Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “What a fantastic stepmother you have,” he exclaimed as we went in my room and closed the door. “Why is she wearing such a revealing swimsuit? Do you have a pool?”

  I replied that Lacey dressed that way to stay cool and she was my dad’s girlfriend, not his wife.

  “Then they are living together,” he whispered. “How racy! You are lucky to have parents who are open-minded. Mine are so straitlaced.”

  “Yes, Dad’s a real bohemian,” I lied. “Say, Vijay, who was that who answered your phone?”

  “My sister Apurva. She’s 16.”

  Apurva! A name as beautiful as the voice. “Is she pretty?” I asked.

  “She certainly thinks so. She’s always pouting because Father won’t let her go out with American boys.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t trust them—or her. He says she has to stay pure and marry some nice Indian boy. I don’t think she wants to, though.”

  “Stay pure or marry some nice Indian boy?”

  “Neither,” declared Vijay. “But I expect she’ll do as she’s told. My father is a tyrant on that subject, you see.”

  “Can you go out with American girls?”

  “Of course,” he answered. “I just better damn well not want to marry one. Now, where is that letter?”

  I waited impatiently as Vijay, smiling and chuckling, silently scanned Sheeni’s letter. “Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “Sheeni is so clever. And her French is superb. It really is unfortunate you can’t read it. My translation will never do it justice.”

  “Do your best,” I urged.

  So laboriously, with much stopping and backtracking, Vijay plodded through the letter, turning Sheeni’s “superb French” into a confusing muddle of English. It appears that she is excited by her new school and finds her classmates and teachers much more stimulating than at Redwood High. She is also enjoying the total immersion in French. English cannot be spoken on campus “even if you are hemorrhaging from an accidental limb amputation.” At first she wasn’t certain she was prepared for the challenge, but now believes it is the only sensible way to acquire real language fluency. Her partial escape from parental bondage is also extremely liberating (not excessively, I hope). She has an interesting roommate from New York named Taggarty, who—though she is only 16—has already lived in London, Florence, Barcelona, and Paris. As further proof of her precocity, she already has slept with 17 guys and hopes to rack up 50 before college.

  “I must meet this girl,” leered Vijay.

  Sheeni and Taggarty have been exploring Santa Cruz and find it not without its cultural attractions for a “small, provincial American city.” They also like the beach and boardwalk, where Taggarty is conducting an ongoing quest for the “cutest and dumbest” surfer. Trent has taken up windsurfing and has been designated “target number one” by all the girls in her class. Sheeni says she is trying not to be jealous, but sometimes experiences “twinges of distress.” She says Trent’s appearance on campus came as a “complete shock” to her. He maintains it was merely a “fortuitous coincidence” that they both happened to transfer to the same school. (What a liar!) Of course, notes Sheeni, with his test scores and academic record, Trent has his choice of any school in the country. She says dorm food is not as bad as one might fear, and they have a view of the ocean from their bathroom window if they stand on the toilet. All in all, she is happy and looks forward to “further growth in this rich, intellectual environment.”

  Vijay sighed and folded the letter.

  “Was that it?” I asked, startled. “Wasn’t there anything about me?”

  “Oh, yes. She said ‘love to you and Albert.’ Who’s Albert?”

  “Albert is our dog,” I replied testily. “That’s all?”

  “I’m afraid so, my friend. That’s the complete translation as best I can do it. Oh, and she’s noted her address and the number for the telephone on their hall.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this one bit,” I said.

  “No,” agreed Vijay.

  “Her roommate sounds like a decidedly bad influence.”

  “Yes, Nick, she certainly seems remarkably uninhibited. She must be good-looking to be so attractive to boys. I wonder if she’s made it with a Hindu yet?”

  “This won’t do at all. I’ve got to get Sheeni to transfer back to Redwood High,” I said, thinking out loud, “as quickly as possible. She and Taggarty could be dating surfers as we speak.”

  “I wonder if Taggarty likes intelligent boys too?” speculated Vijay. “Of course, I could always pretend to be stupid.”

  “Vijay, help me!” I insisted. “We’ve got to get Sheeni back to Ukiah.”

  “You’re right, my friend. Sheeni may be happy down there, but this town is a desert without her. She must return for the general welfare.”

  “We all have to make sacrifices,” I pointed out.

  “That is the road to enlightenment, so the philosophers tell us,” he added.

  “Sheeni,” I announced, “I have to do this. For your own good.”

  “But what are you going to do?” asked Vijay.

  “I don’t know exactly. I haven’t figured it out yet. But I’m desperate.”

  “Whatever it is,” said Vijay, “let’s make sure it involves meeting this remarkable Taggarty. At least once.”

  “I take it then, Vijay, you are still a virgin?”

  “Yes, and I find it extremely galling. When Gandhi was my age, he had already been married three years.”

  No wonder Gandhi turned out to be a great man. When you get your love life nailed down that early, think of all the time it frees up to devote to Great Ideas.

  SUNDAY, October 7— 12:20 P.M. Sheeni just called. Lacey and Dad were out taking Albert into the hills to pee on redwoods, so I was able to accept her collect call.

