Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  After moving in, I rented a post office box for mail deliveries, called up to arrange for phone service, secured a new library card, and dropped over $80 at a nearby thrift shop loading up on sheets, blankets, towels, kitchen stuff, and Rick S. Hunter’s none-too-fashionable school wardrobe. It was a pain being Carlotta, but at least she was equipped with every garment a chick could want. And sliding off her pantyhose was always good for a cheap thrill. Not to mention her bra.

  FRIDAY, April 9 — I enrolled again today at Redwood High. This was my first matriculation as a junior, my second as a male, and my third as an entirely different person. That must be some sort of California high-school record. No sign of Miss Pomdreck, my aged guidance counselor. Today’s enrollment was processed by Miss Drelfleur, a severe-looking older woman with blotchy skin and ratty hair teased into a gray tumbleweed.

  “I thought Miss Pomdreck was in charge of new students,” I said.

  Miss Drelfleur studied my application form and forged transcript. “Miss Pomdreck is no longer employed by this district.”

  “Oh,” I said with a sinking feeling. “Did she retire?”

  “You might call it that. So you were a student at John Wayne High School. Where’s that?”

  “In Orange County, down south. We were the Fighting Green Berets.”

  “Well, now you’re a Marauding Beaver. I hope you can make the transition. Why is it you’re 18, but only a junior?”

  “Uh, I was sick when I was 10 and missed a year of school. They thought it was Lou Gehrig’s disease, but it turned out to be Babe Ruth’s disease. That’s why I’m kind of short for my age.”

  “I see. Well, Rick, you have good grades, but I have to tell you most of our tracked classes are full now.”

  “I understand, Miss Drelfleur. I’ll take what’s available.”

  She gave me a printout of my schedule (wood technology II, boys’ gym, California problems, computer lab, lunch, study hall, life skills, and driver’s education), and assigned me locker 859, recently evacuated by problem student Carlotta Ulansky. The interior of my former locker revealed traces of a suspicious white powder. The cops must have been dusting it for my prints!

  By then first period was over, so I went straight to gym class, where most of my fellow juniors were 17 and outweighed me by at least 30 pounds. Today’s activity was basketball for aggressors, and I almost got the ball once. Lots of nude towel-snapping afterwards in the locker room by hairy-chested guys with large flopping penises. I hope Rick S. Hunter looks like that in a few years. As you might expect, most of the horseplay was directed at the new guy. All in all, I think I prefer girls’ gym.

  Needless to say, I kept my eyes peeled in the hallways for Sheeni, but I saw no sign of her. And vile Vijay dined alone at lunch, which led me to conclude My Love was absent today from school. I hope she hasn’t had a scorpion venom relapse. I’m dying to phone her, but I know what Connie would say to that idea.

  Trent, I noted with interest, no longer eats lunch with his swim-team buddies. Instead, he and Apurva occupy prestigious seats at a table reserved for Redwood High’s Cutest Couples. Speaking of which, Candy Pringle once again may have severed relations with Bruno Modjaleski. I spotted her snacking lightly with her fellow cheerleaders, while the disgraced quarterback kept a low profile at the same socially second-string table as Fuzzy DeFalco, believe it or not.

  I’ve decided it’s too risky to reveal Rick S. Hunter’s former identity to my best pal. Fuzzy’s pretty dependable, but few kids can stand up indefinitely to brutal police interrogation. Besides, he now may be under the impression I owe him some money. On my way to life skills class, I spotted him nuzzling Lana at her locker. She was wearing a new outfit and looking not unfetching. I’d pay somewhere in the low one figure to know what base my pal has landed on with her.

  Despite my having rocketed ahead two academic years, school was predictably tedious until last period, when I piled into a big Chevy sedan with Mr. Nurlpradt and three other juniors, one of whom was studious newlywed Apurva Preston. Since I was the newest and greenest driver’s ed student (despite my forged license), I got to go first. We cruised around quiet residential streets (past My Love’s own house!), and I made all my turns, dodged all oncoming cars, and ran over zero pedestrians. Those sexy automobile commercials don’t lie. What a sense of power and freedom—even with Mr. Nurlpradt’s cautious foot ever poised over the auxiliary brake pedal.

