Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (65 page)

“Of all the nerve! Did the handwriting look anything like Vijay’s?”

“You know it might have, Nick. Come to think of it.”

“I’m not surprised, Frank. The guy is desperate. He can see he can’t even compete with a woman for Sheeni’s affections.”

“Well, he’s taking her to the Christmas dance.”

I slammed down my glass, splashing the late Mrs. DeFalco’s aged rotgut on the flowered wallpaper. “What!”

“Yeah, Nick. I got the word from Dwayne in gym today. It’s all over the school. Vijay asked and Sheeni accepted.”

Grim, grim news. I struggled to remain calm.

“Fuck!” I said softly. “How can he go to a dance? He’s got a broken arm!”

“Just a bad sprain, Nick. The cast comes off next week.”

Great job, Bruno! See if I ever bake you another cookie!

“What are you going to do, Nick?”

“I’ll think of something, Frank. Vijay will get his.”

“While you’re at it, Nick, don’t forget to do something about your dad.”

“Don’t worry, Frank. I got a plan for that.” “Oh, yeah?” said Fuzzy, interested. “What?”

“I decided to fix Dad up with someone younger and prettier than your mom. It’s the least I can do.”

“Do for what?” asked Fuzzy.

“For not looking too hard for me,” I replied. “Lots of parents would be leafletting 7-Elevens and going on TV with urgent appeals. Dad’s just playing it cool—working at his misinformation job, piling on the blubber, and dating your mom.”

“You don’t mind, Nick?”

“Nah.”

“Isn’t it scary being away from your parents? Not having, you know, security?”

“Sometimes it’s scary. But to tell you the truth, Frank, security seemed in pretty short supply even when I lived with my parents. At least now I don’t have them telling me what to do.”

“You’re lucky, Nick.”

“Let’s face it, Frank. Monetary considerations aside, once you hit your teen years, parents exist only as two grotesque carbuncles on your life.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Fuzzy. We hoisted our glasses.

“Me,” I said, gulping a handful of nuts to obscure the taste of the wine, “I just had my surgery early.”

“What surgery was that?” inquired Fuzzy.

“My carbunclectomy!”

11:30
P.M
. I was roused from a drunken slumber by the ringing telephone.

“Hello,” I mumbled into the receiver. “May I speak to Carlotta, please.”

“Oh, hi, Tina,” said Carlotta, awake now, but still thick of tongue.

“Hi, Carlotta. I didn’t recognize your voice at first. Guess what? I thought of a writer you look like.”

“Who?” inquired Carlotta.

“Truman Capote.”

“Truman Capote!”

“There’s definitely a resemblance, Carlotta. Did your mom know him?”

“Not in any sense of the word, Tina. I assure you of that. Now, good night.”

“Wait, Carlotta! Did you ever have a lisp? Maybe when you were younger?”

“Good night, Tina!”
Click
.

The nerve of some people! I’m sure I don’t look anything at all like the late Truman Capote. And I’m much taller too.

FRIDAY, December 11
— Another busy day, diary. What I really need is a full-time stenographer to take down all the details of my stimulating life.

This morning, in a momentary lapse of judgment, I let Bruno browbeat Carlotta into accompanying him to school on his chopper. My body was still shaking uncontrollably well into fourth period. Every few seconds in sewing class, a fresh spasm of lingering terror would vibrate down my right leg, stomping my foot on the sewing machine pedal, and sending yards of black cloth hurtling under the needle. I fear the hem of my unfortunate A-line skirt may never pass Mrs. Dergeltry’s rigorous scrutiny.

I began the school day in Miss Pomdreck’s office, where my aged guidance counselor was relieved to receive at last Carlotta’s physician’s excuse.

“A doctor named Doctor,” she mused. “How appropriate indeed. She apparently was the recipient of very sound career counseling. I only wish my own cases were all so simple. And where is Anytown, Carlotta?”

“Er, near Watertown, Miss Pomdreck. It was named for Matthew Any, the great abolitionist.”

“Ah yes, a notable figure in our history. Well, everything looks in order. I shall put a copy of your letter in Miss Arbulash’s box. She, of course, will be disappointed not to have you in her class. She was just mentioning yesterday
how much she looked forward to getting you started on the stair-climber machine. And I’m sorry about your affliction. I notice your hands are trembling. Are you in great pain, my dear?”

