Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “Yes, we’re all stunned. Taggarty especially. You should see her back. She looks like a human pincushion.”

  “Who? Bernice?” I asked, dazed.

  “No, Taggarty. From her acupuncture treatments. Nickie, Taggarty was always extremely pleasant to that girl. No one can conceive of a motive for such a criminal act. Can you imagine—surreptitiously sedating someone for weeks!”

  “Uh, well, no. I guess I can’t,” I admitted. “Sheeni, can you keep me posted? Will you call me if you hear any news?”

  “Of course, Nickie,” she replied. “You’ll be the first to be informed.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  6:30 P.M. Too scared to eat my dinner. I gave my pork chop to D——e, who devoured it without scruples. Yet, who am I to talk? I wish now I had never befriended Bernice. She’s been nothing but bad news. Her last letter was unnerving in the extreme. I should have quashed the scheme right then. Imagine—thinking I’d want to marry her someday and have “four beautiful children: two boys for you and two girls for me.” I’m still a kid. Besides, I’m already engaged.

  10:00 P.M. So distraught by lack of news, I called Sheeni. Now, I wish I hadn’t.

  “Any news from the hospital?” I asked.

  “No,” replied Sheeni frostily, “I said I’d call you.”

  “What’s the matter, Sheeni?”

  “I just received a rather disturbing fax,” she replied.

  “I didn’t know you had a fax machine, darling.”

  “Our school is fully equipped with every modern educational tool. And please don’t call me darling. Such endearments reek of hypocrisy.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded.

  “Shall I read you the fax?”

  “OK. Read it.”

  In her exquisite voice, Sheeni read these alarmingly familiar words: “Dear Apurva, I feel exactly the same. Let us be bad together. I am now living behind my house in a small, extremely private recreational vehicle. Come to me there as soon you can. Awaiting your lips, Nick. P.S. Don’t worry, I have some you-know-whats.”

  “How did you get that?” I demanded.

  “It arrived anonymously,” she replied.

  “It’s a forgery, Sheeni!”

  “I recognize your affected handwriting, Nick. Don’t bother to lie. Your treachery is all too apparent. Goodbye.” Click.

  I can’t believe sweet Apurva would stab me in the back like that. I thought she was supposed to be my friend.

  MONDAY, November 18 — Still no news from Santa Cruz. I haven’t been able to eat anything in 24 hours. I wonder if Richard Nixon was this stressed out during Watergate? At least he had all those Secret Service guys and Bebe Rebozo to comfort him.

  Fuzzy cut me dead in gym class. He chose D——e to be his tumbling partner. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face.

  Then at lunch Vijay made a shocking announcement. “I’ve seen the error of my ways,” he declared. “After much soul-searching, I’ve decided to renounce my membership in the Republican Party.”

  “You have?” I asked, astounded.

  “Yes, Nick. Aren’t you pleased?” he said cheerily. “I’ve decided to become a Democrat.”

  I was not pleased. Suddenly, everything was perfectly clear. Yes, I had been stabbed in the back. But not by Apurva. My assassin was her scheming brother—the “loyal friend” to whom I had foolishly entrusted my most private correspondence. Yes, I had handed him a sword and he had used it against me. Now that he had driven a wedge between me and my love, I realized, he intended to woo my beloved Sheeni under the false cloak of insincere liberality. Was there no limit to his malevolence? Was a committed vegetarian really capable of such deceit?

  “Tell me, as one Democrat to another,” I said coolly. “Do you, by any chance, have access to a facsimile machine?”

  “Yes, my father has one at home,” smiled Vijay. “I find it a great convenience at times.”

  A blatant confession!

  “When did you say Sheeni was coming back, Nick?” continued Vijay. “I do so look forward to her return!”

  6:30 P.M. No updates on the coma front. I just had this surprisingly productive conversation with an Oakland policeman:

  “Your mother’s out, dipshit.”

  “Uh, actually, Lance, I wanted to speak with you.”

  “So talk, punk. Just don’t ask for a handout.”

  “No, I’m financially fixed at the moment. Actually, I was calling to see how your burglary investigation was proceeding.”

  “What’s it to you, pissant?”

  “I was wondering if you’ve checked those mystery fingerprints against the INS files?”

  “The guy was illegal,” replied Lance. “INS didn’t even have a record of him.”

  “Yes, but his accomplices may have been in this country legally.”

  “Oh, that’s possible, I suppose.”

  “Well, probably it’s not worth the trouble to check out,” I said.

  “Hey, smart-ass,” replied my loving stepdad, “I’ll decide what’s proper investigative procedure.”

  “OK, Lance. I know you’ll do your usual splendid job. Say hi to Mom for me.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, jerk.”

  A great guy. Maybe Vijay can get a letter of recommendation from him for his Stanford application. Or for his parole hearing.

  Those damn dogs have been barking like Type A hyenas all evening. I shall write D——e a note instructing him to walk them. That reminds me: no Kamu payments have been received. I must begin foreclosure proceedings at once.

