Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “All my stuff is gone. My parents think I’m a sicko. And the whole world knows I’ve got a crooked dick. Thanks a pantsful, Nick.”

  “What about Millie Filbert?” I said. “Did you hear what she said at your funeral?”

  “Yeah, I watched the tape. So what? I’d be too embarrassed ever to speak to her again. Did you see that article about me in the Chronicle?”

  “How did you get a copy of that?” I demanded.

  “Martha saved all the newspapers. She also taped all the TV news reports. God, no way I can face school on Monday. I’m going to kill myself for sure now.”

  “Don’t be retarded, Lefty,” I said. “You know what you are now?”

  “What?” he asked suspiciously.

  “You’re a big-time celebrity. A famous personality. And what do media superstars all have coming out of their ears?” “What?”

  “Girlfriends. Think about it, man. You can ask out any chick in the school.”

  “What about my wang condition?” asked Lefty doubtfully.

  “It’s only a negative if you make it a negative,” I said. “Why not look on it as an asset? Flaunt it, guy! You have something that’s out of the ordinary. Something unique. I bet there are lots of curious chicks out there now just dying to get their hands on your zipper.”

  “You think so, Nick?”

  “I know so, man.”

  Lefty pondered that for a moment. “What’d your mom say?” he asked.

  “She’s still working on the terms of my punishment. She went over to Marin to talk to my dad.”

  “That sounds bad,” said Lefty.

  “I expect it will be pretty horrible,” I said. “What did your parents do?”

  “I’m grounded for two weeks.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yeah, and I can’t play video games for a month.”

  “That’s all you got for an attempted suicide?” I asked. “Boy, Lefty, your parents are pretty lenient.”

  “Yeah, well, they also wanted me to go for counseling like Martha, but I talked them out of it.”

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  “I said it was all your idea. That I really never wanted to run away or commit suicide.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Sorry,” said Lefty. “I’m sorry I ratted on you, Nick. Thanks for not ratting on me.”

  “That’s OK.”

  “Well, I better go,” he said. “I’m not really allowed to talk to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “My parents say you’re a bad influence. And Martha hates you too. Funny, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Martha’s attitude,” replied Lefty. “What a change. She’s been really nice to me ever since I got back.”

  9:30 P.M. Disaster to end all disasters! Dad’s been on a three-day binge since Monday. He tried to run some old guy off the road for cutting in front of him on the freeway. Turns out it was Mr. Flagonphuel, the president of Agrocide Chemicals—the ad agency’s biggest account. So on Monday, Mr. Flagonphuel demanded—and received—Dad’s head on a silver platter. He’s been canned!

  Dad has no job prospects, no savings, and no funds for next month’s child support. What does this mean exactly? It means—Mom informed me with malicious relish—that there are no tuition funds to send me to St. Vitus Academy. IT MEANS I HAVE TO GO TO THE OAKLAND PUBLIC SCHOOLS!

  The horrors don’t end there. My allowance is reduced to ninety cents a day for lunch money only. I am grounded for two months. And I am not allowed to phone or write Sheeni. Not for a week. Not for a month. Not for a year. Never again! (But I can keep her lousy, stinking dog.)

  “Why?” I demanded, stunned and incredulous.

  “Because,” said Mom, “your father and I don’t feel she has been a good influence on you.”

  “My father has never met her,” I objected. “And besides, he’s an unemployed drunk.”

  “That’s just what I mean,” replied Mom. “Backtalk like that. You’ve been willfully disobedient ever since you met her.”

  Willful disobedience? Willful disobedience? Lady, you have not yet begun to experience willful disobedience. But keep your eyes open. And stand back.

  THURSDAY, September 6 — Another tormented, sleepless night. I bet if you totaled up my stress factors, they’d go right off the chart. I hope I don’t have any unsuspected aneurysms in my brain—I’d be dropping dead from a stroke any minute now.

  Being an iron disciplinarian must be getting to Mom. She chucked her chips again this morning. I rose to the bracing aroma of warm vomit wafting down the hall. Fortunately, we’re not speaking to each other, so I didn’t have to offer any phony filial commiseration. She left right after breakfast for God knows where.

  Then, while I was eating my Cheerios, Mr. Ferguson knocked on the back door. He had been talking with Mom and wanted the bus fare and his $40 back. So I invited him in and told him the whole ugly story. He was so sympathetic, he canceled the debt. And gave me another crisp $20 bill to boot! It’s a relief to know there are some decent adults in this world—even if they are leftwing commie pinkos.

  After breakfast I gave Albert the executive dog walk (condensed to save me time), and—willfully disobedient—phoned Sheeni’s number in Ukiah. Thank God, it was her incomparably desirable voice that answered. Quickly, I filled her in on all that had transpired. She was alarmed—and indignant—to hear that she had been banned from my life.

  “I knew my parents were meddlesome and shortsighted,” said Sheeni, “but yours, Nick, seem determined to pursue unenlightenment into hitherto unsuspected regions.”

