Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

“John Wilkes Booth,” I suggested.

  “No, silly. We’re going to call him Lance Junior!”

  “Great, Mom. You’ve made my day too.”

  When I finally hung up, the phone rang promptly again.

  “Nick honey, it’s Bernice. I’ve been trying to call you since yesterday. Why didn’t you answer?”

  “Someone unplugged our phone,” I replied. “What’s up, Bernice?”

  “Plenty. Sheeni and Ed were arrested at a fried clams stand on Cannery Row. The cops made both of them call their parents!”

  “That’s great! Where are they now? In jail?”

  “No, Dean Wilson had to get out of bed last night and drive down to Monterey to pick them up. Boy, was he furious. I got some bad news, though, Nick. Dean Wilson recognized Taggarty’s Impulse. He made the cops drop the car-theft charges.”

  “What about driving without a license?” I asked indignantly.

  “Oh, Ed’s still in big trouble for that,” she replied.

  “I should hope so. Is he going to be expelled?”

  “Maybe. Dean Wilson was totally pissed. He was even yelling in English.”

  “What about Sheeni?” I asked. “Her parents must have been shocked. Are they going to make her leave school?”

  “I don’t know, Nick honey. I’m trying to find out, but I have to be, you know, subtle about it.”

  “I understand,” I assured her. “What facts have you discovered?”

  “Well, Taggarty was on the phone a long time this morning with her parents.”

  “Taggarty! She’s supposed to be in dreamland!”

  “I know, Nick. But you said to skip a pill if I saw her taking some herbs. So I did.”

  More interference from Taggarty. Maybe Bernice is right. Maybe we should just snuff her.

  “OK, Bernice. You’re doing fine. Could you leave a message in Sheeni’s box? Tell her Nick Twisp phoned and wants her to call him collect.”

  “OK, Nick honey. I’m sorry about Taggarty. I’ll put her back to sleep tonight at dinner.”

  “Thanks, Bernice. I know I can trust you.”

  “We’re a team, Nick honey.”

  1:30 P.M. No call from Sheeni. Dad got out of bed at noon and has been stumbling around slamming doors ever since. He’s not speaking to me. I don’t know if it’s because he is acutely embarrassed by his behavior last night or blames me somehow for Lacey’s defection. I suppose it’s too much to hope for rational conduct from a balding, middle-aged failure who may be facing years of gnawing celibacy.

  Dwayne just dropped by in a fat fit of excitement. His mother has yielded to unceasing supplication and agreed to let him keep Kamu the Wonder Dog. But she obstinately refuses to release any hoarded college funds. Unfortunately, even Dwayne could see I was not negotiating from a position of strength.

  “I’m doin’ you a favor takin’ that dog,” he pointed out. “Your dad don’t want three dogs around. My mom said so.”

  “Yes, but I can keep one dog and Kamu happens to be my particular favorite. If you can’t pay, you’ll just have to take Albert.”

  Dwayne’s chin began to quiver. “I don’t want Albert. I want Kamu.”

  “Well I suppose I could arrange an installment purchase plan. How much can you afford every week?”

  “Only 15 cents. I got ’spenses. I got to buy dog food. Mom said so.”

  “Fifteen cents!” I wondered if the young Howard Hughes would have turned his back on this deal. Well, I suppose it was better than nothing. “OK, Dwayne. Fifteen cents it is. But you better pay promptly. And you have to come over and walk the other two dogs too.”

  “But, Nick, I can’t ’fford it!” he complained.

  “OK, I’ll let you walk them for free.”

  “Gee, Nick. You’re a great pal. Can I take Kamu now? Huh? Huh?”

  “Take him,” I said generously. “Be my guest!”

  3:30 P.M. Still no call from Sheeni. Paul and I just tied the last of Lacey’s belongings to the roof of her Toyota. Dad saw the happy lovers pull into the driveway and ducked into the bathroom, pretending to take a bath. Jealousy, avarice, and cowardice must have battled for supremacy over his emotions. Not surprisingly, cowardice won.

  Lacey gave me a big hug before she left. “Let’s not be strangers, Nick. Stop by and see me at the salon.”

  “I will,” I said. I wanted another double-breasted hug, but she had already squeezed into her overladen car.

  Miraculously, Paul managed to insert himself beside her. “You’re fishing for trouble, Nick,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” I inquired innocently.

  “Fried clams,” was his only reply.

  5:15 P.M. Apurva just went home crying.

  There has been a nasty dog mix-up. This was revealed when Apurva stopped by unexpectedly with some vegetarian biscuits for her pet. “But where is Jean-Paul?” she asked, alarmed.

  I pointed to the two canines autographing the left and right front tires of her father’s Reliant. “Take your pick,” I said.

  “But these are not Jean-Paul!” she exclaimed, starting to panic. “What have you done with my dog!”

  Now Dwayne insists Jean-Paul is Kamu and he is refusing to return the disputed pet.

