Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “Sheeni, don’t be sad. Everything will turn out fine. Trust me.”

  “I’m not giving up, Nick. Taggarty’s still coming for Thanksgiving. I’m hoping she’ll be able to persuade my parents to change their minds.”

  “Oh, that’s a thought,” I said. “Perhaps I can persuade them too.”

  “Nick! You are never going to see or talk to my parents. I’m in enough trouble with them already.”

  “But, darling,” I objected, “you said it yourself. We’re supposed to be revolting. Remember? Like Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless.”

  “Jean-Paul Belmondo did not have my parents!” she exclaimed. Click.

  Our plan worked. Like clockwork. My dear friend Vijay is a genius.

  12:15 P.M. I just called Vijay to give him the good news. He sounded nearly as thrilled by today’s developments as I am. Then Apurva joined in on the extension to share in the conviviality.

  “Oh, Nick!” she bubbled. “My dear Trent is coming home too. He called me last night practically in tears. I was so happy I screamed. I told Father it was Sister Mary Ann, the choir director, checking up on my high C. I’m not certain he believed me.”

  “Where is your father, by the way?” I asked.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she replied happily. “He’s at the office. Such a workaholic.”

  “Will you be able to see Trent?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, Nick. Don’t you worry. We’ll find a way. Father won’t even know my dear boy is returning from Santa Cruz. Besides, after our night in your trailer, Father naturally considers you the primary threat to my innocence. Perhaps you can call here occasionally to help foster that illusion.”

  That’s not a bad idea.

  After reminding Apurva that Jean-Paul’s support payment was worrisomely overdue, I wished her much happiness in love, hung up, and dialed another number. After 30 rings, someone finally answered.

  “The office is closed,” announced an exasperated voice. “Call back after 9 A.M. on Monday.”

  “Wait, Mr. Joshi! Don’t hang up,” I said. “I wish to speak with you. It’s urgent.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Nick. Nick Twisp.”

  “You dare to call me! What is it you want, you unprincipled scoundrel?”

  “Mr. Joshi, it’s about Apurva.”

  “You shall never see her again! I’m warning you. I shall prosecute your father for assault!”

  “Mr. Joshi, I don’t want to see your daughter. It’s about her real boyfriend, Trent.”

  “That pest is in Santa Cruz,” he replied. “Thank God.”

  “No, he’s not, Mr. Joshi. He’s coming back on Wednesday. For good. Apurva is planning to see him whenever she can.”

  “How do you know that?” Mr. Joshi asked, clearly shocked.

  “She just told me,” I confessed.

  “Apurva talked to you? That is in direct defiance of my wishes!”

  “Mr. Joshi, you can’t tell her I told you.”

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  “Because that will tip her off that you know Trent is back. Then they’ll be extra cautious. This way, you can watch over her without creating suspicion.”

  “That is not a bad idea,” he admitted. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I like your daughter, Mr. Joshi. Just as a friend. And I hate to see her get hurt by a twisted character like Trent Preston.”

  “I understood he was quite a sober, scholarly young man—for an American.”

  “I don’t wish to alarm you, Mr. Joshi, but the guy is a total sicko. That’s why his parents sent him away to school in the first place. They couldn’t cope with him anymore.”

  “Then why is he coming back?”

  “You don’t want to know, Mr. Joshi.”

  “Please, Nick. Tell me!” he pleaded.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve said too much already. Just be careful. For Apurva’s sake.”

  “Wait, Nick. I want…”

  But I hung up.

  Sit on that one, Trent. And twirl!

  7:00 P.M. I just checked in with Fuzzy.

  “Frank, where’s your mother?” I asked.

  “She’s in her bathroom,” he reported, “putting on her makeup.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “He’s down in the den, getting plastered.”

  “Frank, are your parents going out?”

  “Not with each other. Where’s your dad, Nick?”

  “He just left—in his snappiest sport coat.”

  “You think they’re going to get together?” asked Fuzzy.

  “Does the Pope swear in Latin?” I replied. “This is their second date, Frank. You know what that means.”

  “Jesus, Nick. I don’t even want to think about it.”

  11:30 P.M. A quiet night. Time for bed. No sign of Dad yet. I’m so excited and happy, I don’t know if I’ll be able to go to sleep. Sheeni is coming back to me! I feel this is a definite turning point in my life. Things are looking up. Dad is in solid at work too. Nothing to face now but a golden future of sun-dappled happiness and prosperity. I may even hear back soon from Tina Manion. College boyfriend or no, she likes me—François can tell. Women are so transparent to him.

  SUNDAY, November 18 — 1:05 A.M. Awakened from a troubled sleep by the sound of cars pulling into the drive, I rose and peeked out the window. It was Dad’s BMW and a big silver Lincoln. Operation Blood Brother has commenced.

