Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “No way, buster. I turned Trent down. You have a date with me, remember?”

  “But, Nick, Trent is better-looking than me. And more popular too.”

  “I agree, Frank, but you have one sterling quality in your favor.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not interested in getting into my pants.”

  “Trent might not try anything, Nick. Not on a first date.”

  “I can’t take that chance, Frank. No, it’s you and me, kid. Heather can stay home and watch TV.”

  “Wait, I know, Nick. All three of us can go. I can dance with Heather for the slow dances and with Carlotta for the fast ones.”

  “Not the really fast ones, Frank. Not in Carlotta’s scary high heels. But how do you propose to explain this terpsichorean ménage à trois to Heather?”

  “I’ll just say Carlotta’s my cousin. My homely cousin I promised to take to the dance ’cause nobody would invite her. Heather will understand.”

  “Frank, Carlotta has had three legitimate offers. She’s very popular.”

  “I know, Nick. Don’t get sore. Carlotta is quite a babe, for a guy.”

  “When did you say Heather was arriving?”

  “Thursday night. She’s coming by bus. One more thing, Nick.”

  “What?”

  “While Heather’s staying there with you, you have to promise me you’ll keep your filthy mitts off her.”

  “Frank, I’m going to be dressed like a chick the whole time! How can I put the moves on her?”

  “Yeah, that’s a point. I guess I don’t have to worry about Carlotta getting the hots for Heather.”

  “Nope, just Heather getting the hots for Carlotta.”

  “What are you saying?” he demanded.

  “I’m just saying I won’t be held responsible. Lately Carlotta seems to be pretty irresistible. She has tremendous animal magnetism.”

  “Yeah, well just keep it in your pants, guy.”

  “Where are you going to be keeping it, Fuzzy?”

  “You know where, Nick. As often as possible!”

  Some guys have all the luck. Fuzzy gets sex on demand, and I get 24 hours a day of uninterrupted brassieres, panty hose, Writhe, and face powder. I hope my skin doesn’t become saturated with cosmetics and break out even more.

  Can’t write any more. I have to go practice walking in those damn high heels. Maybe I’ll put a few Nelson Eddy records on the gramophone and see if I can stumble around to the beat. I realize now how unfair life can be. Fred got all the glory, but it was Ginger who was doing all the work.

  TUESDAY, December 15 — In homeroom this morning Janice Griffloch floated about looking as if she had just won the state lottery, received a full scholarship to Stanford, and been canonized by the Pope. This week will probably go down as the high point of her dreary life. I wonder if she realizes she owes all this improbable happiness to me?

  Vijay came to physics class looking strangely incomplete. He was missing his nice cast. If only he’d catch the bad flu that’s going around. I wonder if multiple contusions and a sprained arm weaken the immune system. They certainly haven’t impaired the large portion of his brain devoted to bad-mouthing Nick Twisp. And Carlotta only catches the comments in English. God knows what vile slander the turncoat Republican’s been spreading in French.

  As Miss Najflempt warmed up the VCR in world cultures class, Dwayne slipped Carlotta $5 as a down payment on his dogfight entry fees. His mother vetoed his budget request, so he is forced to pay on the installment plan. Believe it or not, Dwayne has a date for the dance. He will be escorting Sonya “The Refrigerator” Klummplatz, a sweet girl I know from sewing class. Sonya and Carlotta have become fast friends, perhaps because they both bear scars from the stinging barbs of cruel rest-room graffiti. Sonya, for one, doesn’t turn the other cheek. She makes a regular tour of the facilities, scrawling under every derogatory allusion to her weight, “Up yours, twinky!” in vivid purple ink.

  “Sonya,” inquired Carlotta in sewing class, “is it true you and Dwayne Crampton are now an item?”

  “I guess a tiny one,” she replied, taking straight pins out of her mouth. “I said I’d go to the dance with the guy.”

  “When did he ask you?”

  “He didn’t, Carlotta. His mom called my mom last night. I guess the boob was too shy to ask me.”

  “Boys can be reserved at times. Do you like him?”

