Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp Page 3

  12:35 p.m. Trent Preston is seated beside Apurva on my sofa with his jacket draped over his head. No, he’s not shy. The idiot is trying not to break his promise never to see or speak to Apurva again. Negotiations were now entering a delicate phase.

  “Carlotta, can you tell Apurva that I love her with all my heart, but I’ve never thought of getting married in high school?”

  Apurva squeezed his hand. “I understand, darling. You’d be throwing your life away marrying me. We’re both much too young.”

  “Trent, you’re not seeing the big picture here,” said Carlotta. “If you don’t marry Apurva, she’ll have to return to India and marry some stranger. Do you want that?”

  “I’d hate it, but arranged marriages are part of their cultural tradition.”

  “Forget cultural traditions,” I replied, exasperated. “Forget throwing your life away. If you love each other, why not get married? It’s not that big of a deal!”

  “It’s a very big deal,” insisted Trent.

  “I agree,” said Apurva. “Darling, can you breathe in there?”

  “Carlotta, can you assure Apurva that I’m fine?”

  “Listen,” I said. “Half the marriages in this country end in divorce. So it’s not like you’re making a lifetime commitment here. OK, if down the road things don’t work out, what of it? In the meantime, you’ve enjoyed some quality companionship and great sex.”

  “But what would we live on?” asked Trent. “I’d have to quit school and get a job.”

  “You wouldn’t have to quit school,” Carlotta replied. “I need a chauffeur. You could come work part-time for me.”

  “But you don’t have a car,” Apurva pointed out.

  “I don’t have a car because I don’t have a chauffeur. OK, so I’ll buy a car.”

  “You could rent mine,” suggested Trent. “I have a late-model Acura.”

  Note to myself: In my next life emulate Trent and select parents with money.

  “But where would we stay?” asked Apurva.

  “You could live with me,” I said, thinking out loud. “I’ve been contemplating getting a nicer place—maybe a larger house with a separate apartment for you young marrieds. Apurva, can you cook?”

  “Of course, Carlotta. All properly-brought-up Indian girls can cook. But I would not wish to deprive Mrs. Ferguson of her position.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Apurva. She’ll be leaving me soon anyway when her husband gets out of jail. You could do the cooking and still go to school.”

  “I wouldn’t have the funds to continue at my Catholic school,” she said, thinking out loud. “And I don’t think the nuns would wish to teach a married student.”

  “You could transfer to Redwood High,” Carlotta pointed out. “You could sit next to your husband in class and cheer for him at swim meets.”

  They both liked that idea, I could tell.

  “And your dog Jean-Paul could live with us and Albert. Think how much fun those two dogs could have playing together.”

  Albert looked at me and curled his lip.

  Apurva smiled at my loathsome dog. “It is true that I would miss my darling Jean-Paul if I were married to some unknown and possibly cruel person in India.”

  “But where could we get married?” asked Trent. “You have to be 18 to get married without your parents’ permission.”

  “That is true,” conceded Carlotta, “in 49 of the 50 states.”

  In my more love-sick and desperate moments I had researched this topic thoroughly.

  “And what is the exception?” asked Apurva.

  “The very place where I propose to send you—there to marry and honeymoon at my expense. I’m speaking, of course, of the enlightened state of Mississippi.”

  Alas, not even in that compassionate and progressive state can 14-year-olds marry on their own. Sheeni and I will just have to stifle our matrimonial desires.

  2:30 p.m. On the road to the Bay Area in Trent’s posh Acura. Our driver at last was persuaded to come out from beneath his jacket, break his vow, and propose marriage to Apurva. She accepted with alacrity. While I made an emergency run to the ATM, Trent took the precaution of smearing mud on his license plates. We are now traveling south on secondary roads so as to elude the cops. So far so good. Apurva’s riding shotgun next to her hubby-to-be. Carlotta’s in the back seat studying the Hammond Road Atlas.

  “OK, here’s the plan,” I announced. “You fly into New Orleans and take the bus to Biloxi. That’s on the gulf and probably scenic, as long as you face toward the water. They should have fairly balmy weather this time of year. Be sure to sample the shrimp gumbo.”

