Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (70 page)

“Splendid,” replied Carlotta. “The heart beats when the spirit bleeds.”

“Life is eternal misery,” he declared.

“And then you die,” pointed out Carlotta.

“From nothing to nothingness,” he said.

“Oblivion, the final frontier,” Carlotta added.

“Every breath is a foretaste of death,” he observed.

At that point Carlotta desisted. One cannot hope to compete in nihilism with someone dating Janice Griffloch.

After school I hurried to the library, where I found Apurva in her usual
spot—now under the watchful supervision of her mother. Apurva greeted me with affection, introduced Carlotta to Mrs. Joshi, and asked if we might be permitted to chat privately.

“You must first promise me that you won’t discuss that boy,” said Mrs. Joshi severely.

“I promise, Mother,” replied Apurva.

After her mother moved reluctantly to a table across the room, Apurva turned eagerly to Carlotta. “And how is my dear Trent?”

“Apurva, I thought you promised not to speak of him?”

“I am keeping my promise, Carlotta. Mother did not specify the boy. I am not speaking of a great many boys.”

“That’s true, Apurva. Your Jesuit training is beginning to serve you well. I have spoken to Trent. He loves you.”

“And I him. More than ever. What news do you bring of him?”

“He wants to get together with you.”

“Not to read poetry, I hope? I enjoy poetry, Carlotta. But I feel I’ve had a sufficiency of verse.”

“No, Apurva. Trent is resolved to make love to you.”

“When?” she asked urgently.

“Whenever you are able.”

“They cannot watch me forever. I shall get away—as soon as I can.”

“Good, Apurva. In the meantime, to divert suspicion, Trent has asked Janice Griffloch to the Christmas dance.”

“He has what!?” she demanded.

Across the room, Mrs. Joshi looked up in surprise. Carlotta motioned to her friend for caution.

“Don’t be alarmed, Apurva. Trent has taken this unpleasant step at my suggestion.”

“But why? Who is this Janice person? What does she look like?”

“Don’t worry, Apurva. She is reliably unattractive. I can assure you Trent has no feelings for her.”

“But why is he taking her to the dance?” “Because, Apurva, you are unavailable.” “Then why doesn’t he simply stay home?”

“He can’t do that, Apurva. He has a social obligation. He’s the best-looking and most popular boy in the school.”

“I shall never understand you Americans. In India, such a step by Trent would be an unforgivable act of infidelity.”

“Well, Apurva, in this country it is a selfless act of devotion. Trent must endure Janice because he has given his heart to you.”

“The dear, darling boy,” sighed Apurva. “I must try to curb my feelings of jealousy and be more understanding.”

“Yes, and some of our redwood trees are many centuries old,” said Carlotta, noting Mrs. Joshi’s approach.

“Apurva,” she said, “it is time to go. Your father will be returning from his office soon.”

“Yes, Mother. Thank you, Carlotta. I found our chat most valuable. I do so love the forest.”

“The forest has much to give,” noted Carlotta, “if you are open to its embrace.”

“I am,” replied Apurva, with conviction. “Be assured of that!”

8:10
P.M
. Can’t write much. In desperate agony. Two heavy slugs of metal have brutally pierced my body. I feel like John Dillinger five minutes after the movie ended. With every beat of my heart, twin throbs of stereo pain stab into my being. Now I know why women get their ears pierced. Once they’ve survived this ordeal of mutilation, they can face the discomforts of childbirth with equanimity.

Ours is a barbaric species. We rend our bodies to adorn ourselves with hoops of gold. Bernice Lynch had six perforations in each lobe. No wonder she was mentally unstable; the torment must have unhinged her reason.

I have been gulping aspirin nonstop for 90 minutes. No relief in sight. Should I dial 911? Clearly, morphine must be administered soon.

9:15
P.M
. Just found bottle of mystery pills in back of medicine cabinet. Label says “analgesic.” Looked it up, means “relieves pain.” Expiration date is June 1974. Have swallowed four anyway. Hoping for the best. Ears feel like pack of angry pit bulls are clamped to them.

10:05
P.M
. Dogs have released their grip. Mellowness has been achieved. Have been admiring my new gold posts in the bathroom mirror. Sheeni’s right. They produce a remarkable alteration in one’s appearance. Left one is oozing a drop of blood now and then. Makes for an eye-catching effect. Be a hit at vampire parties.