  I managed to exchange a few pleasant words with Apurva. She was looking very fine, but perhaps a trifle troubled? I must get to the bottom of things. Not easy, since I am once again a total stranger in school, a dreary role that still rates just slightly worse than terrorist hostage.

  SATURDAY, April 10 — My second night in my new home. Good thing I’m a sound sleeper. Some of our hard-of-hearing tenants like to turn their TVs up LOUD. And bikers on high-revving Harleys enjoy roaring up and down our alley at two in the morning. I think that may be when the bars close.

  I met my neighbor across the corridor, who turned out to be Ida, the elderly lunch-counter waitress at Flampert’s Variety Store. Considering the tips Carlotta used to leave her, I can see why she has to live here. She said hello while strolling back from the bathtub in a plaid robe I recognized as a $12.95 Flampert’s Original. She addressed me as “Mr. Marvin,” and said she hoped I would prove a better neighbor than the previous Mr. Marvin, who was always going off her medication with disruptive results.

  Apparently there is a tradition among the tenants of referring to each other by the names on their doors. Ida herself is identified on her door as “Walter M. Whatley, Certified Public Account,” so she is addressed as Mr. Whatley, though some long-term tenants call her Walt. Me, I’m happy I didn’t wind up in the office of “Evelyn O. Selzer, Stenographer and Typist.” Those rooms are currently occupied by a retired sawmill hand and his illegal cat.

  4:40 p.m. Back from Radio Shack, where I purchased their cheapest combined telephone/answering machine. I plugged it in, discovered my phone jack was now working, and made my inaugural call to Connie Krusinowski, who was lounging in the hot tub with Lacey.

  “Is she wearing a bathing suit?” I asked.

  “Yeah, not that I noticed.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Can you talk freely?”

  “I hardly think so, Roger.”

  “Have there been any developments, Connie?”

  “Yes, a promising one.”

  “Does it concern your father?”

  “Mostly the other one.”

  “Lacey?”

  “No, the other one.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes, Roger, Mother’s gone to our house in Palm Springs.”

  “She moved out?”

  “Yes, took the dogs with her. And Dogo too. I think she may be staying there for some time.”

  “She found out about Lacey?”

  “Yes, Roger, Benecia’s a gem.”

  “Your housekeeper spilled the beans?”

  “Uh-huh, good help can be expensive.”

  “Oh, your mother bribed her. So how’s your father taking it?”

  “Lovely, just lovely. And there’s so much to do, day and night.”

  “He and Lacey are constantly going at it?”

  “That’s so true, Roger. And how are things with you?”

  I filled her in on the events of the past few days, including the muffed diaper disaster.

  “Dropped the ball on that one, did you, Roger?”

  “Connie, I’m worried sick my brother may grow up mentally impaired!”

  “Not to worry, Roger. People drop them all the time. Mom was always firing housekeepers for dropping me. And we have expensive terrazzo floors. So unyielding to the flesh. By the way, how’s your lovely fiancée?”

  “I haven’t seen Sheeni yet, Connie. She wasn’t at school yesterday. I’m thinking of calling her.”

  “Of course not, Roger. Remember what I said. S
he’s exactly where you want her.”

  “Connie, she’s pregnant and miserable. And so am I—miserable, I mean.”

  “Your patience will be rewarded, Roger. I’m offering a woman’s perspective on this issue.”

  “So you say, Connie. Well, good luck on your end.”

  “And good luck to you too, Roger.”

  9:35 p.m. I had a lonely dinner for one at the Golden Carp, Ukiah’s budget-conscious Chinese restaurant. Steve the waiter served me attentively for a change as he had not yet experienced grave gratuity disappointment from my latest personality.

  After dinner I took a walk and found myself strolling past Sheeni’s stately Victorian home. No sign of My Love or her wearisome parents. Alarmingly, one of the cars in the driveway was a late-model Acura the same color as Trent’s. I kept on walking and came to Carlotta’s former house, where Apurva was pushing Granny DeFalco’s rusty reel-mower across the lawn in the ebbing light. She was looking most alluring in jeans and one of Trent’s white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up. I stopped to say hello, and tried to ignore loathsome Albert and Jean-Paul barking at me from behind the screen door.