  “Sounds good,” said Trent. “There’s only one thing.”

  “What’s that, darling?” asked Apurva.

  “How do you think they’ll react down there to, uh … mixed marriages?”

  “Good point, Trent,” said Carlotta, “I hadn’t thought of that.” I consulted my map. “OK, we switch to Plan B: You fly into Memphis and take the bus down to Oxford. That’s a college town in the northern part of the state. They should be slightly more liberal up there.”

  “Perhaps they’ll have a nice Indian restaurant,” said Apurva. “It might appease my mother somewhat to know that I ate strictly vegetarian meals on my honeymoon.”

  “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Apurva,” said Carlotta. “Until now you’ve just been in California. You’re about to experience the real United States.”

  5:40 p.m. Oakland International Airport. Smooth sailing so far. We ditched Trent’s Acura in Berkeley in a neighborhood where Cal students often park. With any luck, it will still be there (with most of its hubcaps) when they get back. We rode BART to the airport, and secured two seats on an evening flight to Memphis. I paid for their round-trip tickets by check ($1,537.84!), and even managed to suck another $300 out of an ATM in the boarding lounge. Slipping an imposing $800 wad to the bride-to-be, I promised to wire more money to them at their motel if they ran short.

  “Oh, Carlotta,” gushed Apurva, “how will we ever repay you for your kindness?”

  “Yes, Carlotta,” said Trent, “why are you being so incredibly nice to us?”

  Why, Trent? Because I want you permanently out of Sheeni’s life: once and for all, nailed down, no ifs, no buts. And for that I’m willing to do anything short of murder. And don’t push me too hard on that point either.

  “It’s nothing,” replied Carlotta, modestly. “It’s just that sometimes destiny needs a little helping hand. And please don’t mention my assistance in this matter to anyone back in Ukiah.”

  An announcement was made that boarding of the plane was about to commence.

  “OK, kids,” said Carlotta. “You know what to do. Go to the courthouse in Oxford on Monday. You’ll have to get a blood test, but that shouldn’t be any problem. Don’t let them give you any flak. If worse comes to worst, try offering bribes. Remember: no holding hands in public around anyone who looks like a redneck. They take miscegenation pretty seriously down there. And if you have any trouble, give me a call.”

  “I feel everything will be fine,” said Apurva, happily clutching Trent’s arm. “We’ll go shopping for my boy tomorrow. He’s getting married and he doesn’t even have a toothbrush!”

  “Good idea,” said Carlotta. “OK, you kids have a good time. And, Trent, don’t think about things too much. Just do it.”

  “Just do it,” he repeated. “Right. Live in the present. Tomorrow will take care of itself.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Carlotta. “That attitude has helped men get through their weddings for centuries. If you have to brood about something, think of all the fun you’ll have on your honeymoon. You’re a lucky guy.”

  At least on this point I was being sincere. A week in a Mississippi motel with sexy Apurva on someone else’s nickel—the guy leads a charmed life.

  After hugs all around, the happy couple bounded up the boarding ramp, and forlorn Carlotta was left to figure out how to hau
l herself back to Ukiah.

  Five minutes later: I got the shock of my life while hailing a cab for the crosstown trip to the bus station. Parked at the airport curb was an Oakland black and white—with my evil stepdad Lance Wescott behind the wheel. A married man and so-called “officer of the law,” he was flagrantly checking out Carlotta’s butt.

  SUNDAY, February 28 — It was after 11 p.m. when my bus rolled into Ukiah and nearly midnight when my second overpriced cab ride of the night brought me to my humble abode, which turned out to be not quite as lonely as I’d anticipated. Stretched out in my bed, under Granny DeFalco’s quilt, in her preferred sleep apparel (none) was the Person I’d Most Like to Hijack to Mississippi: Sheeni Saunders.

  “Hi, Nickie,” she said sleepily. “What took you so long? How’s Fuzzy?”

  “Uhmm, he’s feeling better,” I replied, hastily disrobing. “What a nice surprise, darling. I thought you were mad at me.”

  “I don’t handle rejection well, Nickie. You should know that by now.”

  I hopped into bed and embraced her. “I wasn’t rejecting you, darling.”