Numbness is exquisite. How much better life would be if the human nervous system were equipped with an on/off switch. Have stumbled upon a wonderful, fabulous drug. Only 19 precious pills remaining in bottle. Wonder if it’s too late to get the prescription refilled? Wonder how many cases of drug addiction result every year from unregulated teen ear-piercing?

WEDNESDAY, December 16
— 4:52
A.M
. Dogs are back, angrier than ever. Swallowed two more pills. Ugly scab on left ear. Both lobes turning odd
shade of green-orange. Wonder if that clerk knew what she was doing? Perhaps we shouldn’t have had such a major operation performed in a discount jewelry store. Not a single trained medical doctor on the premises. Wonder if they do abortions in the back room? What if both ears turn black and fall off? No way Fuzzy would take Carlotta to the dance in that case. Lonely, unloved, and earless—what a blow to one’s social hopes.

7:28 P.M. High school on powerful narcotics. A profoundly mellow experience. The struggle for status now suspended. Pressures to conform on hold, academic competition in abeyance, sexual anxieties at rest, even corrosive boredom dissolved in the warm puddle of frivolous time.

Carlotta had a wonderful day. Rode to school with kind Bruno on his motorcycle and enjoyed it immensely. Pleasant hullabaloo in homeroom as school newspaper was distributed. Flattering front-page profile of yours truly by lovely and talented Tina Manion. Curious blank spaces in headline and story where text had been excised by emergency application of acid to printing plate (process explained by apologetic author in chance hallway encounter; I assured her deletions were of no consequence to me). Much comment in classes throughout day on Manion revelations. Student body abuzz with speculation about matters relating to my feminine alter ego’s ancestry. Carlotta chose to remain above the fray. Was assured by Sheeni in physics class that my ears were progressing normally. A great relief. At lunch Fuzzy DeFalco posed several pointed questions regarding missing avuncular cash wad and recent Carlotta extravagances. She preferred to discuss therapeutic effects of a remarkable wonder drug. Gave two tablets to Fuzzy; he quickly dropped interest in errant cash. Later, Carlotta for first time entered into the spirit of business math class. Enjoyed learning about percent markups and markdowns. Spent study hall with Sonya writing “Fat Power!” on walls of girls’ bathrooms (and boys’ too?). Slipped two pills to Trent in art class. He painted anguished nude self-portrait, attracting much interest from classmates and a cautionary lecture from Mr. Thorne. In health class, watched a video on the evils of drug abuse. Felt the film was sensationalist and one-sided. Rode home with Bruno and possibly kissed him in the alley. Just swallowed final three pills. Feel sleepy. Think I’ll hit the sack early tonight.

THURSDAY, December 17
— I seem to have lost a day of my life. All I have to show for yesterday is a wretched hangover, strange gaps in my memory, and some cryptic entries in my journal. At least my ear crisis seems to have passed. The swelling is starting to go down, and the angry pit bulls have given way to petulant chihuahuas.

Carlotta had a trying day at school. If she ever learns how to write, Tina Manion will have a great future ahead of her in tabloid journalism. Her error-riddled article, made even more inflammatory by titillative censorship, could not have been more recklessly sensationalist. It postulated that Carlotta was the offspring of a famous celebrity, then teasingly, maddeningly withheld the name. When pressed, when pestered, when harangued by curious classmates, Carlotta could only smile wanly and deny any knowledge of the affair. She did characterize as false the reported claims that her mother had won an Academy Award and had spurned an offer of marriage from James Dean, breaking his heart with tragic consequences.

“It’s all a mistake,” became modest Carlotta’s standard reply to queries. “I think they must have me confused with someone else. No, I have no intention of going into films myself. Yes, the Mussolini Revival is all the rage in Hollywood now. Why else do you suppose I dress like this?”

6:35
P.M
. Carlotta has eaten my lonely dinner and is awaiting the arrival of Fuzzy and Heather. My lipstick is freshened, my wig is combed, and my bust is situated precisely where nature might have placed it. I have been instructed by my friend to say a few words of greeting, then immediately excuse myself for several hours. Fortunately, the library is open late tonight. Otherwise, I’d have to freeze to death outside while Fuzzy undertakes his grueling ascent of the Orgasm Pass.