  “I think he’s a creep. But he’s my ticket to the dance.”

  “Watch the guy,” confided Carlotta. “He may try something.”

  “I hope so,” whispered Sonya. “I don’t know about you, Carlotta, but I’m ready to lose my girlish reserve. In a big way.”

  “You don’t care who the guy is?” I asked, shocked.

  “Well, I’d prefer it was someone like Trent Preston. But he hasn’t been pestering me for dates lately.”

  “Damn, Sonya,” said Carlotta, “you should have said something yesterday. I could have fixed you up!”

  Lunch was another nightmare of Sheeni monopolization by my dwarfish rival. Carlotta sat, somewhat self-consciously, with Sonya at the Zaftigs’ table. We munched our sandwiches and studied Trent, dining in aesthetic disquietude two tables away with Janice Griffloch.

  “He’s not smiling,” observed Sonya.

  “He’s trying to,” Carlotta replied. “He’s looking at her with interest.”

  “He’s counting her pimples, Carlotta.”

  “Look, Sonya. He’s sort of smiling now.”

  “He’s come up with the grand total: 512, not counting the cherry bomb on her nose.”

  “Oops, he stopped smiling.”

  “Maybe she goosed him under the table. God, Carlotta, hide me! Dwayne’s coming this way.”

  Sonya tossed her sandwich and struggled, against all odds, to make herself inconspicuous.

  “No, he isn’t, Sonya. Look, he’s turning the other way.”

  Across the room, Dwayne lurched off toward the candy-bar machine.

  “Coward,” huffed Sonya. “I bet the creep ignores me until the dance. And to think I could have been going with Trent.”

  “Sorry, Sonya,” said Carlotta, “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I may be heavy,” she conceded, “but my skin’s OK.”

  “You have a wonderful complexion,” I assured her. “It’s just like peaches and cream.”

  “Stop it, Carlotta,” giggled Sonya, flattered. “You’re making me hungry.”

  After lunch, Carlotta cut business math, found a pay phone off campus, and called Miss Penelope Pliny, the secretary at Dad’s (and my) former place of employment.

  “Progressive Plywood. How may I help you?” answered Miss Pliny in her prim and characteristically businesslike manner.

  “Hi, Penelope,” I said, disguising my voice. “This is George.”

  “George who?”

  “George Twisp. We used to work together.”

  “Well, one of us worked, George. Have they located your son yet?”

  “No. Nick is still away. We’re all very concerned.”

  “You did not sound much like it in the newspaper, George.”

  “I was misquoted, Penelope. You know how the press is.”

  “I know, George. All of us here are very sorry to hear of Nicholas’ difficulties. Mr. Rogavere is quite alarmed. He has an airline steward friend who is putting up flyers in India.”

  “Well, tell Roger not to go to any special trouble. I’m sure Nick will turn up one of these days.”

  “I shall inform him of your lack of concern, George. I do not believe it will surprise him. Nor alter his efforts.”

  “How is Roger, Penelope?”

  “Very well, it would appear, for a single man living alone. He is at present devoting much of his spare time to experimenting with the regional cuisines of Portugal.”

  “And you, Penelope, how are you?”

  “I am well enough, George. Why do you inquire?”

  “Pen
elope, I don’t know if you were aware of it at the time, but you made an extraordinarily powerful impression on me.”

  “I can assure you, George, that was not my intention.”

  “Perhaps not, Penelope. But you have captured my heart.”

  “You may consider it returned, George. I have no use for the affections of a plagiarist.”

  “Penelope, try to understand. I had to terminate that business trip to Oregon. I discovered people were administering hallucinogenics to my son. Desperation drove me to an unspeakable act. Is there no way I can regain your esteem?”

  “On the contrary, George, the incident to which you allude produced no diminution in my regard for you. It merely confirmed the correctness of my initial impressions of your character. I am sorry, George, this call appears to be one of a personal nature. Mr. Preston requests that this line be reserved for business matters. I must go.”

