Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (72 page)

“I’m so depressed,” groaned Fuzzy. “Every time I think about Heather making it with that guy my stomach flips into back-flush mode. If this keeps up, I might actually be able to make the wrestling team—in the featherweight division.”

“You’ll get over it,” Carlotta assured him, keeping an anxious eye on Sheeni and the loathsome Vijay lunching together at the next table over. (To quell vicious rumors, My Love insists on drastically curtailing her public appearances with Carlotta.) “It’s probably just a Valentine’s Day fling,” I continued. “Girls get desperate
when they have to spend that over-hyped holiday alone. So what does this surfer creep look like?”

Fuzzy sighed. “I’m told he’s very good looking, is a great athlete, and has a wonderful outgoing personality that has made him a beloved figure among the young and hip Santa Cruz surfing crowd.”

“Oh, dear,” said Carlotta.

“I hope the fucker wipes out on his board and gets eaten by a shark.”

“It’s tough, Frank,” said Carlotta soothingly. “I know you feel jealous and upset. But it’ll pass. It’s just your genes.”

“My jeans? It’s Heather’s jeans I want the guy to keep his damn mitts out of.”

“Our genes control our behavior,” I explained. “We’re all programmed to get out there and multiply as much as possible. Your genes took one look at Heather and said: ‘Wow, fabulous breeder chick!’ So now your genes are pissed because they got aced out of the action.”

“That’s dumb,” said Fuzzy. “Then why wasn’t I trying to knock her up?”

“Simple, guy. Your rational mind realizes a pregnancy at your age would be a disaster. But make no mistake, your genes would have been thrilled. And hers too. That’s why kids our age are so sloppy about birth control. We’re at the prime childbearing age, and our bodies know they’ll never again get such great odds for genetic immortality.”

“OK, Einstein,” said Fuzzy. “So why am I throwing up?”

“It’s obvious. Your genes are trying to make you sick of Heather. So you’ll snap out of it and score another good breeding prospect.”

“You mean …?”

“Yep, Frank, long-distance phone sex with Heather is not the answer. It’s time you found a local girlfriend.”

“Hmmm,” ruminated Fuzzy. “Sex anytime I want it.”

“It’s genetically predestined, guy,” Carlotta said. “Go for it!”

“Okay, but you’ve got to help me.”

“Me? How?”

Fuzzy looked around and lowered his voice. “I’ve been helping you dodge the cops, dude. So you have to help me hook up with a new chick.”

“Okay, Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

Swell. I’m supposed to find some sexy girl to go out with a not-very-attractive, unpopular, klutzy wanna-be jock who ranks in the ninety-ninth percentile for body hair. Oh well, at least Fuzzy’s parents have money. That should help.

7:15 p.m. Sheeni dropped by “to study” as Carlotta was finishing up dessert (custard-drizzled cherry crisp) with Mrs. Ferguson and her dim offspring, Dwayne Crampton.

“Why do you dine with your domestic staff?” asked Sheeni, after Dwayne had washed the dishes, My Love had pocketed seventy-five cents from him in accumulated Albert dog-walking fees, and he and his mother had departed in their wheezing old Grand Prix.

“I have to,” I sighed. “Mrs. Ferguson gets very testy when I ask them to take their meals in the kitchen. She refuses to set two tables. You have no idea what it’s like to sit here night after night and watch Dwayne devour thousands of dollars worth of groceries with his mouth open. Not to mention his constant suggestive allusions to his dearth of underwear. And speaking of things disgusting, why did you let Vijay paw you like that in the cafeteria at lunchtime?”

“It’s to counter all those rumors,” Sheeni explained. “This entire tiresome town is gossiping about us.”

“Okay, so what if we
are
lesbians,” I said, nuzzling her perfect ear. “What business is it of anyone except us?”

“You know how people talk,” she said, pushing me away. “We have to be careful. Don’t forget you’re a fugitive from the FBI.”

“My genes don’t want to be careful,” I whispered, sliding a hand up her enticing thigh.

“I know all about your genes,” she replied, removing my hand and opening her physics textbook. “They manifest drives of a remarkable primitiveness—even for a Twisp.”

10:30 p.m. All we did was study, believe it or not. What a waste of privacy and expensive mood lighting. Sheeni wouldn’t even let me put on my latest Frank Sinatra CD, preferring to bone up on the hydrogen atom without romantic musical accompaniment. Later as Carlotta was walking Sheeni home, we ran into Vijay (we seem to be doing that a lot lately). He reports his father has bought the plane ticket. His sister Apurva leaves for India on Saturday.