“Not too unbearable,” winced Carlotta.

“Well, don’t overexert yourself, Carlotta. If you ever feel ill or in pain, you may go rest in Nurse Filmore’s office. Or, if you prefer, you may go home.”

Wow, a license to cut class. Every teen’s dream!

A few moments later in homeroom, Fuzzy handed me a bombshell.

“Check this out, Carlotta,” he whispered, pointing to the front-page headline of today’s newspaper. Bold black type screamed: “Runaway Empire Youth Held in Huge Drug Haul.”

Shocked, I scanned the inflammatory news article.

“Carlotta,” whispered Fuzzy, “it says there they busted Nick Twisp in Seattle with $4 million of cocaine in his raincoat. How exactly is that possible?”

“It’s not,” I whispered, stunned. “Nick doesn’t have a raincoat. And he’s never been to Seattle. And he certainly never arrived there yesterday on a flight from Islamabad.”

“Where’s that?” asked Fuzzy.

“Er, Pakistan, I think,” I replied, suddenly recalling the pleasant Pakistani fellow I had met on the plane to Los Angeles.

“That’s near India, I think,” whispered Fuzzy. “Carlotta, do you suppose Vijay is behind this?”

“Possibly, Frank. But not likely.”

“Carlotta, they got a quote in that article from your dad.”

“Where?”

“On the inside page. At the bottom of the story.”

I located the paragraph in question. It read:

The feeling is mutual, Dad. I only pray the sentiments I express are grammatically correct.

By the time Carlotta reached physics class everyone was bent over newspapers—even Mr. Tratinni.

“Carlotta! Have you heard the news?” asked Sheeni. “Nick has been arrested!”

“I know,” I replied. “It’s a dreadful shock.”

“I’m not surprised at all,” averred Vijay, his bruises showing alarming signs of fading. “That Nick Twisp is an unprincipled ruffian. No depraved act by his hands would surprise me!”

Oh yeah? How about the strangulation of a traitorous classmate?

“In some ways I blame myself,” said Sheeni, sadly shaking her head. “I encouraged Nick to loosen up and not be so tediously good. I never imagined he would take my advice so much to heart.”

“Women can exert a profound moral influence over men,” affirmed Carlotta.

“It was nothing you said or did, Sheeni,” said Vijay. “His father is right. Nick is an innately evil person. I knew it when he used to lie to you, Sheeni, about performing well in French class. His French was abysmal!”

“But I understand he did quite well in physics,” hissed Carlotta.

“Almost as well as you, Carlotta,” remarked Sheeni, smiling. “Did you know you received the highest grade in the class on yesterday’s test?”

“Just beginner’s luck,” said Carlotta modestly.

“That was doubtless the case,” scowled Vijay.

Fighting an impulse toward mayhem, Carlotta turned to My Beloved. “Sheeni, what’s this I hear about your going to the Christmas dance?”

“Yes, kind Vijay has consented to be my escort.”

“That’s so sweet,” smiled Carlotta. “I’m so happy you two are not permitting your extreme disparity in heights to deter your enjoyment of these social functions.”

“I am nearly as tall as she is!” spat out the diminutive alien.

“Of course you are,” smiled Carlotta. “Sheeni, I hope you’re planning on wearing your flats. Heels, I believe, would be a mistake.”

“I hadn’t given it much thought, Carlotta. But that is a good suggestion.”

“And who is taking the lovely Carlotta to the dance?” inquired Vijay.

Before I could deliver a withering reply, Mr. Tratinni rapped for order.

Taking advantage of my new freedom, at lunchtime I brazenly left the building and hurried home to call Joanie long-distance. My sister, sounding more than usually harassed, answered on the fifth ring.

“Nick! Are they letting you make phone calls?”

“Are who letting me?” I asked, confused.

“The cops,” said Joanie, “in Seattle.”

“That’s what I’m calling to clear up, Joanie. There’s been a slight mistake. I don’t know who they arrested, but it wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“Boy, Nick, Mom’s not going to like that. She just put Lance on the plane to Seattle.”

“Good. I hope the lump falls off the Space Needle.”

“Nick, where are you?”

“Oh, here and there. Don’t worry, Joanie. I’m OK. I’m not smuggling drugs. I’m living OK. I’m even going to school.”

“Nick, you can’t keep this up. You’re driving us all nuts.”