  1:10 A.M. The mellifluous, artfully modulated tones of F.S. are now wafting forth from Dad’s bedroom window. Frank is singing “Full Moon and Empty Arms”—a ballad I imagine at this point is falling somewhat wide of the mark. There’s no moon in sight either.

  I’d alert Fuzzy, but the phone is all the way in the house. Dad’s brush with celibacy was certainly short-lived. Adults have all the luck.

  3:30 A.M. Or do they? A loud tapping on my trailer door abruptly parted the gossamer curtains of sleep.

  “Who is it?” I mumbled.

  “A nymph,” replied a sultry woman’s voice.

  I was instantly awake.

  “Come in,” François called.

  The door opened and Fuzzy’s mother, wearing Dad’s electric blanket, entered in a clatter of dangling cords and control dials.

  “Mrs. DeFalco!” I exclaimed.

  “Hello, Nick,” she said, smelling of expensive perfume and cheap liquor. “Oh, I’m stuck, honey. Help me with my cords.”

  “I can’t, Mrs. DeFalco.”

  “Why not?” she demanded, tugging on the dangling power cord snared in the trailer door.

  “I can’t get out of bed,” I explained. “I don’t have any pajamas on.”

  “That’s all right, Nick,” she giggled. “I don’t either. Come on. Help a lady in distress.”

  I gulped, leaped from my bed, slithered modestly over to the door, freed the cord, then hopped back under the covers.

  “Thank you, Nick,” she said, gazing about. “I like your little house.”

  “Shall I turn on a light?”

  “Oh, please don’t, Nick. My makeup must be a fright.” She sat down heavily on the dinette and studied me with interest across the gloom. “Did our music waken you?”

  “Yes, Mrs. DeFalco, but I don’t mind. I enjoy Frank any time of the day or night.”

  “That is such a rare quality, Nick. I can sense you are a very special young man.”

  “Thank you. I do my best.”

  “Good. I hope so. Now, Nick, what do you have on the premises to offer a lady?”

  “How do you mean, Mrs. DeFalco?” François asked coyly.

  “Do you have anything to drink?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Just water, I’m afraid, Mrs. DeFalco.”

  She made a face and rearranged her wrap. “Please, Nick. Call me Nancy.”

  “OK, Nancy,” said François. “I like that name.”

  “So do I,” she replied. “I just wish it was mine.”

  “Are you chilly,�
�� I asked. “We could plug in your blanket, if you like.”

  “Thank you, no. You are so considerate, Nick. Unlike your father.”

  “Uh, where’s Dad?” I asked.

  “Your father is asleep,” she sniffed. “He passed out. Somewhat prematurely, I might add. Nick, how old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” François lied.

  “Your father said you were 12!”

  “He’s not very good at math,” I explained.

  “He’s not very good at a lot of things,” she huffed. “Nick, could I trouble you for a cigarette?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. DeFalco. I don’t smoke.”

  “Please, it’s Nancy. I thought all boys your age smoked. To rebel against authority and appear older.”

  “I’d like to smoke, Nancy,” I explained, “but I don’t want to get cancer.”

  “I hope, Nick, you’re not going to turn out to be another one of those perfectly sensible young men. Sometimes I despair for your generation.”

  “Don’t worry, Nancy,” said François, “I behave quite rashly, as a rule.”

  “Glad to hear it. Now, Nick, since you can’t offer me a drink or a smoke, and it’s too late for canasta, would you mind terribly if I squeezed myself into your little bed? Feel free to decline if you’d rather not.”

  “No, Nancy,” said François, thrilled to his marrow. “There’s plenty of room for two.”

  I pushed over and Mrs. DeFalco slipped under the covers beside me. Her blanket she left behind on the dinette. Radiating waves of perfume-scented heat, she seemed to overwhelm my small bed with extravagant quantities of skin. She draped her warm nakedness against me and giggled. “I’m not squashing you, am I, Nick?”

  “No. I’m fine,” I said. I marveled at the ampleness of her untethered bosom now enveloping me. “Shall I kiss you, Mrs. DeFalco?”

  “That’s all right, Nick,” she replied. “I’ve found over the years that kissing has lost much of its appeal. I suppose, though, at your age you still enjoy it.”

  “From time to time,” I admitted. I gave a slight start as a hot hand grasped my T.E. “Shall, shall I get a condom, Nancy?”

  “Why? Do you have any major diseases?”

  “I don’t think so. But what about babies?”

  Mrs. DeFalco giggled. “I might get pregnant and have to drop out of high school. No, Nick, I don’t think we need worry about that.”

  With kissing off the menu, I wasn’t entirely certain how to proceed. “Would you like some foreplay?” I asked.

  “Nick, dear, have you ever done this sort of work before?”

  “Oh, sure,” lied François.

