PC clone and other important personal effects left behind in Little Caesar, still parked (I
hope) behind Dad’s rented modular home. Fuzzy has agreed to defy parental grounding edicts and sneak out tonight to assist Carlotta with the burgle.

11:30 P.M. Disaster! Carlotta and Fuzzy received the full, shocking story when they were surprised in the act of ransacking Little Caesar by Dwayne, the moronic son of Dad’s welfare maid.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, shining the beam of
my
Cub Scout flashlight into the darkened trailer.

“Dwayne, it’s me,” hissed Fuzzy. “Turn out that damn light.”

Dwayne dutifully complied and introduced his odorous, ungainly bulk through the narrow trailer doorway. “Hi, Fuzzy,” he whispered in the musty darkness. “Whacha doin’? Who’s the zinky chick?”

“This is my friend, uh, Carlotta,” answered Fuzzy. “We’re… we’re…”

“Actually, we were hoping to find some privacy,” volunteered Carlotta sultrily. “Fuzzy mentioned this trailer had a nice double bed.”

“I did?” asked Fuzzy.

“Go on ahead, Fuz,” said Dwayne. “But can I stay and watch? Can I, huh?”

“Certainly not,” replied Carlotta.

“Then how ’bout I join in?” he suggested.

“No, thank you, young man,” replied Carlotta, shuddering. “If you leave us and go into the house, Fuzzy will tell you all about it tomorrow at school. In explicit detail.”

“I will?” asked Fuzzy.

“No way,” stated Dwayne obstinately. “This is my mom’s trailer. If I can’t do it too, I’m gonna tell you’re out here. Mr. Twisp’ll call the cops.”

“Try it, buster,” hissed Carlotta, “and before the week is out your dog will be munching an arsenic burger.”

“Not Kamu the Wonder Dog!” gasped Dwayne.

“The very same,” said Carlotta, poking Fuzzy in the ribs.

“Er, Dwayne,” said Fuzzy. “What happened to Nick’s computer? We noticed it’s not on the dinette anymore.”

“Mr. Twisp took it. He needs it for his new job.”

“What new job?” demanded Carlotta.

“It’s with a big lumber company,” explained Dwayne. “He does, whachermercallit, public relations.”

My father progresses from pesticide ad writer to strikebreaking scab to paid flack for the despoilers of the forest. Talk about a career track to infamy.

“What does he use the computer for?” asked Carlotta.

“Writin’ stuff, I guess,” replied Dwayne. “Boy was he burned, too. He found a whole bunch o’ nasty stuff Nick wrote.”

My private journal!

“A lot of it was real insultin’ to him too,” continued Dwayne. “And to me. I almost got into some deep shit, on account of some lies Nick wrote about me molestin’ him. I denied it, though. Boy, and I was always real nice to him too.”

Liar!

“Mr. Twisp looked at Nick’s private journal?” asked Fuzzy.

“Ain’t that’s what I been sayin’?” said Dwayne. “Yeah, and Nick wrote some real nasty stuff about your mom, Fuz. Mr. Twisp, he turned some of it over to his lawyer.”

“Why?” demanded Carlotta. Could my doting dad actually be contemplating bringing suit against his own son for libel?

“’Cause there was a part where Nick said Paul and Lacey gave him some drugs,” explained Dwayne. “Nick had this weird trip where he went crazy for his bedspread. The lawyer showed it to Lacey, and she had to quit prosecutin’ Mr. Twisp for fillin’ up her car with cee-ment.”

My dad beat the rap!

“What did Nick say about my mom?” demanded Fuzzy.

“Uh, Fuzzy,” cooed Carlotta. “It’s late. We better be going now. You’ll excuse us, young man?”

“Sure,” he replied. “Come by anytime. How ’bout tomorrow night? By yourself.”

Carlotta stifled a shudder. “What an attractive invitation. I shall certainly consider it.”

My felonious father has electronically accessed, snooped through, and possibly erased my personal journal! I feel as if my most private thoughts have been invaded and defiled. I see now I should have locked my personal files behind a coded password. All those years spent in the custody of my computer-illiterate mother tragically lulled me into a false sense of security.