“Joanie, I’m OK! Don’t worry. What’s all the commotion there?”

I could hear loud voices in the background.

“It’s the men from the coroner’s office,” she replied cryptically.

My mind raced. I imagined Dr. Dimby slumped dead over his laptop—felled in his prime by the pressures of academia and unforeseen middle-aged fatherhood.

“Joanie,” I gasped, “who died?”

“My neighbor, Nick. Miss Ulansky. The Meals on Wheels guys found her about a half hour ago. Looks like she passed away quietly while watching a video.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “What was the film?”

“Nick, don’t be morbid.”

“I’m not being morbid. Films meant a lot to her. What was the movie?”

“The Ten Commandments
. Why?”

“She’s in the arms of God now,” I said somberly. “Or at least Charlton Heston’s.”

“Nick, how did you get to be so warped?”

“Bad home life.”

“Well, you better call Mother. She thinks you were running drugs because you were kidnapped by gangsters.”

“Wow. Sounds like Mom’s starting to give me the benefit of the doubt. That’s progress. No, Joanie, you call her. Tell her I’m OK. Tell her I’ll look her up someday when I’m grown up.”

“Nick, I can’t tell her that. You call her.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Well, call me then. Stay in touch.”

“OK, Joanie. How’s Dr. Dimby?”

“It’s Dindy, Nick. He’s fine. Kimberly moved out, so we have plenty of room now for the…” She paused. “For us.”

“That’s nice. I hope all two of you will be very happy.”

Carlotta’s spiritual mother is deceased. How sad. How fortunate the younger Miss Ulansky is so well equipped to dress for mourning. I wonder how old Bertha Ulansky was at the end? Not a day younger than 90, I’d estimate. Once she was Carlotta’s age, with her whole life ahead of her. Now she’s a disturbing interruption to her neighbors, an everyday inconvenience for the coroner. At least she will live on anonymously in her 400 films. Death: the final censor. He waits for us all with his editing shears—as our colors fade and our celluloid slowly dissolves.

Bummed out by the transience of life, I resolved to take the afternoon off from school and savor every golden, fleeting moment. Twenty minutes later, tiring of living life to the fullest, I picked up a
Penthouse
, leafed through it for a while, dealt peremptorily with a sudden T.E., squeezed several erupting zits, then took a nap. Life, I decided as time dissolved into clockless unconsciousness, must go on.

5:45
P.M
. I awoke from my nap and hurriedly phoned Fuzzy.

“Frank,” I said cheerfully, “you know that favor you owe me?”

“What favor?” he demanded.

“You know: for breaking up your mom and my dad.”

“Some breakup, Nick. I think Mom has a date with the creep tonight. She just got her hair done and her legs waxed.”

“Don’t worry, Frank. The deed is practically done. Now for the favor: you know the Christmas dance?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“You asked anybody yet?”

“Who can I ask, Nick? Heather’s in Santa Cruz.”

“Good. Frank, I want you to take Carlotta.”

“What!”

“Frank, you don’t have a date. Carlotta doesn’t have a date. It’s a perfect match.”

“Nick, you’re out of your mind. I’m not taking no guy to no dance!”

“Frank, I promise Carlotta will look nice. And feminine. No one will ever know.”

“Nix, Nick. That’s final.”

“OK, Frank. Have a nice Christmas with your mom. And my dad.”

“Do I have to dance with you, Nick? I’m not dancing no slow dances with you.”

“OK, Frank. No slow dances.”

“I’m not holding hands either.”

“OK, Frank. No public displays of affection. But I
will
expect a nice corsage.”

“OK, Nick. But if it ever gets out that Carlotta’s a guy, you’re dead meat.”

“Fair enough, Frank. See you this weekend?”

“I’ll probably drop by.”

“You want to go shopping with Carlotta to pick out her dress?”

“You want to suck my big royal Canadian?”

“Just thought I’d ask, Frank. What color suit will you be wearing to the dance?”

“How about pink?”

“Frank!”

“OK, Nick. Blue, I guess.”

“To match your attitude, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” he growled. “Well, Nick, I guess I better go pluck my eyebrows.”

My first high school dance! Not the partner of my desires, but at least I’ll have the consolation of loitering in the general vicinity of that dear person. I wonder if Carlotta could conceal a cattle prod in her gown for use against amorous Indians?