  “Bon jour, Nickie,” whispered The Woman of My Dreams.

  “Hello, Sheeni darling,” I replied. “I can hardly hear you. Is something the matter?”

  “I’m calling from the dorm, so I have to talk softly. We’re not supposed to speak English on campus, even on the phone.”

  “I know. I tried calling you last night but you were out.”

  “Yes. Taggarty and I went to a party.”

  “Oh, I see. How was it?” I imagined dim rooms full of debauched surfers.

  “It was fun. The people here are so interesting. Nickie, I want you to feel you are free to go out with other people. As Taggarty points out, we really are rather young to tie ourselves down. Especially with all the miles separating us.”

  “I love you, Sheeni,” I replied. “I don’t want to go out with anyone else.”

  “I feel the same way, Nickie. I just want you to know you are free to do as you wish.”

  A generous sentiment, Sheeni, but one with an alarming corollary. “Well, darling, it may be un-American to say this, but I don’t want to be free. I’m perfectly happy being enslaved—to you.”

  “How sweet,” whispered Sheeni. “Oh, did you get my letter?”

  “Yes, darling. Your French was marvelous. Very clever.”

  “You didn’t have any difficulty reading it then?”

  “Not at all. Mrs. Blandage says I am a born linguist.”

  Sheeni then spoke animatedly for several minutes in French. When she finished, I said, “Uh, darling, I guess my oral comprehension still lags somewhat behind my reading level. Could you repeat that in English?”

  “I was just describing my classes, Nickie. How do you like Redwood High? Have you made any friends yet?”

  “Just a few. You know Vijay Joshi?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s a nice boy. Very cultured for Ukiah. Odd politics, though. He once invited me to a rally welcoming an aide to Dan Quayle. Vijay’s sister is quite beautiful. She’s been writing letters to Trent.”

  “Does Trent write back?” I asked, shocked.

  “Of course. I think he may be in love with her. The rat. Just kidding, Nickie. It’s all hopeless,
though, since her father is so strict.”

  I must meet this sister, thought François. We then talked for an additional one hour and fifteen minutes. Finally, my heart filled with love, my ear inflamed, I said goodbye and rang off. I can see I won’t be buying any mountain bikes soon. All my hard-earned wages will be going straight to AT&T.

  4:20 P.M. The familiar hiss of air brakes brought me to my window. A big semi had stopped outside and there was no mistaking the driver. It was Wally Rumpkin. The immense pink seven-footer was just climbing down from the cab as I walked out to greet him.

  “Hi, Wally! What a surprise!”

  “Oh, hi, Nick,” said Wally, shyly addressing a scraggly juniper by the edge of the drive. “I was hoping this was your street. I had an awful time finding it.”

  A black blur darted between my legs and leaped—all wiggles and lapping tongue—into Wally’s surprised arms.

  “Doggie, please don’t do that,” said Wally, gently returning the squirming Albert to the ground. “I’m making a run to Tacoma, Nick. So I brought you your bicycle.”

  “That’s great, Wally. Thanks!”

  Wally opened the great swinging doors of his rig and carefully lifted down my old Warthog ten-speed (a $5 garage sale purchase presented to me on my eighth birthday by my loving dad).

  “You’re a lifesaver, Wally. Boy, can I use this. I’ve been walking 12 miles a day.”

  “No trouble, Nick,” replied Wally to the concrete plant in the distance. “It was on my way. And it gave me a chance to see your mother.”

  “Oh, her. How is she?”

  “Very bad, I’m afraid. She’s engaged to be married.”

  “Engaged! Not to that fascist cop, I hope.”

  “I’m afraid so. They’re going to Reno next Saturday.”

  In less than one week I will have an evil stepfather. And I wasn’t even consulted.

  “That’s terrible, Wally. Couldn’t you talk her out of it?”

  “I tried, Nick, but she wouldn’t listen. I think she may be doing it out of a misplaced sense of gratitude.”

  “Gratitude! For what?” I demanded.

  “Oh, you know,” said Wally, blushing. “Helping cover up after the fire.”

  “Oh, that.” More guilt for Nick. “How’s that going?”

  “Fine, don’t worry. The arson investigators have been out once or twice to talk to your mother. They searched your neighbor’s house and got real suspicious when they found all the radical pamphlets. But they didn’t have any evidence to arrest him on, so they let him go. Now the city’s offering a $10,000 reward.”

  I swallowed nervously. $10,000 was a lot of money. Anyone might turn me in for a sum that large. Even I was tempted.

  No time to write any more. I just told Dad about Mom getting married, so he’s taking Lacey and me out for steaks to celebrate. His long nightmare of debilitating alimony payments may soon be over.

  MONDAY, October 8 — The damning evidence against Bruno continues to mount. Vijay’s friend Fuzzy DeFalco confirmed at lunch today that Redwood High’s star quarterback (star so far of one tie and five defeats) lives on the same street as Sheeni’s parents. Yet could Sheeni really have yielded up her delicate virginity to such an oafish clod? I recoil in contemplating such desecration. So instead I ruminate on tortures involving steam-heated jockstraps and sharpened steel cleats grinding into low, hairy brows.