  6:30 P.M. Dad and I ate a nervous dinner alone together. Both the food and the company could quickly induce ulcers. Mr. Ferguson, whose presence suddenly seems much less objectionable, was out on the town, taking in a movie with Mrs. Crampton. I had volunteered to go with them, but was politely snubbed. It was just Dad, me, and the rapidly emptying zin bottle.

  “Are you going back to Oregon, Dad?” I asked.

  “Why the fuck should I?” he slurred.

  “No special reason,” I said hastily.

  “Who’s this guy Paul?” he demanded. “Where did she meet him?”

  “I don’t know,” I lied.

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Uh, Saunders, I think.”

  “Saunders, huh? Why does that name sound familiar?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know, Dad,” I lied. “My kindergarten teacher was named Miss Sanders. Remember, you liked her.”

  Dad had had a brief extramarital affair with my kindergarten teacher—a source of considerable confusion for me at the time.

  “Yeah, I remember that babe. She liked to…” Dad paused for another swallow of zin.

  I was intrigued. “She liked to what, Dad?”

  “None of your fucking business, wise guy.”

  Someday, when Dad is wasting away from cirrhosis of the liver, I hope his deathbed confession treats in greater detail his relationship with Miss Sanders. Such an unburdening could only be good for his soul.

  9:45 P.M. When Dad finally passed out on the couch, I sneaked into his bedroom to call My One and Only Love. After much lingual swordplay, I succeeded in having Sheeni brought to the phone.

  “Hello, Nick,” she said coldly. “What’s up?”

  “Sheeni, the person who answered the phone told me you had been arrested!” I exclaimed, employing a small tactical lie to launch the conversation.

  “It was just a misunderstanding. Everything’s fine.”

  “They said you were arrested in Monterey. What were you doing down there?”

  “Oh, a friend and I went down for the day. We wanted to see the Aquarium.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “No. Just a friend,” she replied laconically.

  “So, uh, everything’s fine with your parents?”

  “Certainly. Taggarty talked to them. She explained it was just an unfortunate misunderstanding. They trust Taggarty, you know.”

  “She’s a wonderful person,” I lied. “How’s she doing?”

  “Well, she felt great today. She really thought she was getting better. But now she’s tired again. I had a little touch of it myself yesterday.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes—on the way down to Monterey. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open.”

&nb
sp; “Perhaps it was the company,” I suggested.

  “What?”

  “Just kidding, Sheeni. Darling, you sound a little, uh, distant.”

  “Do I? I’m tired. It’s been an emotionally fatiguing weekend. My parents are in an uproar over Paul. He’s moved some floozie in with him up in the studio over the garage.”

  “Lacey’s not a floozie!” I said indignantly.

  “Lacey?” asked Sheeni. “You know her?”

  “Of course. She’s my dad’s girlfriend, well, ex-girlfriend.”

  “You mean my brother is now living with your father’s erstwhile mistress?”

  “Yes. Isn’t it cool? I think it makes you my stepmother-in-law. Don’t worry, sweetheart, we can still get married.”

  “Oh really?” said Sheeni. “I thought these days you might be more interested in an Asian bride.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Stories get around.”

  “Yes, well, I hear stories too,” I pointed out, losing my cool. “About overnight trips to Monterey with aspiring stage directors!”

  “Who told you that?” asked Sheeni indignantly. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Who have you been talking to?” I demanded.

  “You seem to know a lot about my personal life, Nick Twisp. I wonder, have your informants also divulged the fact that my friend Ed is gay?”

  I gulped. “He is?”

  “Yes, not that it is any of your business.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Is he keeping it a secret?”

  “Certainly not. Ed is vice president of the Gay Students Association.”

  “Oh,” I said weakly. This was a monumentally embarrassing intelligence failure worthy of the CIA itself.

  “How was the play?” asked Sheeni archly. “Hay Fever, wasn’t it?”

  “It wasn’t very good,” I replied.

  “Perhaps you had too many distractions,” observed Sheeni. “Perhaps your concentration was impaired.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “You’re the biggest impairment to my concentration, Sheeni. You always will be.”

  “I wish I could believe that, Nick.”

  “Sheeni, why don’t you come back to Ukiah? We could be together. We could go on double dates with Paul and Lacey. Redwood High’s not that bad. I’m learning a lot,” I lied.

  “Nick, please don’t ask that. You know it’s impossible. We’ll be together.”

  “When?” I demanded.

  “Someday,” she replied.

  “That’s not good enough,” I said.

  “Then marry Apurva!” she exclaimed. “And live happily ever after in your boring small town!” Click.

  Well, the good news is I am clearly making Sheeni jealous. The bad news is I feel like hanging myself from the bathroom shower rod with Mr. Ferguson’s truss.