  “What should we do?” I asked. “I’m desperate.”

  “Well,” said Sheeni, maintaining her composure, “we might look upon your father’s firing as a blessing in disguise.”

  “How so?”

  “Because, Nickie, if we are both destined to have second-rate public school educations, at least now perhaps we can acquire them in the same school system.”

  “You mean you’d transfer to the Oakland schools?” I asked, amazed. Did Sheeni really love me that much?

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” replied Sheeni. “I’m proposing that you move up here. We’ll get your father a job in Ukiah and you can come live with him.”

  “I don’t know if I could live with my father,” I said doubtfully. “My father is a moron.”

  “Well, your mother doesn’t sound so compellingly congenial at the moment either,” Sheeni pointed out. “At least if you lived here we could be together. And I could see darling Albert too. Yes, I think we should find him a job. What does he do?”

  “He’s a writer—sort of. He writes advertising copy.”

  “That’s bad,” said Sheeni. “The employment opportunities for writers up here are necessarily slim. I don’t suppose he’d like to change careers?”

  “Maybe. What sort of jobs do they have up there?”

  “How about a short-order cook?”

  “No,” I replied, “my father isn’t interested in any job that involves actual work. I think it would have to entail some kind of bogus brainwork. And preferably high-paid.”

  “OK,” said Sheeni, “I’ll see what I can do. Do you think he’d be amenable to moving?”

  “Maybe, if the rents are cheap enough. He’s always complaining about the high rents in Marin County. And if I was with him in Ukiah, he wouldn’t have to pay child support. Plus, he’d have his own live-in slave.”

  “That could be a powerful incentive right there,” agreed Sheeni. “And housing up here is relatively inexpensive—especially if you’re willing to live in a mobile home.”

  “I’d live in a drainage culvert to be with you,” I confessed.

  “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary, darling,” said Sheeni. “Especially if you ever intend to invite me over. Yes, Dolores, I’ll be taking the advanced math class too.”

  I could tell one of Sheeni’s loathsome parents had entered the room. I promised
to rush Dad’s résumé to her, then reluctantly said goodbye.

  “Goodbye, Dolores,” said Sheeni, “I hope to see you in class very soon.”

  Oh, if only that miracle could happen! Yes, to be near The Woman I Love I would willingly live in the boonies with an insensitive, competitive, penny-pinching jerk.

  4:30 P.M. I just sent Dad’s résumé to Ukiah by Express Mail. I hope Sheeni’s parents don’t question why their daughter’s old school chum Debbie Grumfeld has suddenly begun marking her correspondence “extremely urgent.”

  I found one of Dad’s old résumés in a desk drawer and doctored it slightly (he is now a graduate of Yale). Since Dad’s version itself was not unremittingly truthful, the document is now almost entirely a work of fiction. Still, if vice presidential candidates can do it, why not lowly copywriters? I even managed to dredge up some snappy writing samples from back issues of California Farmer.

  Mom came home with the Lincoln jammed with bags and boxes. Since we’re not speaking, I saw no reason to volunteer to help her unload. She lugged the packages up to Joanie’s room—which she is now keeping locked. Perhaps she’s starting a small in-home business fencing stolen merchandise. I certainly hope she didn’t buy all that stuff. She should be saving her money for school tuition.

  7:15 P.M. Liver, beets, and limas for dinner again. Mom must really hate my guts. We ate in silence—her chewing and me gagging. Then I did the dishes and it was back to my room. These four walls are certainly beginning to seem familiar. I figure this enforced captivity is good practice in case I am ever sentenced to a long prison term (for matricide?).

  9:30 P.M. Lefty just called with some amazing news. (Mom let me take the call, but limited me to three minutes lest my life seem too normal.) My pal has a date with Millie Filbert!

  “How did you ever work up the nerve to call her?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t too hard,” replied Lefty. “She called me.”

  “What about Willis?”

  “Oh, that’s over and done with,” said Lefty. “She’s dropped that turkey.” “And the kid?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lefty, “it sounds like that might have been dealt with.”

  “You mean she got an abortion?”

  “No way. She wouldn’t do anything like that. Probably she had a miscarriage.”

  “But she’s definitely not pregnant?” I asked.

  “No way,” said Lefty, offended. “I don’t think she ever was either. If you ask me, it was all a nasty rumor.”

  “Well, what does she say? Did you ask her?”

  “No way,” said Lefty. “I can’t ask a girl that. I just know she’s not knocked up.”

  “When are you going out?”

  “In two weeks. As soon as I’m ungrounded.”

  “Wow, Lefty,” I said, “you have a date with an experienced woman.”

  “I know, Nick. This could be the start of something big.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t suck its thumb and call you Dada.”

  “You’re gross,” said Lefty. “Anyway, I’m going to swipe some condoms. Just in case I need them.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “You’ll need them. Kid, the days of your cherry are numbered.”