  Speaking of hairy, I’m told Fuzzy acquired his nickname at the age of nine when he first came to the attention of scouts for the U.S. Olympic Body Hair Team. He could shave nonstop from his eyes to his toes, but instead maintains only a small facial clearing that ends arbitrarily about two inches above his collar. All his clothes float away from his body on a dense layer of red fur. Vijay has suggested he seek government recognition as a National Hair Transplant Reserve.

  Fuzzy takes this ribbing good-naturedly, but gets mad when girls tape flea collars to his locker. They also pretend to scratch when he enters a room, which makes him even madder. Still, his perpetual five o’clock shadow remains zit-free, so he has no real reason for complaint. His parents have money, which in my book compensates for virtually all genetic disfigurements (excepting only the horror of penile abbreviation).

  Vijay claims that despite all the evidence to the contrary, Fuzzy is extremely intelligent. “He’s just misguided,” says Vijay, “a victim of your mediapromulgated American mass culture.” Perhaps from watching too many beer commercials, Fuzzy aspires to be a jock, but is hampered by chronic klutzitis. He has tried out for all the sports teams (including the namby-pamby ones like golf), but has been rejected for incompetence by them all. Nonetheless, he continues to yearn for athletic stardom.

  After school, I shuffled up the dusty stairs of doom and entered the World of Work. Only 10 minutes later I could feel brain cells starting to wither and die. Why are all the jobs offered to youths so cripplingly boring? You’d think the gods of capitalism would give us the interesting jobs. Then, when we’re safely shackled into the system with marriages and mortgages, they could turn the tedium up full blast. Nope, we’re immediately abandoned, naked and defenseless, on the icy tundra of ennui—and paid peanuts for our suffering to boot.

  My job of the day was to file an immense stack of papers in a vast bank of musty green cabinets. This proved to be harder than it looked (but no more interesting). There was one cabinet for A–D, one for E–L, one for M–O, 28 cabinets for P, and one for R–Z. I doubt if anyone in the lumber industry consulted the file clerks when they decided to name particle board with the same first letter as plywood. And did no one think to remind them of that popular wood called pine? Not to mention paneling, pecan, poplar, and pecky cedar.

  I got so perplexed and peeved among the P’s, I fear my filing soon grew somewhat prankishly perverse. Plus, the obvious indifference of my predecessors to alphabetical rigor only encouraged continued capriciousness. I filed a report on Swedish furniture-grade plywood under G (for Greta Garbo) and a survey of decorative particle board paneling under O (for “only for the aesthetically impaired”).

  Dad, true to character, pretended we weren’t related and ordered me about like the Despot of Constantinople. He even insisted I address him as Mr. Twisp to, in his words, “maintain proper business decorum.” I complied, but let my pronunciation slide. “Yes, suh, Mr. Twit,” I salaamed. It felt right somehow. This brought a smirk to the primly powdered face of Mr. Preston’s secretary, Miss Pliny (first name Penelope—no, she does not wish to be called Penny).

  Miss Pliny is either a prematurely faded 30 or a well-preserved 50. She wears soft-focus coordinated pastels, pins her sweater around her shoulders with a gold chain, sips gunpowder tea out of a china cup (with saucer), keeps a rose cachet in every desk drawer, speaks like an elocution teacher, and—anomalously—daubs her smoldering lips with flamboyant lipstick (color: autopsy red). As Progressive Plywood’s official proofreader, she ruthlessly blue-pencils every contraction, giving the already wooden prose an oddly stilted quality—as if it were composed by 19th-century scribes. Improbably, François finds her fascinating. I’m surprised—she doesn’t seem at all like his type.

  When I got home, I received the shock of my life. There at the dining-room table, napkin tucked under his double chin, fat face composed in an expectant grin, slouched my girlishly breasted classmate Dwayne.

  “Hi, Nick,” he exclaimed, “Mom’s makin’ pork roast for supper!”

  It was true. Despairing of bridging the yawning language chasm, Lacey has hired as housekeeper (for a one-week trial) the only Anglo applicant: Mrs. Flora Crampton, mother of you know who. Dad has agreed to let Dwayne eat with us in exchange for a slight reduction in the already penurious wage.

  “You must be… Nick,” said a phone-booth-sized woman in a frilly orange apron as she carried a big pan of corn bread out from the kitchen. “I’m Flora…Go wash your hands, boy…I don’t … serve two shifts.” She spoke amazingly slowly, as if she were inventing the language as she went along.
If you speeded up the tape, you might discover she speaks some obscure dialect of the rural Midwest.

  I frowned and counted the place settings on the table. Five!

  “Uh, Lacey,” I whispered, “shouldn’t the help and their children eat in the kitchen?”

  Flora overheard. “Well aren’t you… the stuck-up … little snot!” she said, slamming down the pan and huffing back into the kitchen. I noticed she had to crab-walk sideways through the too narrow (for her) doorway.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Crampton,” called Lacey. “Don’t be silly, Nick. We’re all going to have a nice meal together. Mrs. Crampton is a wonderful cook.”