  “Then just go about it in your normal fashion—as if I were the girl next door. If you like I can squeal with innocent surprise at the appropriate times.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said, somewhat offended. I moved to climb aboard her perspiring, indeterminant softness when the flash of a powerful explosion lit up the trailer.

  “Oh dear,” sighed Mrs. DeFalco, “I was hoping the fireworks would come later.”

  I disengaged myself from her smoldering limbs, jumped out of bed, and peered out the front window. Fifty feet away, Dad’s precious BMW was illuminating the night as a fine German bonfire. It was totally engulfed in flames!

  “What is it?” asked Mrs. DeFalco, rising—like a mature Phoenix—from my torrid bed. I liked the way the flickering light bathed her Rubensesque curves in gold. Her nipples, I noted with interest, were nearly as large as saucers.

  “Someone’s torched Dad’s car!” I exclaimed.

  “How rude of them,” she replied, opening my closet door and calmly donning my bathrobe. “And so inconvenient.”

  “Where are you going, Mrs. DeFalco?” I asked.

  “To call 911, Nick. I suggest you put something on, dear. We mustn’t greet the firemen in our birthday suits.”

  Although the firefighters arrived promptly, Dad’s car was a total loss. He, needless to say, was a total wreck. Mrs. DeFalco comforted him in her arms as he sat slumped—whimpering and moaning—on the front stoop. Fortunately, in all the excitement, no one thought to question why Dad’s guest was modeling my robe.

  “I bet one of them strikers done it,” suggested D——e.

  “You… just… hush!” hissed his mother.

  “It was your damn husband!” whined Dad accusingly to his lover.

  Wrong. When I looked out my window, I had caught a brief glimpse of the fleeing suspect—gas can still in hand. But I did not mention this to the fire captain when he interrogated me. No, I have no interest in being a party to the prosecution for arson of my future brother-in-law.

  10:30 A.M. A dismal, cold morning. We are deep into late fall—truly the armpit of the year. Fuzzy called me after breakfast and this disquieting conversation ensued:

  “Hi, Frank.”

  “Hi, Nick.”

  “Where’s your mother, Frank?”

  “Upstairs in bed. I guess she spent the night with your dad, huh?”

  “More or less,” I replied. “How’s your dad taking it?”

  “Pretty bad. He hit the wall.”

  “He did what?” I asked.

  “He hit the wall. With his fist. He does that when he’s totally pissed. Mom accused him of torching your dad’s car and BAM! He hit the wall.”

  “Your father must be really strong.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes he hits a stud and breaks a few fingers. This time, though, he just punched a hole in the plasterboard. I think he’s memorized now where all the studs are in that wall. Boy, I can’t believe it—your dad’s made it with my mother. That is so gross.”

  “Frank, can you keep a secret?”

  “Nick, I’ve got secrets I’ve been keeping since before kindergarten.”

  “Frank, nothing happened. My dad passed out—from drinking.”

  “How do you know that, Nick?”

  “Your mom told me.”

  “She did?”

  “Frank, your mom came to my trailer last night.”

  “She did?”

  “Frank, she got into bed with me.”

  “She did?”

  “Frank, we were naked.”

  “What are you saying, Nick?”

  “Frank, your mother tried to seduce me.”

  “You lie!”

  “Frank, it’s true.”

  “You liar! You sick, perverted liar!”

  “OK, don’t believe me,” I said. “Anyway, I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “You repulsive degenerate!” raged Fuzzy. “Eat shit and die, sicko!” Click.

  Confession may be good for the soul, but it certainly can exact a heavy toll on friendships.

  11:15 A.M. TOTAL UNMITIGATED DISASTER! Sheeni just called with dire news.

  “Oh, Nick, we’re all in a state of shock!” she declared.

  “What happened, Sheeni?”

  “Well, it was last night at dinner. I was serving my penalty duty in the cafeteria and Trent had very kindly volunteered to assist me at the steam table. The vegetable was brussels sprouts in a cream sauce, which can be a handful for one person, as you know. Well, he observed that unfortunate girl Bernice Lynch at the drinks station slip something into Taggarty’s cup. Nickie, it was a powerful sedative!”

  “How can you be certain?” I asked. “Perhaps it was just a vitamin.”

  “Nickie, it wasn’t a vitamin. That became tragically clear later on.”

  Once again I felt that familiar, dreaded quivering at the base of my scrotum. “Oh. How so?” I asked weakly.

  “Nickie, the dean sent Bernice to her room, pending an investigation, and she swallowed the rest of the pills!”

  “She did what?” I gasped.

  “She tried to commit suicide!”

  “Did, did she succeed?” I asked, not entirely unhopefully.

  “No. They found her in time. But she’s in a coma. Nickie, she may not live!”

  “That’s, that’s terrible.”
>