  “You really think so?” asked Lefty.

  Mom, wearing her best liver-fed scowl, came back into the room. “Yes, Lefty,” I said, “I won’t be seeing you Monday at St. V’s. My parents are too poor to provide their son with a quality education.”

  One of Lefty’s jailers must have entered his room. “OK, Jim,” he said, “I’ll swap you a Stan Musial for a Bob Feller.”

  FRIDAY, September 7 — The last day of summer vacation. I awoke a grounded, estranged, lovesick, virtually penniless, balding teen with zits. Soon I shall be another casualty of the tragic neglect of our public school systems.

  Mom made it three mornings in a row. She catapulted her kibble just like clockwork at 7:06 A.M. I wonder if the liver was as delectable for her on its return flight? I hope she goes to the doctor soon—I’m beginning to experience parental regurgitation guilt. Of course, no one claimed it was easy raising a teenager.

  At breakfast Mom broke her vow of silence long enough to tell me to go register at the local junior high school.

  “But come straight home afterward,” she added in her sternest wardenlike voice. She shuffled over to the stove for a coffee refill. I noted with some trepidation that her ankles were grossly swollen. God, I hope Jerry didn’t give her the clap! And all this time I’d been doing my usual indifferent job of washing the dishes. From now on everything Mom touches gets sterilized in bleach.

  The junior high school was a tired-looking collection of stucco buildings lavishly autographed in spray paint by the local hoodlum associations. Crudely lettered signs on the entrance doors directed new students to the cafeteria—a large, low-ceilinged room teeming with Future Dropouts of America. I signed my name on a sheet and took a seat. If only I had thought to bring a book. No such novelty as reading material was in evidence anywhere. So I sat and studied my fellow prospective students. The melting pot, it seemed, was aboil. Many diverse tongues were being spoken, but conspicuously absent was English.

  After 94 minutes by the clock, a thin, harassed-looking man with glasses called my name. He said he was Mr. Orfteazle, my guidance counselor. He led the way to a tiny, windowless office knee-deep in computer printouts. I sat in a tiny chair (grade school surplus?) facing Mr. Orfteazle’s cluttered, battle-scarred desk.

  “So you want to transfer from St. Vitus?” he asked, studying me with evident interest over the top of his glasses. No wedding ring on his hairy fingers. Probably subscribes to Mandate, I concluded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We don’t get many transfers from there. Your father drop a bundle in the stock market?”

  “He got fired from his job,” I replied.

  “It’s usually something like that,” he said. “Well, Nick, you look like a bright kid. Too bad you didn’t drop by last month. I might have got you in some of the tracked classes. But those are all filled now.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked uneasily.

  “It means we have to put you in the regular classes. At least for the first semester. The pace may be a little slower than you’re used to.”

  “How slow?”

  “Bring a good book,” said Mr. Orfteazle with a conspiratorial wink. “Only kidding, of course. We have an excellent teaching staff here. You’ll do fine.” He hit a few keys on a battered computer terminal attached to the desk with what looked like ship’s anchor chain. “Now, let’s see what classes are still open.”

  A half hour later I left with a school ID card (to get me past the armed guards) and a computer printout of my fall schedule. Assuming Dad doesn’t move to Ukiah or I don’t run away from home, I shall be taking gym, English, American history, biology, study hall, lunch, Spanish I, wood technology, and basic office skills. How’s that for a curriculum guaranteed to wow the admissions officers of elite eastern colleges?

  As I was walking down a long, grimy hallway toward the exit, someone said, “Hi!” I turned around. It was fat Ms. Atari from the library. She had a construction-paper badge labeled “voluntere” (sic) pinned to her already matronly bust.

  “Are you going to be going to our school?” She posed this question so beamingly I wondered if she was high on drugs. Probably it was just her repellently upbeat fat personality.

  “Maybe,” I replied. “I mean, I hope not.”

  “If you do,” she said, “I hope you’ll join our computer club. I’m the president!”

  “That’s nice,” I said, edging toward the door. “But I don’t think I’ll have time for extracurricular activities.”

  “Why not?” she asked, following me.

  I tried to think of a sufficiently irrefutable reason. “I’m on parole.”

  “Oh!” said Ms. Atari, beaming with even more interest. “You don’t say!”

  “Yes,” I replied, finally reac
hing the door. “And I’m late for a gang meeting.”

  Ms. Atari had one last question. “What’s your name?”

  “Nick.”

  “Mine’s Rhonda,” she called, still beaming.

  It figured. She looked like a Rhonda.

  When I got home, Mom was banging away in Joanie’s room with the door closed. Perhaps she’s constructing a teen torture chamber. She might as well. When I opened the refrigerator to fix some lunch, I got the shock of my life. Mom had been shopping. We now have 23 frost-free cubic feet filled with jars of red beets, packages of frozen lima beans, and tubs of beef liver. Dietary war has been declared!