  “Shouldn’t your husband be doing that?” I asked.

  Apurva called for the dogs to hush; they ignored her. “Oh, I do not mind, Rick. I need the exercise. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “Is it tension from starting a new school? I feel that too.”

  “Perhaps partially,” she replied, smiling weakly.

  “I’ll have to meet your husband sometime, Apurva. He seems to be quite a popular student. Is he home now?”

  “Uh, no,” she replied, contemplating the handle of her mower. “He is not home—at the moment, no.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe some other time then. Uh, see you in driver’s ed.”

  “Yes, Rick. That will be nice. I was quite impressed with your driving skills.”

  “You did very well too, Apurva. Well, good night.”

  “Good night, Rick.”

  Something was clearly amiss. Apurva looked almost as miserable as I feel. Too bad Carlotta wasn’t available for an intimate girl-to-girl chat. Chicks are so much less forthcoming with guys. I’ve got to find out what the hell is going on!

  • • •

  SUNDAY, April 11 — Another no-show by Sheeni at the do-nut shop. Doesn’t our zygote have to eat? Or is it an embryo by now? Guess I spent too many hours in health class pondering the erotic diagrams and not enough time studying the medical terminology.

  After breakfast I reached deep within the bowels of my sofa, extracted my concealed money belt, and sucked out another $100. Thus, my banking technology has regressed about 500 years from Carlotta’s ATM card. I hit the neighborhood garage sales and managed to score an old French-made ten-speed for a mere $20. For another fiver, the guy threw in a lock, chain, and brain bucket. Once again I have wheels, though what François really desires is a car.

  Even if I could find a decent cheap car, I remind him, the compulsory insurance would be financially mutilating. Plus, if I ever got pulled over by the cops, they might wonder why my driver’s license number wasn’t in their computer. I could use my fake birth certificate to apply for a real license, except I’d have to give the DMV an incriminating thumbprint. So it looks like I bike it for now. What a waste of taxpayer-funded driver’s education.

  5:08 p.m. I just had an unnerving conversation in Flampert’s Variety Store with Sonya Klummplatz and Lana Baldwin. I was jawing my way through a piece of stale pecan pie at the lunch counter (it was Ida’s day off), when Sonya seated her bulky frame on the adjoining stool—greatly crowding me and my plate even though many other empty stools were available. Her friend squeezed in on the other side of her. Interpreting this unexpected proximity as an invitation to get acquainted, I remarked that I had just transferred to Redwood High and asked if they were fellow students. They conceded they were, we introduced ourselves, and chatted amiably about my new town and school. Eventually, I steered the conversation around to the latest gossip sweeping the campus.

  “Yeah, the guy’s name was Nick Twisp,” Sonya explained. “The whole school was crawling with cops looking for him. The FBI too. We even had TV reporters up from San Francisco. The cops dusted his locker for fingerprints, but we wiped it all down before they got there.”

  Sonya I could (almost but not quite) kiss you!

  “But how did you know Nick’s locker combination?” I asked.

  “Easy, Rick,” replied Lana in her West Virginia drawl. “I work in the office and snuck the number out of the locked file. ’Tain’t no big secret where they hide that key.”

  “I hear the cops questioned a girl named Sheeni Saunders,” I said.

  “Stuck-up bitch,” sniffed Sonya. “She’s knocked up, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “The joke’s on her though, Rick,” she continued. “The father is this cute guy Trent Preston. Only he’s married—to this gorgeous Indian girl, you know, from India.”

  “I think Apurva’s real sweet,” commented Lana.

  “Maybe,” said Sonya, “but I’d like to murder her anyway.”

  “What makes you think Trent is the father?” I asked.

  “Sheeni’s parents flipped out, Rick,” replied Sonya. “I hear they’re very conservative. They called up Trent’s parents and demanded he divorce Apurva and marry Sheeni. Everything’s in a big uproar.”

  “The rumor is Apurva could be expectin’ too,” Lana added.

  “But surely Trent has denied any involvement with Sheeni,” I said.

  Sonya slurped her soda. “You’re out of the loop, Rick. Trent admitted it’s his kid. Apurva’s standing by him though. I’d do the same, I guess, though I’d prefer to be lying under him. Oops, me and my dirty mind. Do you have a date for the spring dance, Rick?”