  10:15 P.M. No news from Santa Cruz. A thought has occurred to me: perhaps Bernice will emerge from her coma an amnesiac. I’ll be off the hook and she’ll have a nice clean slate on which to construct a fresh, more appealing personality. Everything could turn out for the best. I must try to find out the common side effects of massive sedative overdoses.

  TUESDAY, November 19 — ANOTHER CATACLYSMIC DISASTER! When I arrived at school this morning, I learned that Fuzzy was absent. I found out in homeroom it was because a relative had passed away. By gym class I discovered my erstwhile friend was mourning the loss of an uncle. In wood shop my worst fears were confirmed as news reached me that the decedent was indeed Uncle Polly. At lunch I was shocked to learn death resulted from accidental electrocution. But only when I arrived home, was the full, horrifying extent of the tragedy thrust upon me. The agent of death, I was informed, was a secondhand neon sign, recently purchased by the victim from the son of a former employee.

  “You’ve been fired, Dad?” I exclaimed.

  “What?” he screamed.

  “Dad! Have you been fired?” I bellowed.

  “Yes, you fuck-up!” he replied. “Why do you suppose I’m hitting you?”

  There’s no need for profanity or sarcasm, Dad. I just like to be in full possession of the facts as I’m being abused.

  After Dad finished, I excused myself and called the DeFalcos. Mrs. DeFalco answered, sounding only partially paralyzed with grief.

  “Hello, Nick,” she said. “I’m annoyed with you, you know.”

  “It’s not my fault, Mrs. DeFalco!”

  “Oh? You mean someone else has been tattling on us to my son?”

  “Oh,” I said, “he told you, huh?”

  “Nick, I thought I could trust you to be discreet. I see now my faith was misplaced.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. DeFalco. I’m sorry about your brother-in-law too.”

  “We’re all sorry, Nick. Very sorry. I’m sorry my husband fired your father with such unseemly haste. He might have at least waited until after Polonius was decently buried. And I’m very sorry that he is at this moment downtown talking to his lawyers about bringing suit against your father.”

  “He is?” I gulped.

  “Yes. But perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this. That sign was dangerously defective, Nick.”

  “I, I could refund the $50,” I suggested.

  “I exp
ect my husband will want more than that, Nick. Much more. The deputy sheriff found a bare wire exposed on the cord. It appeared to have been chewed—by some animal.”

  “By a dog?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps the detectives will be able to determine that. Do you have any dogs?”

  “Yes,” I admitted, “three.”

  “I thought that was a flea bite I received in your trailer,” she commented. “You mustn’t let Frank visit you there.”

  “No, Mrs. DeFalco,” I replied. “When did Uncle Polly die?”

  “Last night. A former girlfriend discovered him floating facedown in his hot tub. His pizza was untouched.”

  “You mean Uncle Polly kept an electrical appliance next to a hot tub?” I asked.

  “Yes. He was under the impression neon lighting created an atmosphere conducive to romance.”

  “But that wasn’t very intelligent, Mrs. DeFalco,” I said.

  “Perhaps not,” she admitted, “but it was very Uncle Polly.”

  10:30 P.M. I decided not to tell Dad about the potential lawsuit. I think it would be best if the subpoena arrives as a horrifying surprise. Let him retain the shreds of his tattered happiness until then. No need for everyone to feel as miserable as I do.

  I realize now I should have suspected something was amiss last night from the peculiar behavior of those damn dogs. Yes, Albert has exacted his revenge. But was Uncle Polly the true intended victim? Or was the sale of the sign unforeseen by my canine adversaries? Did they, in fact, intend that sabotaged wire for me? What have I done, I ask myself, to deserve such opprobrium? Is buying generic that heinous of a crime?

  WEDNESDAY, November 20 — 8:30 A.M. Dad and Mr. Ferguson have reconciled. They are sitting together in the living room watching Captain Kangaroo. Mrs. Crampton is using the last of the Crisco to fry up some homemade donuts. She has dropped some polite hints to Dad that he consider applying for food stamps. Soon we may be the only family on welfare with a full-time live-in maid.

  Thank God Thanksgiving vacation starts today. I have no taste for knowledge at this time. I only hope Mrs. Crampton’s donuts give me the courage to call Sheeni. I must know what is happening!

  11:45 A.M. Palms sweating, eyelids twitching, spleen fluttering, I finally worked up the courage to dial Sheeni’s number. After wading through deep quagmires of Frog-speak, I reached my Reestranged Sweetheart.

  “Hello, Dolores,” she said frigidly. “What a surprise.”

  “Sheeni, darling, are your parents there?”

  “Yes, Dolores. They’ve come to take me home. What do you want? I’m in a bit of a rush.”

  “Sheeni, how is Bernice?”

  “No change, Dolores. There has been one strange development, though.”

  “What’s that, darling?”

  “Do you remember the last letter you wrote to me?”

  “Of course, darling. I remember it distinctly. I wrote, among other things, that as I exhaled my last human breath, your name would be upon my lips.”

