Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp
Page 33
“Well, I’ll give her the message after her parents leave. But I can’t promise she’ll call. It was nice meeting you, Nick. Tell Vijay thanks for the picture and to look me up next time he’s in Santa Cruz. Ciao, Nick. Don’t be sad. It really is all for the best.”
I hung up. Move over, Albert. I may be joining you soon. Right after I assassinate a certain meddlesome roommate.
11:30 A.M. After much maddening badinage with obnoxious French-speakers, I finally succeeded in having Bernice Lynch brought to the phone.
“Hello, Nick,” she said breathlessly. “What a surprise. I was just dusting all the second-floor fire extinguishers.”
“Bernice, we have a crisis. Taggarty has wrecked our plot to have Sheeni withdrawn from school.”
“That interfering bitch! What did she do?”
Briefly, I summarized Taggarty’s treacherous machinations.
“I should have expected it,” sighed Bernice. “In some ways, Taggarty is almost as bad as Sheeni. What can we do now, Nick?”
“We have to get rid of Taggarty!”
“You want her snuffed!” she whispered. “That’s asking a lot, Nick.”
“You misunderstand me, Bernice. We have to get Taggarty expelled. As quickly as possible.”
“I don’t know, Nick. This is a pretty permissive school. I’m not sure you could do anything bad enough to get expelled. It might be simpler just to waste her.”
“Think, Bernice. Kids must leave your school for some reason!”
“Well, once in a while a girl gets suspended for being in a family way. I could sneak into Taggarty’s room and sabotage her diaphragm. I know where she hides it. I could stab it with a hairpin.”
“That’ll take too long. It might be months before she’s knocked up. We haven’t that much time.”
“Well, a few kids leave every term because their parents can’t pay the tuition. And a few more flunk out. The academics are very demanding. But Taggarty’s smart. And her parents are loaded.”
I began to see a glimmer of hope. “Bernice, do you still work in the dining hall?”
“Sure, when I’m not swabbing toilets.”
“Do you ever serve food to Taggarty?”
“Every day. The bitch digs being waited on. You want me slip some arsenic into her sloppy joe?”
“Not poison exactly. I can’t tell you now. These phones may have ears. I’ll write to you. Expect a letter soon.”
“Great, Nick. I really appreciate the mail.”
“Any news of Ed Smith, Bernice?”
“He’s working overtime, Nick. He had a date to take Sheeni to some kind of performance art last night, but she had to cancel when her parents showed up. Ed’s into theater, you know. He wants to be a stage director, the stuck-up creep.”
“What does Mr. Pretentious Aspiring Director look like?” I asked.
“Boring and bland, Nick: six-two, big shoulders, soft blue bedroom eyes. Lots of casually tossed sandy blond hair. Wardrobe of natural fibers in coordinated earth tones. Expensive Italian leather loafers. Some girls find his dimples cute too. Personally, I think he’s a real zero. A perfect match for Sheeni.”
That’s just what I was afraid of. Sheeni must be withdrawn from that corrupting environment as soon as possible.
“OK, Bernice. Thanks for the update. Keep me posted. I really appreciate your help.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble…Nick, you do like me, don’t you?”
“Oh sure.”
“How much?”
“Uh, a lot. You’re, uh, neat. I wish I was there, so I could see you more.”
“Me too. I like you. Uh, Nick, in your letter, could you write about how much you like me? I never got a love letter before.”
“Sure, Bernice. No problem.”
“Goodbye …sweetheart.”
François looked at me accusingly. “Hey, guy, if you’re putting the moves on that chick, I’m parting company, here and now.”
“I’m not putting the moves on anyone,” I retorted. “I am currying favor with an extremely valuable inside operative.”
2:30 P.M. No word yet from Sheeni. Dwayne came over and started blubbering when Lacey informed him of Albert’s demise. Worse, he’s now refusing to pay the $2 he owes me in accumulated dog-walking fees. He did, however, fork over last night’s unswallowed sedative.
“These are quite effective,” I informed him. “I was testing one last night when you wrote that rude note.”
“Oh, so you wasn’t sleepin’ ’cause you had to?”
“Of course not. I was conducting an experiment. Tell me, Dwayne, does your mother have many of these capsules?”
“She has a whole big bottle! The doctor doubled my dose ’cause I been stayin’ up again. I made it to 3:30 last night and boy am I tired!”
“Good for you, Dwayne. Keep at it. Now, what you must do is bring me about a third of the capsules in that bottle. If we limit our borrowing, your mother likely won’t notice the loss.”
“What’ll you give me if I do?”
“If you do as I say, I won’t inform your mother about your violating my privacy while I was drugged.”
Dwayne reddened. “I didn’t do nothin’, Nick. Say, Nick, you think Albert’s up in heaven now?”
“Of course not. No one’s paid his purgatory fees yet.”
