Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (63 page)

I’m sure I don’t know. I was beginning to wish I had never brought up the topic.

I should never have gulped down that second orange soda at lunch. By seventh period my throbbing bladder could no longer be ignored. For the first time Carlotta was compelled to enter a Redwood High girls’ bathroom. She darted in, eyes straight ahead, entered a stall, and quickly closed the door. Secondhand cigarette smoke swirled about in dark, mephitic clouds, but she gave thanks for the door. To discourage the temptations of excessive privacy, school authorities had long since expunged the stall doors from the boys’ bathrooms.

Sitting uneasily, I was amazed to discover my alter ego was now the target of cruel rest-room graffiti. Some of the more libelous I copied down word for word in my notebook:

I was not playing with my tits, I was adjusting my brassiere. I felt like noting this on the wall, but instead wrote:

Later in art class, artsy Mr. Thorne demonstrated the rudiments of water-color painting, then suggested we let our “creativity flower” (his phrase). Trent painted a view of some seaside cliffs at Santa Cruz that was clearly inferior to the mature work of Cézanne. Carlotta painted some daringly muddied orange and brown splotches.

“I wish I could paint abstractly like you,” commented Trent, glancing over at my work. “My mind is stuck in a pictorial rut.”

“It’s not abstract,” replied Carlotta, offended. “It’s a view of the Matter-horn in autumn.”

“Ah, yes, I see that now,” replied Trent, smiling. His teeth, I noticed, were absolutely straight and dazzlingly white. “Very well done, Carlotta.”

“Thank you, Trent,” she answered, so needy of praise even insincere compliments from sworn enemies were welcome. Besides, Carlotta enjoyed the looks of hatred from the other girls as she occupied the attention of the best-looking fellow in school.

6:15
P.M
. After school, Carlotta strolled to the library for some emergency research. She found what she was looking for in the back pages of the
Journal of the American Medical Association:
a small ad for mail-order physicians’ stationery. Carlotta called the 800 number from the library pay phone and requested they rush the sample kit to her by overnight express.

Returning to the reading room, Carlotta spotted the beautiful Apurva Joshi, seated at her usual table and gazing in endearing puzzlement at a book open before her. Carlotta walked over and sat down quietly in the chair opposite her. Apurva did not look up.

Carlotta cleared her throat. “You look a little confused. Perhaps I can help.”

Apurva looked up with a start, closed the book hurriedly, and flushed a remarkable shade of wheatish crimson. Surprised by her reaction, I stole a glance at the cover. It was not, as I had supposed, her textbook on algebra. Now it was Carlotta’s turn to blush. The book was titled
Sexual Technique in Marriage
.

“I, I,” stammered Apurva guiltily. “I didn’t … mean, the book was on the open shelf. I thought anyone could… Are you the librarian?”

“Of course not, my dear,” Carlotta assured her. “You have a perfect right to read any book you like. I myself have read many such books. As women, we should all be as well informed on that subject as possible. Don’t you agree?”

“I do, yes,” she replied with conviction. “One feels so ignorant sometimes. Thank God this is America, where one has at least some access to information.”

“You are not from this country?”

“No, I’m from Pune. That’s a city in India. Near Bombay. My name is Apurva, Apurva Joshi.”

“Nice to meet you, Apurva. My name is Carlotta Ulansky. I am a newcomer to this town myself.”

“Are you by any chance a recent immigrant from Eastern Europe?” asked Apurva, studying my dress. I prayed my shoulder pads passed her close inspection. As usual, Apurva’s certainly did mine.

“No, Southern California,” I replied self-consciously. “My mother is a prominent member of the film colony there.”

We chatted on for some time about the Hollywood scene, then—at Carlotta’s suggestion—adjourned to the lunch counter of Flampert’s variety store for cups of tepid tea, slices of indifferent pie, and more stimulating girl talk.

“I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is meeting you,” said Apurva. “I almost feel as if I’ve known you for some time, Carlotta.”

“I feel exactly the same, Apurva. We are, in our different ways, both outsiders here. Perhaps this has brought us together. Now, tell me about the book you were reading.”

Apurva blushed and sipped her tea.