Damn! Now I have to dredge up new girlfriends for Fuzzy
and
Trent.

WEDNESDAY, February 24—Fuzzy is feeling better. He reports he only threw up once today—in wood technology class when someone mentioned they were thinking of laminating up a surfboard. No trips this time to Nurse Filmore. Mr. Vilprang tossed some sawdust on the splatter and made Fuzzy clean it up himself. To distract my pal from his troubles, Carlotta suggested over lunch that we meet this evening after dinner for some minor-league breaking and entering.

10:30 p.m. As arranged, Fuzzy was lurking in the bushes outside my father’s rented modular house when my sociopathic alter ego François Dillinger rolled up on my bike just after eight.

“Nick, is that you?” he called, blowing on his hands in the frigid darkness.

“Of course, it’s me, Frank,” I whispered, wheeling my bike out of sight under the carport. “Who else would be sneaking around out here in the boonies with a ski cap pulled down low to obscure his features?”

“Are you sure your dad’s not here?” Fuzzy asked nervously as I fiddled with my keys by the side door.

“Relax, Frank. He’s at that public hearing in Willits. I read about it in the newspaper. As PR spokesman for the timber company, he has to explain how their proposed massive clear-cutting will actually benefit the forests. He won’t be back for hours. Hey, my key doesn’t work. Looks like my dad changed the locks.”

More parental “don’t exist” messages for Nick.

“Damn! What do we do now, Nick?”

“We look under the mat.”

Sure enough, a cursory search turned up a shiny brass key.

The first thing we noticed inside was the smell.

“Sheesh, what died?” asked Fuzzy, shining his flashlight around the chaotic living room. “It smells like someone’s soaking an entire football team’s worth of sweat socks in old cat piss.”

“My dad never was much for housekeeping,” I said, switching on my flashlight and leading the way toward Dad’s “study” (the spare bedroom). “You see anything you want, Frank, just take it.”

“No thanks, Nick. There are some seriously major cooties in this place. I can’t believe my mom used to sneak around with your dad. That is so gross.”

As expected, there in the middle of Dad’s cluttered desk sat my trusty PC clone. It beeped a friendly greeting as I flipped it on, and its ancient hard drive rattled into life. Lots of new files, but thank God my journal was still there. I slipped in a floppy and started the download. Nick’s traumatic adolescence had not been erased!

While my old computer churned at its glacial Reagan-era pace, I snooped through Dad’s stuff. Alas, no lovingly framed, tearstained photos of his runaway son. Just piles of boring timber reports and some wadded-up currency.

“Here’s a hundred dollar bill for you, Frank.”

Cooties or no, Fuzzy pocketed the cash. François slipped the rest into my wallet as overdue child support.

“How are you getting on with your dad, Frank?” I inquired.

“All right, Nick. We try not to acknowledge each other’s existence.”

“A sensible accommodation.”

After my journal was copied onto the floppy, I took the precaution of erasing it from the hard drive, then uploaded a file from another floppy.

“What’s that?” asked Fuzzy.

“It’s a little looping program I wrote. Next time anyone turns
on the computer it will scramble a few files, display an on-screen animation of a guy mooning the user, and flash ‘Thanks a pantsful, geezer!’ in vivid electric type.”

“Cool! Can we see it now?”

“Sorry, Frank. It’s a special treat just for my dad. I only wish he had a color monitor to get the full, horrifying effect.”

THURSDAY, February 25—Carlotta’s long-simmering gym-class crisis came to a head today. Boorish Dwayne was snapping Carlotta’s bra straps in world cultures class when a student aide arrived with a note summoning me to the office of Miss Pomdreck, my aged guidance counselor.

“Oh, there you are, Carlotta,” she said, when I appeared at the door of her cinder-block walled office. “I trust you have obtained a note from a local physician confirming the diagnosis of … what is your affliction?”

“Ossifidusbrittalus syndrome, Miss Pomdreck,” I said, wincing as I took a seat beside her battle-scarred metal desk. “I’m afraid I haven’t been well enough to face the trials of yet another medical exam. But perhaps in a few more weeks …”

“I’m sorry, Carlotta. I can’t postpone this matter any further. I’ve given you several extensions already. I can only stretch the rules so far. Miss Arbulash is adamant in demanding an immediate resolution of your gym status.”

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

“Er, why is Miss Arbulash so interested in me?” I asked.