  “Penelope, may I call you at home?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Penelope, Nick needs a mother. I believe you are that woman!”

  “I believe you are mistaken, George. If Nicholas is in need of a parent, it is a father that he wants. Goodbye.”

  “But, Penelope, wait…”

  Click.

  Damn. Miss Pliny wouldn’t touch my father with a ten-foot pole, and she’s in the statistically desperate age group too. No, if I am to fix up Dad with someone younger and prettier, it will have to be with someone he has never met. I wonder how much an emergency personals ad campaign would cost?

  In art class Trent Preston painted a disturbing, Ryderesque view of a fierce winter gale assaulting the Santa Cruz coast. In the foreground a fallen windsurfer floated lifeless in the churning seas.

  “Is that you by any chance?” asked Carlotta solicitously.

  “It is my rapacious, overweening ego,” replied the painter darkly.

  “I see, Trent. And how are things with Janice?”

  “Fine, Carlotta,” he muttered. “I’m beginning to get in touch with her pain.”

  “Splendid,” replied Carlotta. “The heart beats when the spirit bleeds.”

  “Life is eternal misery,” he declared.

  “And then you die,” pointed out Carlotta.

  “From nothing to nothingness,” he said.

  “Oblivion, the final frontier,” Carlotta added.

  “Every breath is a foretaste of death,” he observed.

  At that point Carlotta desisted. One cannot hope to compete in nihilism with someone dating Janice Griffloch.

  After school I hurried to the library, where I found Apurva in her usual spot—now under the watchful supervision of her mother. Apurva greeted me with affection, introduced Carlotta to Mrs. Joshi, and asked if we might be permitted to chat privately.

  “You must first promise me that you won’t discuss that boy,” said Mrs. Joshi severely.

  “I promise, Mother,” replied Apurva.

  After her mother moved reluctantly to a table across the room, Apurva turned eagerly to Carlotta. “And how is my dear Trent?”

  “Apurva, I thought you promised not to speak of him?”

  “I am keeping my promise, Carlotta. Mother did not specify the boy. I am not speaking of a great many boys.”

  “That’s true, Apurva. Your Jesuit training is beginning to serve you well. I have spoken to Trent. He loves you.”

  “And I him. More than ever. What news do you bring of him?”

  “He wants to get together with you.”

  “Not to read poetry, I hope? I enjoy poetry, Carlotta. But I feel I’ve had a sufficiency of verse.”

  “No, Apurva. Trent is resolved to make love to you.”

  “When?” she asked urgently.

  “Whenever you are able.”

  “They cannot watch me forever. I shall get away—as soon as I can.”

  “Good, Apurva. In the meantime, to divert suspicion, Trent has asked Janice Griffloch to the Christmas dance.”

  “He has what!?” she demanded.

  Across the room, Mrs. Joshi looked up in surprise. Carlotta motioned to her friend for caution.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Apurva. Trent has taken this unpleasant step at my suggestion.”

  “But why? Who is this Janice person? What does she look like?”

  “Don’t worry, Apurva. She is reliably unattractive. I can assure you Trent has no feelings for her.”

  “But why is he taking her to the dance?” “Because, Apurva, you are unavailable.” “Then why doesn’t he simply stay home?”

  “He can’t do that, Apurva. He has a social obligation. He’s the best-looking and most popular boy in the school.”

  “I shall never understand you Americans. In India, such a step by Trent would be an unforgivable act of infidelity.”

  “Well, Apurva, in this country it is a selfless act of devotion. Trent must endure Janice because he has given his heart to you.”

  “The dear, darling boy,” sighed Apurva. “I must try to curb my feelings of jealousy and be more understanding.”

  “Yes, and some of our redwood trees are many centuries old,” said Carlotta, noting Mrs. Joshi’s approach.

  “Apurva,” she said, “it is time to go. Your father will be returning from his office soon.”

  “Yes, Mother. Thank you, Carlotta. I found our chat most valuable. I do so love the forest.”

  “The forest has much to give,” noted Carlotta, “if you are open to its embrace.”

