Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp Read online

“I have to,” I sighed. “Mrs. Ferguson gets very testy when I ask them to take their meals in the kitchen. She refuses to set two tables. You have no idea what it’s like to sit here night after night and watch Dwayne devour thousands of dollars worth of groceries with his mouth open. Not to mention his constant suggestive allusions to his dearth of underwear. And speaking of things disgusting, why did you let Vijay paw you like that in the cafeteria at lunchtime?”

  “It’s to counter all those rumors,” Sheeni explained. “This entire tiresome town is gossiping about us.”

  “OK, so what if we are lesbians,” I said, nuzzling her perfect ear. “What business is it of anyone except us?”

  “You know how people talk,” she said, pushing me away. “We have to be careful. Don’t forget you’re a fugitive from the FBI.”

  “My genes don’t want to be careful,” I whispered, sliding a hand up her enticing thigh.

  “I know all about your genes,” she replied, removing my hand and opening her physics textbook. “They manifest drives of a remarkable primitiveness—even for a Twisp.”

  10:30 p.m. All we did was study, believe it or not. What a waste of privacy and expensive mood lighting. Sheeni wouldn’t even let me put on my latest Frank Sinatra CD, preferring to bone up on the hydrogen atom without romantic musical accompaniment. Later, as Carlotta was walking Sheeni home, we ran into Vijay (we seem to be doing that a lot lately). He reports his father has bought the plane ticket. His sister Apurva leaves for India on Saturday.

  Damn! Now I have to dredge up new girlfriends for Fuzzy and Trent.

  • • •

  WEDNESDAY, February 24 — Fuzzy is feeling better. He reports he only threw up once today—in wood technology class when someone mentioned they were thinking of laminating up a surfboard. No trips this time to Nurse Filmore. Mr. Vilprang tossed some sawdust on the splatter and made Fuzzy clean it up himself. To distract my pal from his troubles, Carlotta suggested over lunch that we meet this evening after dinner for some minor-league breaking and entering.

  10:30 p.m. As arranged, Fuzzy was lurking in the bushes outside my father’s rented modular house when my sociopathic alter ego François Dillinger rolled up on my bike just after eight.

  “Nick, is that you?” he called, blowing on his hands in the frigid darkness.

  “Of course it’s me, Frank,” I whispered, wheeling my bike out of sight under the carport. “Who else would be sneaking around out here in the boonies with a ski cap pulled down low to obscure his features?”

  “Are you sure your dad’s not here?” Fuzzy asked nervously as I fiddled with my keys by the side door.

  “Relax, Frank. He’s at that public hearing in Willits. I read about it in the newspaper. As PR spokesman for the timber company, he has to explain how their proposed massive clear-cutting will actually benefit the forests. He won’t be back for hours. Hey, my key doesn’t work. Looks like my dad changed the locks.”

  More parental “don’t exist” messages for Nick.

  “Damn! What do we do now, Nick?”

  “We look under the mat.”

  Sure enough, a cursory search turned up a shiny brass key.

  The first thing we noticed inside was the smell.

  “Sheesh, what died?” asked Fuzzy, shining his flashlight around the chaotic living room. “It smells like someone’s soaking an entire football team’s worth of sweat socks in old cat piss.”

  “My dad never was much for housekeeping,” I said, switching on my flashlight and leading the way toward Dad’s “study” (the spare bedroom). “You see anything you want, Frank, just take it.”

  “No thanks, Nick. There are some seriously major cooties in this place. I can’t believe my mom used to sneak around with your dad. That is so gross.”

  As expected, there in the middle of Dad’s cluttered desk sat my trusty PC clone. It beeped a friendly greeting as I flipped it on, and its ancient hard drive rattled into life. Lots of new files, but thank God my journal was still there. I slipped in a floppy and started the download. Nick’s traumatic adolescence had not been erased!

  While my old computer churned at its glacial Reagan-era pace, I snooped through Dad’s stuff. Alas, no lovingly framed, tearstained photos of his runaway son. Just piles of boring timber reports and some wadded-up currency.

  “Here’s a hundred-dollar bill for you, Frank.”

  Cooties or no, Fuzzy pocketed the cash. François slipped the rest into my wallet as overdue child support.