  “Yes, Dolores. How ironic that seems now.”

  “Sheeni, I meant every word!”

  “Yes, Dolores. You certainly can’t trust everyone you meet on summer vacations.”

  “Sheeni, what about the letter?”

  “The authorities discovered it in Bernice’s room—when they were searching for suicide notes.”

  “They did!” I exclaimed. “How did she get hold of it?”

  “She must have taken it when she emptied my wastebasket.”

  “Sheeni! You mean you haven’t been saving my letters?”

  “No, Dolores. I am committed to resource recycling, as you know. Besides, they have no value to me now.”

  “Darling, don’t say that!”

  “Of course, Dolores, I am a realist. We all must be.”

  “Sheeni, have some compassion! Consider our time of life. During these trying years one’s hormones can sometimes overpower one’s moral judgment. These slight missteps should not necessarily be construed as infidelity.”

  “Yes, Dolores. We all recognize facile exculpations when we hear them. Well, I mustn’t keep my parents waiting.”

  “Sheeni, one more thing. Did they find a suicide note?”

  “No, Dolores. Few teens have the time or aptitude for composition these days. Ours is not a literarily inclined generation.”

  Thank God for that, I thought. “Well, have a good trip home, darling,” I said. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  “Dolores, you must dismiss that notion from your head. I remain firm on that issue.”

  “Sheeni, we’ve been through this before,” I replied, just as firmly.

  “If you persist, Dolores, I shall have no choice but to invite dear Trent as well. How would you like that?”

  I wouldn’t like it at all, I thought. I said, “I’m not squeamish, Sheeni. If you can tolerate his loutish company, so can I.”

  For being one of the sweetest, kindest persons I’ve ever known, Sheeni can be remarkably hard-assed at times.

  More guilt for Nick. If Bernice succumbs, I shall have two deaths on my conscience. (Three if you count Albert.) I must make amends by leading an exemplary life from now on. I shall begin by forgiving Dwayne. He deserves understanding as much as any of us. He can’t help it that he’s an obnoxious cretin.

  1:15 P.M. (written in pencil). After a nice lunch, I invited dear Dwayne in to play computer games on my AT clone. Now he is banging away on my fragile, bargain-brand keyboard as happy as a four-year-old (his approximate mental age).

  Dad and Mr. Ferguson have gone into town to meet with their respective lawyers. I look forward to their upcoming trials. They should offer valuable lessons in the operation of our judicial system. I hope neither defendant is persuaded to plead guilty. That seems like such an ethical cop-out.

  Can’t write any more. I have to go prepare my chum Dwayne a snack.

  2:30 P.M. A man with “process server” written all over his suspicious face and thrift-shop suit just came snooping around asking for Dad. I told him a Mr. George F. Twisp used to live here, but had moved to Missoula, Montana, recently to find work as a TV weatherman. The guy left, but I’m not sure he believed me. Mr. DeFalco’s vengeful lawyers sure work fast.

  4:05 P.M. Candy Pringle and some other do-gooder seniors from my high school just dropped by with a frozen turkey and a big bag of canned goods. Mrs. Crampton was so grateful she started blubbering. I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life.

  7:30 P.M. Hard times are here. For dinner we had canned wax beans, canned creamed hominy on toast, and canned smoked oysters—washed down with reconstituted powdered milk. Canned kiwi cocktail for dessert. Needless to say, I only picked at my food. Mrs. Crampton is husbanding the less esoteric canned goods for tomorrow’s festive dinner of thanksgiving. I have never had such a gloomy meal. It did not help that Dad is down to his last half bottle of zin and is irritable in the extreme. His lawyer was not encouraging. The Ukiah police took a remarkably clear set of his prints off Lacey’s jimmied window.

  10:45 P.M. I have pressed my brown flannel trousers, brushed my tweed coat, and successfully pilfered Dad’s best knit tie. In less than 24 hours I shall be eating turkey and all the trimmings with The Woman Who Makes Me Thankful for the Human Sex Drive. But will she be thankful to see me?

  I believe she will. That is the thought that sustains me as I, a disadvantaged American youth, go to bed hungry.

  THURSDAY, November 21 — 11:45 A.M. (written in pencil). I’m composing this in the back booth of the donut shop to calm my nerves. The maple bars are helping too.

  It all started before breakfast as I was peacefully sitting in my tiny home polishing my dress shoes. Dwayne knocked on the door to tell me I was wanted on the phone.

  “Who is it?” I asked him warily.

  “Some for’ner,” he replied, with evident distaste.

  “Man or woman?”

  “Girl, Nick. I think it�
�s that one what tried to swipe Kamu from me.”

  My sweet, lovely Apurva! I greeted her warmly.

  “Nick, something terrible has happened!” she said, alarm adding to the poignancy of her unflagging charm.

  “Your father hasn’t married you off?” I asked.

  “No, thank God. But he has been acting most suspiciously the last few days. I’m afraid he may be plotting the ruination of my hopes. No, I’m calling about another emergency. Vijay has just been arrested!”