7:20
P.M
. A slow night at the library. Literature, I fear, is on the wane. Perhaps I should reconsider my vocational aspirations. If I abandon writing, what can I do instead? Being a psychologist has a certain appeal. You get paid extravagantly well to sit around and listen to the most intimate dirt. The hours are good and you can ask attractive women, in your soberest professional manner, what really turns them on. I’m told you also get an invaluable perspective on your own neuroses.

Heather looked rosily robust from her walk through the night air from the bus station. I had forgotten she was so athletically statuesque. I wonder if she often wears sweaters that tight? When she removed her coat, one could almost sense a sudden tension grip the room. I knew then one of us would have to leave. Too bad it turned out to be Carlotta.

10:05 P.M. Fuzzy just said his farewells to Heather and departed, reluctantly, for home. He will have to hurry if he is to avoid parental censure. He looked fatigued but fulfilled, which, from the condition of my bedroom and his guest, I believe him to be. Heather is now taking a bath in the bathroom with the door ajar. This could be a strenuous weekend for us all.

11:10
P.M
. Five minutes until lights out. I am in my disheveled room;
Heather is bedded down, in a state of advanced nudity, on the sofa in the living room. We had a nice chat earlier when she emerged—pink, steaming, and naked—from the bath.

“Oh, hello,” said Carlotta, her glasses suddenly fogging. “Would, would you like a robe?”

“That’s OK,” replied Heather, bending over to rifle her bag beside the sofa. “You keep it nice and toasty in here.” She brought out a brush and began to comb the long wet tresses that fell in brown cascades over her gleaming chest.

“I do like a warm house,” observed Carlotta, hastily wiping her glasses. “Did, did you have a nice bath?”

“Scrumptious, Carlotta. I’m so relaxed. I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.”

Well, that makes one of us, I mumbled under my breath.

“What did you say, Carlotta?”

“Oh, nothing, Heather. I was just thinking about the stock market. How, how do you stay in such marvelous shape?”

“B-ball,” she replied. “I scored 32 points against Holy Name Academy last weekend. We murdered those wienies. Do you play, Carlotta?”

“Uh, no. Not much. Sports are not my thing.”

“Too bad,” she replied. “You really ought to give it a try, Carlotta. Fuzzy and I are totally committed to athletics. That’s why I love the furry critter. Course, I’m a little top-heavy for basketball, but he gets a kick out of it.”

Yes, I could see where he might.

“So you’re Fuzzy’s cousin,” she continued. “Funny, you don’t look anything like him. You don’t even look Italian.”

“I’m from the Rumanian side of the family,” I explained. “We’re more intellectual and less hairy.”

“Bet you’re glad of that, Carlotta. Fuzzy’s the hairiest guy I ever met. I’m ticklish too, so we have to be careful when we get it on.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“If we get too close, I start laughing hysterically.”

“How do you manage, Heather?”

“Oh, we do somehow. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Carlotta smiled, but could put no faith in the veracity of that aphorism. I often have the will, yet find the way impeded at every turn. At the moment, I am in the grip of a particularly powerful will, but must lie here in my lonely room and stifle it.

In case of emergency visitations from my guest, Carlotta has retired to bed in her wig, glasses, makeup, nightgown, and brassiere. When you’re not
used to it, sleeping in a brassiere seems extremely strange. I am trying to keep the lid closed on that can of worms. If I permitted myself to dwell on it, many aspects of my present life might begin to seem peculiar.

FRIDAY, December 18
— The day of the big dance. The last day of school before Christmas vacation. The first day of the rest of my life. And if memory serves me correct, Dad’s 45th birthday. I think I may have a plan for celebrating that grim milestone of middle age.

My houseguest continues to be comfortable in her body. While Carlotta munched her toast and looked on enviously, Heather cleared a space in the living room and performed 15 minutes of vigorous nude aerobics—elevating her pulse rate and nearly quadrupling mine. The leg extensions, I observed, were particularly invigorating.

“Come on, Carlotta,” invited Heather, not pausing. “Join in.”

“Sorry, I can’t,” I replied, thankful again for the fullness of my skirt. “I don’t want to be late for school. What will you do today, Heather?”

“Fuzzy’s cutting school,” she replied, touching her toes. “He’s coming over.”

“I’ll bet he is,” muttered Carlotta ruefully.

“Look, Carlotta. I can touch the floor with the palms of my hands.”

Carlotta looked. It was a remarkable sight.