  “How are you getting on with your dad, Frank?” I inquired.

  “All right, Nick. We try not to acknowledge each other’s existence.”

  “A sensible accommodation.”

  After my journal was copied onto the floppy, I took the precaution of erasing it from the hard drive, then uploaded a file from another floppy.

  “What’s that?” asked Fuzzy.

  “It’s a little looping program I wrote. Next time anyone turns on the computer it will scramble a few files, display an onscreen animation of a guy mooning the user, and flash ‘Thanks a pantsful, geezer!’ in vivid electric type.”

  “Cool! Can we see it now?”

  “Sorry, Frank. It’s a special treat just for my dad. I only wish he had a color monitor to get the full, horrifying effect.”

  THURSDAY, February 25 — Carlotta’s long-simmering gym-class crisis came to a head today. Boorish Dwayne was snapping Carlotta’s bra straps in world cultures class when a student aide arrived with a note summoning me to the office of Miss Pomdreck, my aged guidance counselor.

  “Oh, there you are, Carlotta,” she said, when I appeared at the door of her cinder-block walled office. “I trust you have obtained a note from a local physician confirming the diagnosis of … what is your affliction?”

  “Ossifidusbrittalus syndrome, Miss Pomdreck,” I said, wincing as I took a seat beside her battle-scarred metal desk. “I’m afraid I haven’t been well enough to face the trials of yet another medical exam. But perhaps in a few more weeks …”

  “I’m sorry, Carlotta. I can’t postpone this matter any further. I’ve given you several extensions already. I can only stretch the rules so far. Miss Arbulash is adamant in demanding an immediate resolution of your gym status.”

  Miss Arbulash is Redwood High’s celebrated lady bodybuilder gym teacher.

  “Er, why is Miss Arbulash so interested in me?” I asked.

  “She says you have a remarkably boyish frame for a girl. She believes you would be a natural for acquiring significant muscle mass.”

  “But I don’t want any muscles,” I protested.

  “Frankly, I don’t see the fascination either, but Miss Arbulash is not one to be denied.” Miss Pomdreck called up Carlotta’s records on her computer. “OK, I’m taking you out of seventh-period study hall and moving you to girls’ gym. You start tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” I sighed. “Shall I give you the name of my next of kin for when I collapse and die on the gym floor?”

  “No one will be collapsing, Carlotta. Miss Arbulash can be demanding of her girls on the weight-lifting machines, but I’m sure she’ll make allowances for your frailty.”

  Not when Carlotta drops her towel, lady.

  “Whatever you say, Miss Pomdreck.” I made no move to leave.

  She looked at me over the tops of her old-lady glasses, virtually identical to my own. “Is there something else, Carlotta?”

  “Miss Pomdreck, I’d just like to say that you do a wonderful job helping students with special needs on your limited resources. You’re a legend in the school.”

  “I try my best, Carlotta.”

  “Yes, and I was just thinking how much more you could do if you had your own discretionary funds.”

  “Discretionary funds, Carlotta?”

  “Yes, private monies you could dip into to assist needy students or for other uses. Funds that would be separate from the school’s, that you could administer entirely on your own.”

  Miss Pomdreck was clearly
intrigued. “I suppose such a theoretical monetary influx could be of immense benefit to my work.”

  “Miss Pomdreck, if you permit me to speak frankly, I am in a position to make such a contribution.”

  “Really, Carlotta?” she said, observing with interest as I rummaged through my purse for my checkbook. “And what sort of modest figure were you thinking of?”

  I clicked open my pen. “I was thinking of $5,000.”

  Stunned, Miss Pomdreck sat back in her chair.

  “Think how much good you could do, Miss Pomdreck. It would warm my heart to help in this small way. And such a sum would entail no financial hardship on my part.”

  “Yes, Carlotta, I’ve heard it bandied about that you’d come into some money. Well, I really don’t know what to say!”

  “Say yes,” I smiled, starting to write out the check. I paused. “Of course, there is one thing. I shall have to be excused from gym.”

  Miss Pomdreck studied the row of numbers on my check. “I’ll explain things to Miss Arbulash. I’m sure she’ll understand, Carlotta.”

  “Good,” I said, signing the check with a flourish. “You’ve been wonderfully understanding, Miss Pomdreck. I knew I could count on you.”