“What’s that?”
I explained the concept of purgatory to Dwayne, and outlined the typical schedule of fees, interest, and installment payments for deceased canines.
“Wow, it’s ’spensive getting into heaven,” he exclaimed. “I just thought you had to be good.”
“Well, every dollar you pay toward someone’s fees is also credited to your own account. It’s called the Purgatory Incentive Plan. Now, how much can you afford every week?”
“I guess about $2.”
Dwayne handed over his first payment in cash and I wrote out a receipt. “You’re doing a very good deed, Dwayne. Albert will appreciate it.”
“Thanks, Nick. How much are you paying?”
“Fifty dollars a week.”
“Wow, Nick. You must’ve really loved that dog!”
“We were very close,” I lied.
5:15 P.M. Still no call from Sheeni. Surely her parents have left by now. I do not permit myself to imagine she is out with Ed, admiring his corn-fed dimples.
Dwayne returned with 29 purloined capsules. I put them in a small box with the four he had already passed to me and mailed them to Bernice. I also enclosed this tepid mash note:
Dear Bernice,
Here’s the plan. You must introduce one of these sedatives into Taggarty’s beverage every morning at breakfast. She may be intelligent, but she is not likely to pass her courses when she is falling asleep in class. One capsule should also be administered during the evening meal. This will take the intellectual edge off her homework. Don’t worry, I shall be sending you more capsules as I obtain them.
By the way, if Ed Smith should happen to schedule any more dates with Sheeni, please slip him a capsule too.
Since meeting you, I have come to realize my interest in Sheeni was merely a transient adolescent infatuation. I like you more than I can say. I find you as charming as your name. Take courage, my sweet spy. Working together, we shall outsmart all those stuck-up cake eaters.
Affectionately,
Nick
P.S. Please destroy this letter immediately!
I could force my epistolary lovemaking no further. One can pursue insincerity only so far before the spirit (and François) rebel. Damn, I wish I had more pills. I’d put Ed asleep 24 hours a day too. He could become living performance art.
10:15 P.M. Concluding that the wily Taggarty had failed to convey my message to Sheeni, I called My One and Only Love. Macheteing my way through thick undergrowths of French, I finally reached my elusive inamorata.
“Nickie, what an emotionally exhausting day! I feel like I just survived the Siege of Leningrad. My parents were worse than I ever im
agined possible. And, as you know, I have an extremely agile imagination. For a time, it really seemed this would be my final day in Santa Cruz. I had reached the nadir of despair!”
“Yes, Taggarty told me how she saved the day,” I said. “Did she tell you I called?”
“I think she mentioned it. Wasn’t she brilliant? Oh, she is such a true friend. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
But you may soon find out.
Sheeni continued, “Of course, the matron helped also. She assured my parents that except for that one minor lapse my conduct has been above reproach. Thankfully, Dean Wilson was away for the weekend. Odd, the matron insists she never informed on us to the dean. What do you make of that, Nickie?”
I was concerned with more important topics. “Sheeni, what is happening with us? Have you promised never to see or speak to me ever again?”
“I have, Nickie. Fortunately, the moral ambiguities inherent in parental contracts made under duress always permit some amelioration of the terms. But we must be extraordinarily careful. My parents must be given no reason to suspect we have any contact with each other. Absolutely none whatsoever!”
“But we’ll still see each other? You still care for me?”
“Of course, darling. You are my one special friend. I’m not going to let my parents separate us. Their intense disapproval of you is one of your most attractive qualities. Besides, there’s our love child to consider.”
“Our love child?”
“Albert. We are raising him jointly. We must think of his welfare as well as our own. A separation now could be extremely traumatic for a young canine. By the way, how is my darling dog?”
I gulped. “Oh, he’s …fine.”
“Still chewing sweet little bones?”
“Yes, bones and other things.”
“Oh, how I miss him, Nickie.”
“He misses you too. In the worst way.”
“It’s late, Nickie. I have to go and collapse now.”
“One more thing, Sheeni. I keep forgetting. What grade did Taggarty give Vijay? He’s dying to know.”
“I believe she gave him an A. It’s perhaps uncharitable of me, but I hope that particular talent does not run through his entire family.”
“Don’t you want Trent to be happy in love?” I asked, playing the devil’s advocate.
“I want everyone to be romantically fulfilled. Trent, however, may not be first on my list for such happiness.”
“Who is?” I cooed.
“Taggarty, I should think,” Sheeni replied. “We owe her a tremendous debt, Nickie.”
Yes, my darling, I know. I intend to work it off as best I can.
MONDAY, October 22 — Bruno Modjaleski is free again. The Mendocino County jail must be porous in the extreme.
At lunch, Vijay was thrilled to hear of his high score. “Taggarty actually gave me a B!” he exclaimed. (To further the cause of humility in my friends, I had altered his grade slightly.) “That must be in the 90th percentile for her.”
