Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (69 page)

“That still doesn’t give me a date for the dance. Apurva could never get permission. Are you available, Carlotta?”

“Sorry, Trent. I’m spoken for. But I have a suggestion.”

“What’s that?”

“If you’re really serious about separating aesthetics from love, ask Janice Griffloch.”

Trent paled under his perfect tan. “Janice Griffloch. Yes, that is a suggestion worth considering.”

Carlotta ordered another piece of pie. This day she could afford to indulge her sweet tooth. Trent was picking up the tab.

When I got home, Carlotta phoned Sheeni immediately. After a warm exchange of pleasantries with Mrs. Saunders, I was connected with My Love.

“Sheeni, I wanted to tell you, before you heard it from someone else: Trent Preston just asked me to the Christmas dance, 40 minutes ago in Flampert’s variety store.”

“You’re kidding, Carlotta.”

“No, and I want you to know I refused him. Out of loyalty to you.”

“I appreciate that, Carlotta. But hadn’t you already promised to go with Fuzzy?”

“Fuzzy would have released me from that obligation. He is more flexible, Sheeni, than you imagine.”

“What did Trent say when you turned him down?”

“He was disappointed, of course. I suggested someone else. Someone I think you may approve of.”

“Not Apurva?” asked Sheeni suspiciously.

“No. Janice Griffloch.”

“Oh, Trent would never ask her, Carlotta.”

“I think he may be seriously considering it.”

“But why?” Sheeni demanded.

“He wants to separate beauty from affection.”

“Well, in that case Janice Griffloch would be an appropriate place to start. Well, Carlotta, now we have another reason to look forward to Friday night.”

“It should be quite exciting,” I agreed.

“At my suggestion, my brother’s volunteered to drive us all to the dance, Carlotta. It’s such an inconvenience that Vijay and Fuzzy don’t have their licenses.”

“Your brother Paul?” I asked doubtfully.

“Yes. He says he’s looking forward to seeing you in your ball gown, Carlotta.”

I’ll bet he is.

“Oh, and, Carlotta,” she continued, “I’ve made an appointment for you to get your ears pierced tomorrow after dinner.”

“Sheeni, I think I should mention there’s a history of hemophilia in my family—on the Rumanian side.”

“Hemophilia only affects males, Carlotta. Don’t be a coward. We all have to make sacrifices for beauty. Don’t you want to look your best for Fuzzy?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“I’m going to loan you my blue sapphire studs, Carlotta. They’ll go nicely with your dress. That is, if you’re healing properly.”

I think I’m going to be sick.

8:20
P.M
. The phone just rang as I was working on my physics problems. It was Fuzzy, calling in a state of extreme excitement.

“Hi, Nick,” he said. “I’ve got some amazing news.”

“Me too, Frank. You’re never going to believe this. Trent just asked Carlotta to the dance.”

“Really? Man, Carlotta must be foxier than she looks. That’s going to work out perfectly.”

“What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously.

“I just talked to Heather. And guess what?”

“She’s pregnant from unprotected phone sex?”

“No, Nick. She’s coming here! For a visit!”

“That’s nice, Frank. Your parents said it was OK?”

“Are you nuts, Nick? The parents are out of the loop. Hers and mine. She’s telling her parents she’s visiting Darlene in Salinas.”

“But where will she stay?” I asked, as a dreadful realization dawned. “Forget it, Frank. No way is she staying here.”

“But why not, Nick? You’ve got lots of room. She can take the bed and Carlotta can camp out on the sofa. It’s nice and soft.”

“I’ve already slept on that couch, Frank. It’s registered with the torture committee of Amnesty International.”

“OK, Nick. Heather and I can take the couch.”

“Frank, if Heather stays here, I’ll have to be Carlotta 24 hours a day!”

“Aw, we can tell Heather.”

“No way, Frank. If she blabs to anyone at her school, and you know she will, chicks always do, Bernice’s parents will nail my scalp to their living-room wall. I have a better idea. Why not stay at your Uncle Polly’s house? He has a hot tub.”

“It’s way out in the boondocks, Nick. Besides, who wants to get in a hot tub your uncle croaked in—even with Heather? That is so gross.”

“Well, it’s your grandmother’s house, Frank. I suppose I can’t refuse. When is Heather arriving?”

“That’s what’s so great, Nick. She’s coming on the bus Thursday night. So we can go to the Christmas dance. I can go with Heather and Carlotta can go with Trent.”