I feel lost in a state of computerless nakedness. Another wrong to be avenged. I must unleash François and damn the consequences!

MONDAY, December 7
— Today I experienced my third first day as a new student in a second-rate public high school. At least this time I arrived already acquainted with many of my new teachers and fellow students—even if they were unaware they knew me.

Since Carlotta arrived sans transcript, Miss Pomdreck, my aged guidance counselor, was faced with a familiar dilemma.

“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “The last student I admitted without papers caused the worst scandal in the history of the school. The FBI is still looking for him.”

Carlotta gulped. “I’m certain my transcript will arrive soon, Miss Pomdreck. I fear it must have been delayed by the crush of holiday mail. Of course, it has to come all the way from Switzerland.”

“You say you were attending a private finishing school there?” she asked, studying my black dress and shawl with evident unease.

“That’s right. In the mountains near Geneva.”

“Well, my dear. You are obviously an intelligent girl. But I must tell you, most of our tracked classes are filled now. You will have to make do with what’s available this semester.”

“That’s fine,” replied Carlotta. “Oh, I should also mention I have a congenital bone condition. Ossifidusbrittalus syndrome. I’ll have to be excused from gym class.”

“May I see the note from your physician?”

“Oh. You need a note?”

“Of course, my dear. Otherwise, our gym classes would be quite deserted.”

“I’ll bring you a note as soon as I can,” promised Carlotta.

“I’ll need it by Friday,” Miss Pomdreck replied, beginning to fill out my registration forms. “Or I’ll have to put you in gym next week. I can only bend the rules so far.”

Twenty minutes later, I left Miss Pomdreck’s cluttered office with this stimulating schedule in hand: typing, physics, world cultures, clothing technology I, lunch, business math, study hall (or girls’ gym!), art, and health issues.

Having missed the first period, I was walking to physics class when I felt a hairy hand upon my shoulder.

“Nic… I mean, Carlotta!” hissed Fuzzy. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hi, Frank,” I replied. “I’m pursuing what passes for an education in this school.”

“Carlotta, are you bonkers? You’ll never get away with it!”

“Don’t worry, Frank,” I whispered. “I’m going to be one of those shy, wallflower girls who no one pays the slightest attention to. I intend to disappear into the institutional woodwork, as it were.”

In physics class, Carlotta slipped into the desk immediately behind My Beloved, just acing out traitorous Vijay. The vile alien took the next desk across the aisle and studied me with obvious interest. Cutting him dead, I
lightly tapped Sheeni on her lovely shoulder. She turned and smiled in ill-concealed amazement.

“Carlotta!” exclaimed my future life partner. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Sheeni. I’m going to be attending your school. I just received my schedule from nice Miss Pomdreck.”

“You are! That’s marvelous, Carlotta. But somehow I thought you were, uh, older.”

“Everyone makes that assumption. It must have been all those years I spent at finishing school in Switzerland. No, I am a mere teen.”

“Carlotta, this is my friend Vijay Joshi,” said Sheeni. “Vijay, this is Carlotta Ulansky. Her mother is a famous actress.”

Vijay smiled a warm, although transparently insincere greeting. Carlotta nodded coldly. She did not extend her hand. Embarrassed, Vijay withdrew his.

When the class began, Mr. Tratinni, as was his custom, asked the new student to stand and introduce herself. Not wishing to draw undue attention to herself, Carlotta kept her remarks brief.

“I’m Carlotta Ulansky,” I said. “I just moved here from Los Angeles. Thank you.” I sat down and devoted myself to my textbook, ignoring the curious stares of my classmates. I was two weeks behind and determined to reassert my academic hegemony.

After physics, Carlotta bid adieu to My Beloved and left the track to disappear among the teeming masses of Redwood High’s scholastic underachievers. First stop was Miss Najflempt’s world cultures class, where, in a room palpitating with subnormal IQs, Carlotta found herself seated in front of the dimmest light of them all: Dwayne Crampton.