  “Nick, did you floss and brush?”

  I hopped out of bed. “Be right back. Don’t go away.”

  Sheeni slipped on my robe and followed me into the bathroom. “Nickie, no one’s seen any sign of Apurva and Trent. All the parents are in a tizzy, including mine for some reason. Everyone’s afraid they might have done something desperate.”

  I paused in my flossing. “You mean like get married?”

  “No, silly. They’re much too young for that. Everyone’s worried they might do something extreme like make a suicide pact.”

  “I doubt that, Sheeni. Guys as good-looking as Trent don’t off themselves. What would be the point? They’re probably holed up in a motel in Willits or somewhere. They’ll come home when they run out of money.”

  “You really think so, Nickie?”

  I spat out my toothpaste and rinsed my brush. “Of course, darling. They’re two reasonably sensible kids. They’d have been fine if their parents hadn’t interfered.”

  “Speaking of which, Nickie, my parents are expecting us at church tomorrow.”

  “Then we’d better get cracking at the next item on the agenda.”

  8:45 a.m. It’s weird. When Sheeni and I (finally) went to sleep last night, we lay on opposite sides of the bed, but when we awoke we were totally entwined—as if our limbs had been methodically and magically knit together. Sheeni threatens to make me wear latex pajamas, lest these unconscious nocturnal clinches grow too intimate and she winds up expecting our first gifted child. (My genes would be thrilled.)

  The phone rang; I laboriously untangled an arm to answer it.

  “Carlotta,” said Fuzzy, sounding excited. “Have you read today’s paper?”

  “Not yet, I’ve been engaged in more important activities.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll give you a hint, Frank. You used to do it with Heather.”

  “Is Sheeni there?”

  “She’s here.”

  “Damn, Carlotta. You have to find me a girlfriend!”

  “I’m working on it, guy. What’s in the paper?”

  “Go read it!” Click.

  9:35 a.m. The alarming story was splashed all over the front page. A homegrown computer virus is wreaking havoc among local businesses and spreading like an infectious plague across the Internet. Most ominous, concerned officials have labeled this destructive new pest the “Geezer” virus.

  “Nickie, are you or are you not taking me out to breakfast?” demanded Sheeni, freshly bathed and fully dressed to her usual pulse-quickening effect.

  “In a minute, darling. I’m reading about a new computer virus.”

  “Oh, I heard all about it from Vijay. It’s driving his father nuts at work. Vijay fears that it and his sister’s tumultuous love life may finally push his father over the brink.”

  I flipped to where the story continued on an inside page. “Listen to this, Sheeni: Experts describe this latest virus as a simple looping program devised with a brilliant and diabolical twist.”

  It wasn’t a brilliant twist, you nitwits, it was a bug in my program!

  “Well, I for one needn’t worry,” remarked My Love. “No virus can infect my French-language portable typewriter. That is all the technology any serious writer requires.”

  2:45 p.m. Carlotta was somewhat preoccupied throughout breakfast, our stroll to church, Rev. Glompiphel’s feverish sermon (title: “Is There a Virus in Your Soul?”), and a heavy midday meal at Sheeni’s house in the company of her Bible-thumping parents. It didn’t help that Mr. and Mrs. Saunders spent most of the meal speculating on the fate of poor Trent. They feel strongly that the town’s “most promising youth” has “gone astray” ever since he broke off his attachment to Sheeni and was “ensnared” by “that foreign girl.”

  “Of course, ultimately it’s all the fault of that horrible boy Nick Twisp,” averred Sheeni’s 5,000-year-old mother, slicing Carlotta a generous wedge of lemon meringue pie. “Don’t you think so, Carlotta?”

  “Er, I don’t quite see the connection, Mrs. Saunders,” I replied, polishing my fork in anticipation. The woman may be a Blight on Earth, but she does have a knack for desserts.

  “It’s very simple,” explained Sheeni. “If Nick hadn’t come along last summer, I would still be going out with the handsome and honorable Mr. Preston. And Apurva would be safely at home burning her incense and worshiping her pagan gods. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

  “Watch your smart mouth,” she retorted.

  Sheeni and I exchanged glances. We’d heard that line before.