“She says you have a remarkably boyish frame for a girl. She believes you would be a natural for acquiring significant muscle mass.”

“But I don’t want any muscles,” I protested.

“Frankly, I don’t see the fascination either, but Miss Arbulash is not one to be denied.” Miss Pomdreck called up Carlotta’s records on her computer. “Okay, I’m taking you out of seventh-period study hall and moving you to girls’ gym. You start tomorrow.”

“Very well,” I sighed. “Shall I give you the name of my next of kin for when I collapse and die on the gym floor?”

“No one will be collapsing, Carlotta. Miss Arbulash can be demanding of her girls on the weightlifting machines, but I’m sure she’ll make allowances for your frailty.”

Not when Carlotta drops her towel, lady.

“Whatever you say, Miss Pomdreck.” I made no move to leave.

She looked at me over the tops of her old-lady glasses, virtually identical to my own. “Is there something else, Carlotta?”

“Miss Pomdreck, I’d just like to say that you do a wonderful job helping students with special needs on your limited resources. You’re a legend in the school.”

“I try my best, Carlotta.”

“Yes, and I was just thinking how much more you could do if you had your own discretionary funds.” “Discretionary funds, Carlotta?”

“Yes, private monies you could dip into to assist needy students or for other uses. Funds that would be separate from the school’s, that you could administer entirely on your own.”

Miss Pomdreck was clearly intrigued. “I suppose such a theoretical monetary influx could be of immense benefit to my work.”

“Miss Pomdreck, if you permit me to speak frankly, I am in a position to make such a contribution.”

“Really, Carlotta?” she said, observing with interest as I rummaged through my purse for my checkbook. “And what sort of modest figure were you thinking of?”

I clicked open my pen. “I was thinking of $5,000.”

Stunned, Miss Pomdreck sat back in her chair.

“Think how much good you could do, Miss Pomdreck. It would warm my heart to help in this small way. And such a sum would entail no financial hardship on my part.”

“Yes, Carlotta, I’ve heard it bandied about that you’d come into some money. Well, I really don’t know what to say!”

“Say yes,” I smiled, starting to write out the check. I paused. “Of course, there is one thing. I shall have to be excused from gym.”

Miss Pomdreck studied the row of numbers on my check. “I’ll explain things to Miss Arbulash. I’m sure she’ll understand, Carlotta.”

“Good,” I said, signing the check with a flourish. “You’ve been wonderfully understanding, Miss Pomdreck. I knew I could count on you.”

Miss Pomdreck slipped the check into her purse. “We’ll keep this a private matter between us, Carlotta.”

“Of course, Miss Pomdreck. You can rely on me.”

Well, I dodged another close call. I don’t know what I would have done if Miss Pomdreck had proved resistant to bribery. I might have been forced to drop out of school, thus terminating my formal education (such as it is) at age fourteen. What a blow to my literary ambitions—not to mention the world of letters.

FRIDAY, February 26—Carlotta spent most of her clothing technology class this morning buzzing from table to table trying to stir up some romantic interest in Fuzzy DeFalco. The only person willing to pursue the topic was star pupil (and teacher’s pet) Gary Orion, busy embroidering the hem of his velvet bolero pants.

“Fuzzy DeFalco,” he said, trying to place the name. “Isn’t he that boy with the shag-carpeted body? What is he—Italian?”

“He claims to be,” sniffed Sonya Klummplatz. “He took Carlotta to the Christmas dance, and now she’s trying to unload him on somebody else. It’s because she knows Trent Preston’s girlfriend is leaving the country.”

“I am
not
interested in Trent,” Carlotta retorted.

“Yeah, I hear you’re stuck on mystery person S.S.,” commented Gary.

Time to change the subject. “Say, Gary, are you planning on wearing those pants to school?” inquired Carlotta.

“No way, girl. They’re going in my hope chest—for when I move to San Francisco with mystery person T.P.”

“Dream on, guy!” sneered Sonya.

4:30 p.m. ANOTHER STUPEFYING DISASTER! Carlotta got the bad news from Miss Pomdreck, who stopped me in the hall as I was following terminally despondent Trent Preston into eighth-period art class.

“Oh, there you are, Carlotta,” called my guidance counselor. “I’ve worked out a nice compromise with Miss Arbulash.”

“Compromise?” I asked uneasily.

“Yes, you are officially excused from gym class. She only requests that you assist her that period with a few unstrenuous administrative and locker-room duties.”