  Miss Pomdreck slipped the check into her purse. “We’ll keep this a private matter between us, Carlotta.”

  “Of course, Miss Pomdreck. You can rely on me.”

  Well, I dodged another close call. I don’t know what I would have done if Miss Pomdreck had proved resistant to bribery. I might have been forced to drop out of school, thus terminating my formal education (such as it is) at age 14. What a blow to my literary ambitions—not to mention the world of letters.

  FRIDAY, February 26 — Carlotta spent most of her clothing technology class this morning buzzing from table to table trying to stir up some romantic interest in Fuzzy DeFalco. The only person willing to pursue the topic was star-pupil (and teacher’s pet) Gary Orion, busy embroidering the hem of his velvet bolero pants.

  “Fuzzy DeFalco,” he said, trying to place the name. “Isn’t he that boy with the shag-carpeted body? What is he—Italian?”

  “He claims to be,” sniffed Sonya Klummplatz. “He took Carlotta to the Christmas dance, and now she’s trying to unload him on somebody else. It’s because she knows Trent Preston’s girlfriend is leaving the country.”

  “I am not interested in Trent,” Carlotta retorted.

  “Yeah, I hear you’re stuck on mystery person S.S.,” commented Gary.

  Time to change the subject. “Say, Gary, are you planning on wearing those pants to school?” inquired Carlotta.

  “No way, girl. They’re going in my hope chest—for when I move to San Francisco with mystery person T.P.”

  “Dream on, guy!” sneered Sonya.

  4:30 p.m. ANOTHER STUPEFYING DISASTER! Carlotta got the bad news from Miss Pomdreck, who stopped me in the hall as I was following terminally despondent Trent Preston into eighth-period art class.

  “Oh, there you are, Carlotta,” called my guidance counselor. “I’ve worked out a nice compromise with Miss Arbulash.”

  “Compromise?” I asked uneasily.

  “Yes, you are officially excused from gym class. She only requests that you assist her that period with a few unstrenuous administrative and locker-room duties.”

  “Locker room?” I mumbled, stunned. “The girls’ locker room?”

  “Of course, Carlotta. You start on Monday.”

  “But, but …”

  “Now, no arguments, miss. It was all I could do to get her to agree to this arrangement.” She leaned closer and confided, “The woman can be quite headstrong.”

  Later, on the walk home from school, Fuzzy couldn’t believe I wasn’t “totally thrilled” by my “awesome luck.”

  “God, Carlotta, it’s like every guy’s ultimate dream—a free pass to the girls’ locker room. Five days a week for the entire semester!”

  “Great! And what do I tell Sheeni? She’s in that gym class too.”

  “Cool. You’ll get to see her naked.”

  “I see her naked now, guy.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Well, now you can check out the other girls for me. Maybe sneak in a camera. This is better than ditching your parents and getting rich on Wart Watches. Hell, this is like winning the Super Bowl!”

  He’s right, of course—if I can somehow finesse my way through all the land mines. Maybe Sheeni will be understanding. After all, it’s not like I’m deliberately trying to put myself in a situation where I can ogle 35 naked teenage girls.

  SATURDAY, February 27 — Sheeni was not that understanding when we met for coffee and donuts at our favorite downtown spot. Prior to her abrupt departure, My One and Only Love declared that I was a “sick and ghoulish degenerate,” a “Peeping Tom of the lowest sort,” and a “repulsive deviate” exhibiting all the “textbook symptoms” of a “depraved and predatory sexual dementia.”

  That doesn’t seem very charitable—especially considering that Carlotta had sprung for the donuts.

  11:25 p.m. When I returned to my lonely rented bungalow, Carlotta received her second unpleasant shock of the morning. There on my sinuous sofa, surrounded by her hastily packed luggage, in an advanced state of emotional distress, daubing her immense dark eyes with a silken handkerchief, sat Vijay’s beautiful 16-year-old sister.

  “Apurva!” Carlotta exclaimed.

  “Good morning, Carlotta,” she replied, wiping her nose. “Your maid kindly let me in. I am not going back to India. I’ve run away from home.”

  “But how did you get away from your father?”

  “There was a crisis at his office. A fortuitous virus is attacking all their computers.”