  “Uh, what? No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you do now, Rick. It’s girls ask boys. You’re my witness, Lana.”

  “That’s right, Rick,” confirmed Lana. “I’m kinda amazed, but she nailed you fair and square. That’s just what she said she was gonna do over at the cosmetics counter.”

  “Lana dear, let’s not give away all of our little secrets,” admonished her friend.

  Another unmitigated disaster. My genes are in an uproar over Trent’s embryonic usurpation. And how is it possible I have a dance engagement with Sonya?

  MONDAY, April 12 – I was on my way to computer lab and trying to dodge Sonya Klummplatz, when I heard someone call my name. I turned around and my heart somersaulted in my chest. It was My Love, looking impossibly beautiful and very surprised to see me. I seized conscious control of Rick S. Hunter’s body language.

  “Oh, hi, Sheeni,” I replied with feigned nonchalance.

  “Rick! What are you doing here?”

  “Going to school. What are you doing here, Sheeni? I thought you lived in Redding.”

  “No, I told you I was from Ukiah. But, but, why are you here?”

  “My physical therapist recommended it. She said the climate up here was ideal for recovering from life-threatening injuries.”

  I never made it to computer lab. At Sheeni’s suggestion, we cut class and sneaked across the street to the Beaver Lodge cafe, Redwood High’s off-campus teen hangout. We ordered tall lattes (as she can only tolerate the blandest of foods, Sheeni specified no coffee in hers) and ducked into a private booth, where My Love gave Rick S. Hunter an impassioned kiss.

  “How’s the scorpion bite?” I asked, when we came up for air.

  “God, that was awful, Rick. I’m OK now. But why didn’t you come to the hospital?”

  “I’m allergic to hospitals. They remind me of my accident.”

  “I thought I was never going to see you again, Rick. You didn’t write or anything.”

  “I’m not much of a writer, Sheeni,” I lied. “How have you been?”

  “Terrible, Rick. It’s been a hellish week. That test was a joke. It turns out I am pregnant. The doctor i
n Tucson told my parents!”

  “They didn’t take it well?”

  “Hardly. And they’re insisting I have the kid. Most so-called pro-life fascists at least sensibly make exceptions for their immediate family, but not my parents. Not those hypocrites. They insist on standing firm on their principles—by holding me and my body prisoner.”

  “They won’t let you out of the house?”

  “Only to go to school, Rick. My mother drops me off and picks me up. Can you believe that? So I’ve been cutting classes left and right. My friend Vijay is appalled. He thinks my grades will suffer—as if I could care about that now.”

  “What’s this I hear about Trent Preston being the father?”

  “I suppose everyone in school is gossiping about that. What does it matter who the father is? I’m not going to have it anyway, Rick.”

  “Trent’s wife is in my driver’s ed class, Sheeni. She seems a bit upset.”

  “She should have my problems.”

  “So Trent is the father, Sheeni?” I was nothing if not persistent.

  “I said it to shock my parents, Rick. I was sick of their high opinion of Trent. So, of course, he turns out to be too much of a gentleman to deny it.”

  “And now your parents want him to marry you?”

  “Do they ever. I think they’d even consider bigamy, if it were legal. I could be esteemed Wife Number Two and sleep with him on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On Sundays we could flip a coin. I don’t know why they don’t hate Trent. They certainly despise you, Rick.”

  “Most parents do,” I admitted. “What do Trent’s parents say?”

  “Oh, they hate me. They’ve decided to make the best of Apurva and their Indo-American grandchild.”

  “Is that a rumor or a fact?”

  “The latter, unfortunately. There was a big parents’ conference at my house last night. Apurva and I appear to have conceived at approximately the same hour. We may have adjoining beds in the delivery room. Won’t that be fun? Darling Trent can assist with both deliveries.”

  “So what does Trent say?”

  “Well, last night he graciously volunteered to adopt my kid. I’m not certain he cleared that idea beforehand with Apurva. I suppose they’d be raised as twins—one of mixed race and one not. Quite the modern blended family. That’s when I started screaming hysterically and locked myself in the bathroom.”