  MONDAY, October 29 — Bruno Modjaleski pleaded guilty. For his crimes he was fined $2,000 and sentenced to one year in the county jail. Then the criminal-coddling, soft-on-crime liberal judge reduced the fine to $1,000 and suspended the jail sentence, provided Bruno perform 500 hours of community service. He has volunteered to serve as coach in the local peewee football league, thus assuring another generation of gridiron mediocrity in the valley.

  Although they didn’t come out and say so, Vijay and Fuzzy seemed relieved that Bruno was spared the state penitentiary. “He got what he deserved,” commented Fuzzy. “Standing up Candy Pringle is a serious offense.”

  While I was altering reality through mycelial ingestion last weekend, Vijay had been dutifully applying himself to my essay. The completed work was a masterpiece of obsequious teen Indomania. Reading it, I could almost imagine myself strolling beside the Bay of Bengal with my guru—a scholar I imagined to be 16, female, and comely in the extreme. Perhaps Apurva has a pretty cousin who might consent to serve as my mentor.

  “I made an appointment after school to get your photos for the passport application,” announced Vijay.

  “Why do I need a passport if I’m not actually going?” I asked.

  “In case the scholarship committee requests your passport number,” he explained. “Besides, you’ll need a passport to visit Sheeni and me in Paris next summer.”

  “You’re going to France too?” I asked, shocked.

  “Yes, my parents have consented at last,” said Vijay. “It was quite a struggle. I had to promise on my honor I would not be seduced by any French girls.”

  “How did you find out about the summer program?” I asked.

  “Sheeni mentioned it the last time we talked.”

  “You talk to Sheeni?” This was unsettling news.

  “Occasionally, on the phone,” said Vijay, smiling innocuously. “It is a way of practicing my French. She’s making remarkable progress, you know.”

  It’s not her progress I’m worried about.

  “The last time I called,” remarked Vijay, “Sheeni said Taggarty had awarded me an A. I thought, Nick, you said she gave me a B.”

  “Perhaps Taggarty altered it upon reflection,” I said. “Or perhaps a run of disappointing performances by subsequent lovers raised the curve. Women often change their minds.”

  “I hope so,” said Vijay.

  What did he mean by that?

  At work, I told Mr. Preston, in answer to his inquiry, that the last I’d heard from Dad he was in Eugene and his research was proving most productive. I told this flagrant lie under orders from you know who. Mr. Preston was so pleased, he graciously permitted me to leave work early.

  I rushed over to the photo studio, located on the same downtown commercial block as Heady Triumphs, Ukiah’s most outré hair salon (workplace of Lacey). After Vijay and I had our photos snapped (he felt his exceptional score merited an up-to-date mug shot for Taggarty’s Wall of Fame), we stopped in to see my former stepmistress. She greeted us warmly, but looked worried.

  “Paulie’s parents are the pits, Nick,” she complained. “His mother looks like she was run over by a truck and his dad is this big sleazy lawyer who keeps threatening to get an injunction against me. They’re such uptight busy-bodies. No wonder Paulie disappeared for six years.”

  “I know, Lacey,” I said. “They’re the all-time Parents from Hell. They’ve been plotting like crazed zealots to keep me away from Sheeni.”

  “And succeeding rather well,” noted Vijay.

  “Lacey, can’t you move away?” I asked.

  “Well, we’re going to look at places tonight,” she replied. “But Paulie doesn’t make much money yet from his music. Do you know of any inexpensive rentals?”

  We had to admit we did not, but—to assist the cause—we both got haircuts. It was fortunate I had had my passport picture taken first. After Lacey completed her futuristic razor styling, my appearance would have halted my travels at any international checkpoint.

  “What shall I tell my parents?” asked Vijay, studying his disquieting reflection in the store windows as we strolled away from the salon. He looked like the son of the Indian from Outer Space.

  “Tell them there was an outbreak of head lice at school and we all had to undergo treatment,” I replied.

  “Oh, that’s a good idea,” he said. “They’ll probably believe that.”

  Dad did not notice my haircut. Mrs. Crampton said it looked “nice,” Dwayne declared it was “totally zinky,” and Mr. Ferguson said, “You wouldn’t have got a scalp job like that back when all the barbers were unionized.” He was probably right.

  Since Mrs. Crampton knew Dad was upset from his emotional loss, she made her famous “soothing” meal: creamed chicken, macaroni and cheese, ambrosia salad, and corn puffs—followed by warm butterscotch pudding with whipped cream. Not even Dad could resist this culinary equivalent of a return to the womb. He began to mellow slightly (the zin helped too).

  “Not a bad meal,” he commented.

  Mrs. Crampton blushed from this high praise. “Why… thank you…Mr. Twisp.”

  “How is
Jean-Paul?” I asked Dwayne.

  “Kamu is fine,” he replied, as creamed chicken met its maker in his cavernous maw.

  Despite his obstinacy and poor table manners, I invited Dwayne to my Halloween party.

  “What party is that?” asked Dad suspiciously.