“No way, buster. I turned Trent down. You have a date with me, remember?”

“But, Nick, Trent is better-looking than me. And more popular too.”

“I agree, Frank, but you have one sterling quality in your favor.”

“What?”

“You’re not interested in getting into my pants.”

“Trent might not try anything, Nick. Not on a first date.”

“I can’t take that chance, Frank. No, it’s you and me, kid. Heather can stay home and watch TV.”

“Wait, I know, Nick. All three of us can go. I can dance with Heather for the slow dances and with Carlotta for the fast ones.”

“Not the really fast ones, Frank. Not in Carlotta’s scary high heels. But how do you propose to explain this terpsichorean ménage à trois to Heather?”

“I’ll just say Carlotta’s my cousin. My homely cousin I promised to take to the dance ’cause nobody would invite her. Heather will understand.”

“Frank, Carlotta has had three legitimate offers. She’s very popular.”

“I know, Nick. Don’t get sore. Carlotta is quite a babe, for a guy.”

“When did you say Heather was arriving?”

“Thursday night. She’s coming by bus. One more thing, Nick.”

“What?”

“While Heather’s staying there with you, you have to promise me you’ll keep your filthy mitts off her.”

“Frank, I’m going to be dressed like a chick the whole time! How can I put the moves on her?”

“Yeah, that’s a point. I guess I don’t have to worry about Carlotta getting the hots for Heather.”

“Nope, just Heather getting the hots for Carlotta.”

“What are you saying?” he demanded.

“I’m just saying I won’t be held responsible. Lately Carlotta seems to be pretty irresistible. She has tremendous animal magnetism.”

“Yeah, well just keep it in your pants, guy.”

“Where are you going to be keeping it, Fuzzy?”

“You know where, Nick. As often as possible!”

Some guys have all the luck. Fuzzy gets sex on demand, and I get 24 hours a day of uninterrupted brassieres, panty hose, Writhe, and face powder. I hope my skin doesn’t become saturated with cosmetics and break out even more.

Can’t write any more. I have to go practice walking in those damn high heels. Maybe I’ll put a few Nelson Eddy records on the gramophone and see if I can stumble around to the beat. I realize now how unfair life can be. Fred got all the glory, but it was Ginger who was doing all the work.

TUESDAY, December 15
— In homeroom this morning Janice Griffloch floated about looking as if she had just won the state lottery, received a full scholarship to Stanford, and been canonized by the Pope. This week will probably go down as the high point of her dreary life. I wonder if she realizes she owes all this improbable happiness to me?

Vijay came to physics class looking strangely incomplete. He was missing his nice cast. If only he’d catch the bad flu that’s going around. I wonder if multiple contusions and a sprained arm weaken the immune system. They certainly haven’t impaired the large portion of his brain devoted to bad-mouthing Nick Twisp. And Carlotta only catches the comments in English. God knows what vile slander the turncoat Republican’s been spreading in French.

As Miss Najflempt warmed up the VCR in world cultures class, Dwayne slipped Carlotta $5 as a down payment on his dogfight entry fees. His mother vetoed his budget request, so he is forced to pay on the installment plan. Believe it or not, Dwayne has a date for the dance. He will be escorting Sonya “The Refrigerator” Klummplatz, a sweet girl I know from sewing class. Sonya and Carlotta have become fast friends, perhaps because they both bear scars from the stinging barbs of cruel rest-room graffiti. Sonya, for one, doesn’t turn the other cheek. She makes a regular tour of the facilities, scrawling under every derogatory allusion to her weight, “Up yours, twinky!” in vivid purple ink.

“Sonya,” inquired Carlotta in sewing class, “is it true you and Dwayne Crampton are now an item?”

“I guess a tiny one,” she replied, taking straight pins out of her mouth. “I said I’d go to the dance with the guy.”

“When did he ask you?”

“He didn’t, Carlotta. His mom called my mom last night. I guess the boob was too shy to ask me.”

“Boys can be reserved at times. Do you like him?”

“I think he’s a creep. But he’s my ticket to the dance.”

“Watch the guy,” confided Carlotta. “He may try something.”

“I hope so,” whispered Sonya. “I don’t know about you, Carlotta, but I’m ready to lose my girlish reserve. In a big way.”

“You don’t care who the guy is?” I asked, shocked.

“Well, I’d prefer it was someone like Trent Preston. But he hasn’t been pestering me for dates lately.”