Carlotta was insistent. “Now don’t be bashful, Apurva. It’s just us girls here. I’ve had lots of experience at these affairs. What’s up?”

“It’s, it’s my boyfriend,” stammered Apurva, leaning pleasantly closer.

“Well, that sounds like good news.”

“I beg your pardon, Carlotta?”

“Your boyfriend, Apurva. You were telling me about your boyfriend.”

“Yes, Carlotta. His name is Trent. I love him urgently, desperately.”

“You’re obsessed?”

“Oh yes, Carlotta. Completely!”

“Sounds normal so far. So what’s the problem?”

“Well,” she whispered, leaning even closer, “last Friday night I went over to his house. His parents were away at a plywood convention in Portland. I had told my parents I was going to a choral recital in Willits.”

“Lying to your parents, Apurva. Good. That shows a commendable independence of spirit. So you’re all alone with Trent. What happened?”

“Well, after a while we went up to his bedroom. We got into his bed. We read some poetry.”

“That’s all?” I asked.

“Well, then we removed our clothes.”

“All of them?”

“Eventually. We were quite nude after a time. It was the first time I had ever been in such a situation with a boy. I was quite aroused.”

“Uh-huh,” said Carlotta, her voice unexpectedly deepening. “Then what happened?”

“Then he touched me. Down there. It was like an electric shock. My whole body convulsed.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“Oh, no. It was wonderful. I never imagined I could be capable of such passions. Then, then I touched him.”

“Down there?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I grasped his, uh, private area and told him I, I wanted him.”

Carlotta shifted on her stool. She felt a sudden hot flash as rivulets of perspiration ran down her back. “And, Apurva,” she said, mopping her brow with her paper napkin, “did he, uh, oblige?”

“No, Carlotta,” she sighed, “he did not.”

“He wasn’t, uh, turned on?” I asked, incredulous.

“Oh no. Believe me, that wasn’t the problem. In fact, to tell you the truth, Carlotta, he was larger than I had been led to expect from the diagrams. Considerably larger. But I was willing to accept some small measure of discomfort to achieve union with my love.”

“Then what was the problem?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I was reading the book. I think I must have
done something wrong. He wouldn’t go through with it. We had the prophylactic on and everything. He just rolled off me and said it would be better if we resumed our poetry reading. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. But it’s such a relief to talk to someone about it. What did I do wrong, Carlotta? Tell me. You know. What do boys expect?”

Carlotta sighed. More evidence confirming Trent’s profoundly disturbed state, yet her misguided friend clings to him ever tighter. Poor Apurva, how love has anesthetized her reason. Fortunately, Carlotta had a plan to effect a gradual disunion. “Apurva, my dear, you mustn’t give in so easily. You are denying Trent the pleasures of the chase.”

“But I thought American boys expected sex immediately.”

“They just think they do, Apurva. In fact, they’re extremely disappointed if it happens too soon. Often, as in Trent’s case, the shock of premature intimacy renders them incapable of functioning. No, you must retreat from the brink.”

“I should resist Trent’s advances, Carlotta?”

“At all costs, Apurva. You must refuse his embraces, snub his kisses, and repel his probing hand. Make him think you’re guarding your virginity like the Hope Diamond. It will drive him wild.”

“Play hard to get, I see,” said Apurva pensively. “But, Carlotta, I thought that was an essentially outmoded concept.”

“Dating fashions come and go, Apurva, but the smart girls know the eternal verities never change. Love is like football, my friend. Guys expect to play four full quarters, not score a touchdown on the first play from scrimmage.”

“American football is also a complete mystery to me,” confessed Apurva, sipping the last of her tea. “I suppose I must read up on that too. Dear Trent often speaks enthusiastically of something called the 49ers.”

“That is your clue to his desires, Apurva. When he tries to kiss you, you must say: ‘How about those 49ers!’”

“How about those 49ers!” repeated Apurva. “Oh, Carlotta, I can’t thank you enough. I think God must have sent you to me.”

That seemed as likely an explanation as any.

After exchanging our phone numbers and a warmly affectionate (and wildly erotic) hug, we paid our separate checks and went our separate ways.