  5:12 p.m. My house was just searched by a Ukiah policeman! I’m still a nervous wreck. The Law arrived in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Joshi, who demanded to know if I was harboring their runaway daughter. I said “Don’t be ridiculous,” and let them poke through all my cupboards and closets. It was all I could do to restrain Albert, who has nearly as much difficulty with authority figures as I do. At least the cop was polite, and Apurva’s mother did apologize on her way out for their “rude intrusion.” Snubbing Mr. Joshi, I promised I would call her immediately if I heard from her daughter.

  “I’m just as concerned about Apurva as you are,” I lied. “Of course, this country is no place to try and raise children with the proper values.”

  “That is exactly what I told my husband!” Mrs. Joshi exclaimed.

  “You’re so right,” I agreed. “If I were you, I’d send that nice son of yours right back to India—before he’s corrupted too!”

  6:25 p.m. As I was taking the garbage out to the alley I ran into Redwood High’s most celebrated gridiron mediocrity, Bruno Modjaleski, who dropped his garbage can with a deafening clang while studying Carlotta’s chest.

  “’Lo, Carly,” he leered. “You’re lookin’ good, babe. Was that the cops I just saw at your house?”

  “Uh-huh, Bruno. I was forced to call them. Some nosey neighbor is always spying on me!”

  8:45 p.m. Enough studying for now. I don’t see why physics is so obsessed with the hydrogen atom. Seems to me it properly falls under the jurisdiction of the chemistry department.

  I’ve taken the precaution of deleting all traces of the ill-fated “Geezer” program from my computer. All I can figure is Dad must have carried an infected floppy to his computer at work. The guy should stick to typewriters.

  It suddenly occurred to me that Dad and Vijay’s father are employed by the same company. I don’t see how they could have avoided having some contact with each other. Do you suppose they ever figured out that that familiar-looking coworker was the guy they once met in Dad’s muddy driveway for hand-to-hand combat?

  No call from Apurva and Trent. I wonder how they’re getting on in Dixie? I’d pay a sizeable sum to be a fly on the wall of their motel room tonight. Come to think of it, maybe Sheeni’s right. Perhaps I am a demented voyeuristic pervert.

  Confession time: I�
��m not planning on moving or hiring a chauffeur. I expect when all the recriminations die down, Trent and Apurva will go live with his parents. God knows, I don’t want them hanging around here with Sheeni and me. They may have a special reason to sponge off Mom and Dad. Before we left for the airport, thoughtful Carlotta slipped Trent one dozen condoms—all of which I had punctured with a small pin. Not very nice, I admit, but their genes will thank me, and I need some insurance against a parentally imposed annulment.

  MONDAY, March 1 — I just heard on the radio that the governor of California switched on his computer this morning in Sacramento and was mooned by a diabolical virus. That will teach him to have the second-lowest per-pupil expenditure for public schools of any state in the nation. Had I been properly educated, I might know how to write a bug-free computer program.

  Enough with the incidentals. We shall now fast-forward to the seventh period, when—composing herself for the ordeal ahead—Carlotta clutched her books to her artificial chest and crept into the girls’ gym.

  OK, you ask, just how buffed is the industrially tanned Miss Arbulash? Let us simply note that when she talks, the muscles of her face bulge and ripple. And they compose the least developed region of her body. Seldom has a sleeveless, skintight silver leotard been asked to fit a form such as hers. Even the gleaming brass whistle dangling on a chain around her horselike neck seemed larger than life.

  Massively intimidated, Carlotta somehow managed to blurt out her story of mildew hypersensitivity, while My Love hovered with feigned disinterest a few steps away.

  Miss Arbulash methodically swept her muscular eyeballs over my quaking form. “Are we boycotting gym today, Sheeni?” she boomed in a resonant alto.

  “Er, no, Miss Arbulash,” replied My Love, retiring to the locker room.

  “So, Carlotta Ulansky, you are allergic to mold,” she sneered, inspecting me from all sides. “Miss Pomdreck seems to think you’re a walking basket case. How many hours of aerobic exercise do you perform each week?”

  I tried to think. Did sex count?

  “Uh, none.” I didn’t dare look into those fierce blue eyes.