  “I am,” replied Apurva, with conviction. “Be assured of that!”

  8:10 P.M. Can’t write much. In desperate agony. Two heavy slugs of metal have brutally pierced my body. I feel like John Dillinger five minutes after the movie ended. With every beat of my heart, twin throbs of stereo pain stab into my being. Now I know why women get their ears pierced. Once they’ve survived this ordeal of mutilation, they can face the discomforts of childbirth with equanimity.

  Ours is a barbaric species. We rend our bodies to adorn ourselves with hoops of gold. Bernice Lynch had six perforations in each lobe. No wonder she was mentally unstable; the torment must have unhinged her reason.

  I have been gulping aspirin nonstop for 90 minutes. No relief in sight. Should I dial 911? Clearly, morphine must be administered soon.

  9:15 P.M. Just found bottle of mystery pills in back of medicine cabinet. Label says “analgesic.” Looked it up, means “relieves pain.” Expiration date is June 1974. Have swallowed four anyway. Hoping for the best. Ears feel like pack of angry pit bulls are clamped to them.

  10:05 P.M. Dogs have released their grip. Mellowness has been achieved. Have been admiring my new gold posts in the bathroom mirror. Sheeni’s right. They produce a remarkable alteration in one’s appearance. Left one is oozing a drop of blood now and then. Makes for an eye-catching effect. Be a hit at vampire parties.

  Numbness is exquisite. How much better life would be if the human nervous system were equipped with an on/off switch. Have stumbled upon a wonderful, fabulous drug. Only 19 precious pills remaining in bottle. Wonder if it’s too late to get the prescription refilled? Wonder how many cases of drug addiction result every year from unregulated teen ear-piercing?

  WEDNESDAY, December 16 — 4:52 A.M. Dogs are back, angrier than ever. Swallowed two more pills. Ugly scab on left ear. Both lobes turning odd shade of green-orange. Wonder if that clerk knew what she was doing? Perhaps we shouldn’t have had such a major operation performed in a discount jewelry store. Not a single trained medical doctor on the premises. Wonder if they do abortions in the back room? What if both ears turn black and fall off? No way Fuzzy would take Carlotta to the dance in that case. Lonely, unloved, and earless—what a blow to one’s social hopes.

  7:28 P.M. High school on powerful narcotics. A profoundly mellow experience. The struggle for status now suspended. Pressures to conform on hold, academic competition in abeyance, sexual anxieties at rest, even corrosive boredom dissolved in the warm puddle of frivolous time.

  Carlotta h
ad a wonderful day. Rode to school with kind Bruno on his motorcycle and enjoyed it immensely. Pleasant hullabaloo in homeroom as school newspaper was distributed. Flattering front-page profile of yours truly by lovely and talented Tina Manion. Curious blank spaces in headline and story where text had been excised by emergency application of acid to printing plate (process explained by apologetic author in chance hallway encounter; I assured her deletions were of no consequence to me). Much comment in classes throughout day on Manion revelations. Student body abuzz with speculation about matters relating to my feminine alter ego’s ancestry. Carlotta chose to remain above the fray. Was assured by Sheeni in physics class that my ears were progressing normally. A great relief. At lunch Fuzzy DeFalco posed several pointed questions regarding missing avuncular cash wad and recent Carlotta extravagances. She preferred to discuss therapeutic effects of a remarkable wonder drug. Gave two tablets to Fuzzy; he quickly dropped interest in errant cash. Later, Carlotta for first time entered into the spirit of business math class. Enjoyed learning about percent markups and markdowns. Spent study hall with Sonya writing “Fat Power!” on walls of girls’ bathrooms (and boys’ too?). Slipped two pills to Trent in art class. He painted anguished nude self-portrait, attracting much interest from classmates and a cautionary lecture from Mr. Thorne. In health class, watched a video on the evils of drug abuse. Felt the film was sensationalist and one-sided. Rode home with Bruno and possibly kissed him in the alley. Just swallowed final three pills. Feel sleepy. Think I’ll hit the sack early tonight.