8:30
P.M
. Just did my laundry, and—taking the rest-room barbs to heart—tossed in Carlotta’s wig. Can I help it if Redwood High is so overheated those damn miracle fibers make me sweat like a pig?

11:15 P.M. I just saw my father! On the local TV news! He’s gained at
least 20 pounds and now has a pronounced double chin. Life with Mrs. Crampton’s cooking must continue to be calorically stimulating. Dad was being interviewed in connection with a flaming controversy over a new sawmill opening in Costa Rica. Local logs will now be sent down there for processing into finished lumber, but, according to Dad, “this will not result in the loss of any local jobs.”

I recognized his facial expression. It was the same one of heartfelt sincerity he once employed with Mom while assuring her he had absolutely no interest of any sort in my preternaturally ripe kindergarten teacher.

WEDNESDAY, December 9
— Bruno Modjaleski did not walk me to school today. He burst through the gate, savaging again Carlotta’s stressed-out nervous system, and explained he had been suspended from school for 24 hours.

“That kid denied what you said, but I pounded him anyway,” said Bruno, studying Carlotta’s chest.

She anxiously reached up to adjust her bra, then thought better of it. “Violence is never the solution to a problem,” counseled Carlotta.

In homeroom, Fuzzy, looking alarmed, leaned over to whisper, “Carlotta, what’s wrong with your hair?”

“Why? What’s the matter?” I whispered, self-consciously patting my coiffure.

“It looks like some kind of strange Afro. What happened?”

“Well, Frank, I washed it. And now I can’t do a damn thing with it. Does it look that bad?”

“Like you just joined the Rastafarians.”

“Fuck! Well, I’ll just have to retreat deeper into the woodwork. Maybe no one will notice.”

A good plan, but not a perfect one. As Carlotta walked through the halls, I felt many curious eyes upon me. Carlotta later found herself cornered by Miss Pomdreck in a blind corner.

“Carlotta,” said my guidance counselor severely, “neither your transcripts nor your physician’s note has arrived.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Pomdreck. I’m sure the delay stems from egregious Postal Service lapses.”

“Well, I must have the doctor’s note by Friday. Already Miss Arbulash is making inquiries about your absence from gym.”

Miss Arbulash was Redwood High’s celebrated lady bodybuilder girls’ gym teacher.

“You’ll have the note by Friday, Miss Pomdreck. I promise.”

“Good. Oh, and, Carlotta, you will have to alter your hairdo. According to the school dress code, dreadlocks are not permitted.”

“Yes, Miss Pomdreck.”

“And I must tell you that I am surprised that a girl of your character and breeding would adopt such an extreme and unbecoming hairstyle.”

That makes two of us, lady.

Sheeni felt a social obligation to keep her oft-postponed luncheon appointment with Vijay. Seething with jealousy, Carlotta dined at noon with Fuzzy as his guest at the Wanna-be Jocks’ table.

In art class, Trent painted a Winslow Homer-on-an-off-day watercolor of windsurfers skimming across sun-dappled waters off the Santa Cruz pier. Carlotta painted a vigorous smear of purples, greens, and blacks.

“You bring such energy to your compositions, Carlotta,” commented Trent, smiling his disarming smile.

“Thank you, Trent.” I smiled back. “But I am merely a conduit. The kineticism is in my subject.”

“Which is?”

“The gasworks at Hamburg. The broad aquatic swath in the foreground is the Rhine.”

“Marvelous, Carlotta. And so imaginative. My subjects, by comparison, are so mundane.”

“Yes, they are,” I agreed. “But don’t let that discourage you.”

Perhaps Trent is so filled with innate charm he has to dribble small amounts continuously, lest the pressure build to dangerous levels—just as, analogously, the buildup of sperm in the sexually inert is relieved by a therapeutic wet dream. How else to explain Trent’s smarmy art-class overtures?

7:15
P.M
. After school Carlotta headed straight for Flampert’s variety store, strode resolutely to the wig counter, and purchased a medium-brown modified flip with frosted highlights for $13.99. Of course, she didn’t dare try it on in the store. But later, in the privacy of her borrowed home, she was pleased to discover it flattered her features far more than Mrs. DeFalco’s ratty hand-me-down. And this one, thank God, came with laundering instructions.