“Damn, Sonya,” said Carlotta, “you should have said something yesterday. I could have fixed you up!”

Lunch was another nightmare of Sheeni monopolization by my dwarfish rival. Carlotta sat, somewhat self-consciously, with Sonya at the Zaftigs’ table. We munched our sandwiches and studied Trent, dining in aesthetic disquietude two tables away with Janice Griffloch.

“He’s not smiling,” observed Sonya.

“He’s trying to,” Carlotta replied. “He’s looking at her with interest.”

“He’s counting her pimples, Carlotta.”

“Look, Sonya. He’s sort of smiling now.”

“He’s come up with the grand total: 512, not counting the cherry bomb on her nose.”

“Oops, he stopped smiling.”

“Maybe she goosed him under the table. God, Carlotta, hide me! Dwayne’s coming this way.”

Sonya tossed her sandwich and struggled, against all odds, to make herself inconspicuous.

“No, he isn’t, Sonya. Look, he’s turning the other way.”

Across the room, Dwayne lurched off toward the candy-bar machine.

“Coward,” huffed Sonya. “I bet the creep ignores me until the dance. And to think I could have been going with Trent.”

“Sorry, Sonya,” said Carlotta, “I wasn’t thinking.”

“I may be heavy,” she conceded, “but my skin’s OK.”

“You have a wonderful complexion,” I assured her. “It’s just like peaches and cream.”

“Stop it, Carlotta,” giggled Sonya, flattered. “You’re making me hungry.”

After lunch, Carlotta cut business math, found a pay phone off campus, and called Miss Penelope Pliny, the secretary at Dad’s (and my) former place of employment.

“Progressive Plywood
. How may I help you?” answered Miss Pliny in her prim and characteristically businesslike manner.

“Hi, Penelope,” I said, disguising my voice. “This is George.”

“George who?”

“George Twisp. We used to work together.”

“Well, one of us worked, George. Have they located your son yet?”

“No. Nick is still away. We’re all very concerned.”

“You did not sound much like it in the newspaper, George.”

“I was misquoted, Penelope. You know how the press is.”

“I know, George. All of us here are very sorry to hear of Nicholas’ difficulties. Mr. Rogavere is quite alarmed. He has an airline steward friend who is putting up flyers in India.”

“Well, tell Roger not to go to any special trouble. I’m sure Nick will turn up one of these days.”

“I shall inform him of your lack of concern, George. I do not believe it will surprise him. Nor alter his efforts.”

“How is Roger, Penelope?”

“Very well, it would appear, for a single man living alone. He is at present devoting much of his spare time to experimenting with the regional cuisines of Portugal.”

“And you, Penelope, how are you?”

“I am well enough, George. Why do you inquire?”

“Penelope, I don’t know if you were aware of it at the time, but you made an extraordinarily powerful impression on me.”

“I can assure you, George, that was not my intention.”

“Perhaps not, Penelope. But you have captured my heart.”

“You may consider it returned, George. I have no use for the affections of a plagiarist.”

“Penelope, try to understand. I had to terminate that business trip to Oregon. I discovered people were administering hallucinogenics to my son. Desperation drove me to an unspeakable act. Is there no way I can regain your esteem?”

“On the contrary, George, the incident to which you allude produced no diminution in my regard for you. It merely confirmed the correctness of my initial impressions of your character. I am sorry, George, this call appears to be one of a personal nature. Mr. Preston requests that this line be reserved for business matters. I must go.”

“Penelope, may I call you at home?”

“For what purpose?”

“Penelope, Nick needs a mother. I believe you are that woman!”

“I believe you are mistaken, George. If Nicholas is in need of a parent, it is a father that he wants. Goodbye.”

“But, Penelope, wait…”

Click
.

Damn. Miss Pliny wouldn’t touch my father with a ten-foot pole, and she’s in the statistically desperate age group too. No, if I am to fix up Dad with someone younger and prettier, it will have to be with someone he has never met. I wonder how much an emergency personals ad campaign would cost?

In art class Trent Preston painted a disturbing, Ryderesque view of a fierce winter gale assaulting the Santa Cruz coast. In the foreground a fallen windsurfer floated lifeless in the churning seas.

“Is that you by any chance?” asked Carlotta solicitously.

“It is my rapacious, overweening ego,” replied the painter darkly.

“I see, Trent. And how are things with Janice?”

“Fine, Carlotta,” he muttered. “I’m beginning to get in touch with her pain.”