Everyone was on edge at work today. Mr. Preston was mad because some big-shot subscribers have been calling in to complain about outrageous typographical errors in their letters printed in the latest issue. Miss Pliny was upset because Mr. Preston upbraided her for slipshod proofreading. Dad was in a blue funk because his stitches come out tomorrow and he’ll soon have to resume actual work. Mr. Rogavere got a splitting headache and went home early after Mr. Preston suggested they change all the headlines to a typeface called Log Cabin. (The rustic, wood-grained letters appear to have been whittled from pine boughs.) And I was totally pissed because Mr. Preston wouldn’t give me permission to leave early to meet Apurva in the library.
Finally, at 4:45 I announced I had caught Mr. Rogavere’s migraine and hastily departed before anyone could object. In the library’s ornate, pseudo-Gothic reading room, I found the beautiful Apurva bent industriously over her homework.
“Good afternoon, Nick. I was afraid you weren’t coming. What do you know about algebra?”
“What don’t I know about algebra is a better question,” I replied, quickly solving for two unknowns and correcting several glaring errors on her worksheet. Her numbers, though incorrect, were decorated charmingly with many cursive loops.
Clearly Apurva was impressed. “Thank you, Nick. I’m afraid I have very little aptitude for this subject. Vijay is the mathematician in the family. I dislike asking him for help, however; he adopts such a supercilious manner.”
“I’ll help you anytime you like, as humbly as I can,” I said, inhaling her delicious scent. She smelled of sandalwood and blackboard chalk.
“Thank you, Nick. You are too kind. How are you enjoying school?”
“It’s OK. No worse than lingering paralysis. How’s your school?”
“Quite stimulating. It’s much better now that the other students are beginning to accept me. It was difficult when I first arrived.”
“You don’t mind that it’s only for chicks, I mean, women?”
“No. I’m used to it. I went to a girls’ school in India, you see. I prefer it, in fact. You get a much better education at a sex-segregated school. Boys are too much of a distraction in the classroom. Of course, after class they can be quite pleasant to have around. I was fortunate to meet Trent here in this library. We have a mutual interest in poetry. I was even more fortunate when you came along last summer and took Sheeni away from him. You did not know it at the time, but you had a very grateful unknown friend in Ukiah. How surprised I was when Vijay announced he had met you.”
“Well, I suppose I should thank you for keeping Trent occupied so well,” I said. “Though I wish I could feel more sanguine about his suitability for friendship.”
“What do you mean, Nick?” she asked in surprise.
“I happen to know that he has been making false statements about Sheeni.”
“What sort of false statements?”
“Libelous ones, I regret to say,” I replied. “He has cast aspersions upon her morals.”
Apurva bristled. “From what I understand, her conduct has indeed merited censure. And believe me, I have not heard the full story of her misdeeds. Trent has been remarkably discreet. I will not hear him maligned on this matter. His conduct has been above reproach. It is your friend, Nick, whose character should be scrutinized.”
“Well,” I said, taken aback, “clearly we have a difference of opinion here.”
“Yes, we do,” she said, calming down. “And I suppose it is likely to persist. We are both in love, Nick. No doubt our feelings rule our judgment. But let us agree to disagree. We can still be friends and work toward our common interests.”
“You mean blasting those two out of Santa Cruz?” I asked.
“Yes. The last letter from Trent that escaped Father’s detection was devoted almost entirely to encomiums to windsurfing. The ocean is proving a decidedly bad influence. Trent is neglecting his poetry. He must return inland—before his mind suffers permanent damage.”
“Sheeni is befriending farm boys from Iowa,” I said. “She talks of nothing but Holsteins and hybrid corn. I must bring her back so that she may resume her intellectual life.”
“I have a plan,” whispered Apurva, leaning closer.
I leaned forward also. I liked the way soft round forms swelled beneath her clothing. “What is your plan?” I asked.
“We must make them jealous, Nick. We must pretend to be having a torrid affair. I know Trent will come back to me if he believes there is strong competition here. Especially if his rival is someone who has bested him once already.”
“That is an excellent plan,” I said enthusiastically. “Just last night Sheeni was telling me she wished you were not quite so attractive. I’m sure she will be terribly jealous.”
I wasn’t sure at all, of course. But I liked the idea of having an affair with Apurva, even if one of us was only pretending.
“There is just one problem,” she added.
“What’s th
at, darling?” asked the now unleashed François. Conducting torrid affairs was his field of special expertise.
“Well, love of my life,” she replied coquettishly, “we must have our wild, passionate, public affair without my father finding out. He’ll murder you.”
I gulped. “Literally?”
“Perhaps not. But I don’t want to find out. Do you?”
“No, darling. We must keep your father in the dark. At all costs.”