  The door to the kitchen swung open, and Mrs. Ferguson shuffled in with two cups of tea and a plate of her famous glue-your-lips-together sticky pecan rolls. She set the tray down on the coffee table, smiled consolingly at Apurva, and turned to me. “I cleaned … the house … Miz Carlotta … And washed … your sheets… Lordy! … I don’t know what … you do … in that bed!”

  Carlotta stifled a blush. “Uh, thank you, Mrs. Ferguson. You can take the rest of the day off—with pay.”

  “Why thanks … Miz Carlotta… And good luck to you … Miz Apurva … Don’t let … those bastards … push you around.”

  “I shan’t,” smiled Apurva, sipping her tea.

  When Mrs. Ferguson had departed, Carlotta got down to brass tacks.

  “Apurva!” I exclaimed, “what are you going to do?”

  “Well, naturally I’ve been thinking it over. My situation appears to be one of extreme desperation. Carlotta, have you ever read The Diary of Anne Frank?”

  “Uh, no, but I think I saw the movie. Why?”

  “I’ve been reading it this week. A most inspiring book. I hope my mother remembers to return it to the library. Taking the brave Miss Frank as my model, I thought perhaps I could reside in your attic. You could supply me with simple meals and perhaps a book or two now and then. I could repay your kindness when I get a job or my sensational diary is published.” Apurva looked at me expectantly and sipped her tea. “Are you thinking it over, Carlotta?”

  I wasn’t thinking it over. My lips were stuck together. I raised my napkin to my face and discreetly worked things free. “Apurva, I have no attic. The roof’s too shallow.”

  “Oh … Then how about your cellar?”

  “No cellar either. This is California. We just have crawl spaces.”

  “Oh dear. That is inconvenient. Well, what if I were to stay out of sight during the day—perhaps in a closet—and then we could cuddle together at night? I’ve noticed your bed is large enough for two. In India girlfriends often pass the night together in this sisterly way.”

  François was intrigued, but Nick knew he could never begin to explain such an arrangement to Sheeni. Nor, considering the hair trigger on my erectile response, was the proposed cuddling likely to remain “sisterly” for long.

  “I’m af
raid not, Apurva. We Americans are much too sensitive to the homoerotic implications of such accommodations. No, what you’ve got to do is marry Trent Preston.”

  Apurva nearly dropped her teacup. While my flustered guest was regaining her composure, Carlotta excused herself to answer the telephone in the bedroom. It was My Love, breathless with excitement.

  “Carlotta, Vijay just called me in a fit. His sister has disappeared!”

  “Er, what sister is that?”

  “Apurva, of course. Is she there with you?”

  “Certainly not. I barely know the girl. She’s probably with Trent.”

  “Everyone’s looking for Trent. Vijay’s parents have notified the police.”

  The police! Just the element of society that fugitive Nick Twisp was trying to avoid.

  “Carlotta, did you really pay $5,000 to try to get out of gym class?” My Love asked.

  “Of course I did, Sheeni. I’ll show you the damn canceled check when I get it back from the bank.”

  “Carlotta, I’ve been thinking about your situation. I may have a solution if you are in fact not a voyeuristic pervert.”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever been in the girls’ locker room?”

  “No, Monday will be my first visit. And I’m not going to blind myself, if that’s your idea.”

  “Carlotta, that locker room is pretty funky. If you were to tell Miss Arbulash that you’re highly sensitive to mold and mildew, she’ll probably agree to let you stay in the gym. Just promise not to look at me. I’d feel you were spying.”

  “OK. I’ll look at Sonya Klummplatz instead. I’ve always wanted to see her in gym shorts.”

  “Carlotta, you are seriously deranged. Shall I come over tonight? We could play Scrabble.”

  “Sheeni, every time we play Scrabble it’s a horrible slaugter.”

  “Oh, all right. We can practice our irregular French verbs and go to bed early.”

  “Uh, I can’t. Not tonight. I, uh, promised I’d go over to Fuzzy’s. He’s still a mess about breaking up with Heather.”

  “All right. Then I’ll just have to help Vijay hunt for his sister. Good-bye!” Click.

  In a space of five minutes two attractive chicks offer to sleep with me and I have to decline both proposals. Damn!