Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (23 page)

I filled her in on the events of the past few days, including the muffed diaper disaster.

“Dropped the ball on that one, did you, Roger?”

“Connie, I’m worried sick my brother may grow up mentally impaired!”

“Not to worry, Roger. People drop them all the time. Mom was always firing housekeepers for dropping me. And we have expensive terrazzo floors. So unyielding to the flesh. By the way, how’s your lovely fiancée?”

“I haven’t seen Sheeni yet, Connie. She wasn’t at school yesterday. I’m thinking of calling her.”

“Of course not, Roger. Remember what I said. She’s exactly where you want her.”

“Connie, she’s pregnant and miserable. And so am I—miserable, I mean.”

“Your patience will be rewarded, Roger. I’m offering a woman’s perspective on this issue.”

“So you say, Connie. Well, good luck on your end.”

“And good luck to you too, Roger.”

9:35 p.m. I had a lonely dinner for one at the Golden Carp,
Ukiah’s budget-conscious Chinese restaurant. Steve the waiter served me attentively for a change as he had not yet experienced grave gratuity disappointment from my latest personality.

After dinner I took a walk and found myself strolling past Sheeni’s stately Victorian home. No sign of My Love or her wearisome parents. Alarmingly, one of the cars in the driveway was a late-model Acura the same color as Trent’s. I kept on walking and came to Carlotta’s former house, where Apurva was pushing Granny DeFalco’s rusty reel-mower across the lawn in the ebbing light. She was looking most alluring in jeans and one of Trent’s white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up. I stopped to say hello, and tried to ignore loathsome Albert and Jean-Paul barking at me from behind the screen door.

“Shouldn’t your husband be doing that?” I asked.

Apurva called for the dogs to hush; they ignored her. “Oh, I do not mind, Rick. I need the exercise. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Is it tension from starting a new school? I feel that too.”

“Perhaps partially,” she replied, smiling weakly.

“I’ll have to meet your husband sometime, Apurva. He seems to be quite a popular student. Is he home now?”

“Uh, no,” she replied, contemplating the handle of her mower. “He is not home—at the moment, no.”

“Oh. Well, maybe some other time then. Uh, see you in driver’s ed.”

“Yes, Rick. That will be nice. I was quite impressed with your driving skills.”

“You did very well too, Apurva. Well, good night.”

“Good night, Rick.”

Something was clearly amiss. Apurva looked almost as miserable as I feel. Too bad Carlotta wasn’t available for an intimate girl-to-girl chat. Chicks are so much less forthcoming with guys. I’ve got to find out what the hell is going on!

•    •    •

SUNDAY, April 11 — Another no-show by Sheeni at the do-nut shop. Doesn’t our zygote have to eat? Or is it an embryo by now? Guess I spent too many hours in health class pondering the erotic diagrams and not enough time studying the medical terminology.

After breakfast I reached deep within the bowels of my sofa, extracted my concealed money belt, and sucked out another $100. Thus, my banking technology has regressed about 500 years from Carlotta’s ATM card. I hit the neighborhood garage sales and managed to score an old French-made ten-speed for a mere $20. For another fiver, the guy threw in a lock, chain, and brain bucket. Once again I have wheels, though what François really desires is a car.

Even if I could find a decent cheap car, I remind him, the compulsory insurance would be financially mutilating. Plus, if I ever got pulled over by the cops, they might wonder why my driver’s license number wasn’t in their computer. I could use my fake birth certificate to apply for a real license, except I’d have to give the DMV an incriminating thumbprint. So it looks like I bike it for now. What a waste of taxpayer-funded driver’s education.

5:08 p.m. I just had an unnerving conversation in Flampert’s Variety Store with Sonya Klummplatz and Lana Baldwin. I was jawing my way through a piece of stale pecan pie at the lunch counter (it was Ida’s day off), when Sonya seated her bulky frame on the adjoining stool—greatly crowding me and my plate even though many other empty stools were available. Her friend squeezed in on the other side of her. Interpreting this unexpected proximity as an invitation to get acquainted, I remarked that I had just transferred to Redwood High and asked if they were fellow students. They conceded they were, we introduced ourselves, and chatted amiably about my new town and school. Eventually,
I steered the conversation around to the latest gossip sweeping the campus.

“Yeah, the guy’s name was Nick Twisp,” Sonya explained. “The whole school was crawling with cops looking for him. The FBI too. We even had TV reporters up from San Francisco. The cops dusted his locker for fingerprints, but we wiped it all down before they got there.”

Sonya I could (almost but not quite) kiss you!

“But how did you know Nick’s locker combination?” I asked.

“Easy, Rick,” replied Lana in her West Virginia drawl. “I work in the office and snuck the number out of the locked file. ’Tain’t no big secret where they hide that key.”

“I hear the cops questioned a girl named Sheeni Saunders,” I said.

“Stuck-up bitch,” sniffed Sonya. “She’s knocked up, you know.”

“Really?”

“The joke’s on her though, Rick,” she continued. “The father is this cute guy Trent Preston. Only he’s married—to this gorgeous Indian girl, you know, from India.”

“I think Apurva’s real sweet,” commented Lana.

“Maybe,” said Sonya, “but I’d like to murder her anyway.”

“What makes you think Trent is the father?” I asked.

“Sheeni’s parents flipped out, Rick,” replied Sonya. “I hear they’re very conservative. They called up Trent’s parents and demanded he divorce Apurva and marry Sheeni. Everything’s in a big uproar.”

“The rumor is Apurva could be expectin’ too,” Lana added.

“But surely Trent has denied any involvement with Sheeni,” I said.

Sonya slurped her soda. “You’re out of the loop, Rick. Trent admitted it’s his kid. Apurva’s standing by him though. I’d do
the same, I guess, though I’d prefer to be lying under him. Oops, me and my dirty mind. Do you have a date for the spring dance, Rick?”

“Uh, what? No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, you do now, Rick. It’s girls ask boys. You’re my witness, Lana.”

“That’s right, Rick,” confirmed Lana. “I’m kinda amazed, but she nailed you fair and square. That’s just what she said she was gonna do over at the cosmetics counter.”

“Lana dear, let’s not give away all of our little secrets,” admonished her friend.

Another unmitigated disaster. My genes are in an uproar over Trent’s embryonic usurpation. And how is it possible I have a dance engagement with Sonya?

MONDAY, April 12 – I was on my way to computer lab and trying to dodge Sonya Klummplatz, when I heard someone call my name. I turned around and my heart somersaulted in my chest. It was My Love, looking impossibly beautiful and very surprised to see me. I seized conscious control of Rick S. Hunter’s body language.

“Oh, hi, Sheeni,” I replied with feigned nonchalance.

“Rick! What are you doing here?”

“Going to school. What are you doing here, Sheeni? I thought you lived in Redding.”

“No, I told you I was from Ukiah. But, but, why are you here?”

“My physical therapist recommended it. She said the climate up here was ideal for recovering from life-threatening injuries.”

I never made it to computer lab. At Sheeni’s suggestion, we cut class and sneaked across the street to the Beaver Lodge cafe, Redwood High’s off-campus teen hangout. We ordered tall lattes
(as she can only tolerate the blandest of foods, Sheeni specified no coffee in hers) and ducked into a private booth, where My Love gave Rick S. Hunter an impassioned kiss.

“How’s the scorpion bite?” I asked, when we came up for air.

“God, that was awful, Rick. I’m OK now. But why didn’t you come to the hospital?”

“I’m allergic to hospitals. They remind me of my accident.”

“I thought I was never going to see you again, Rick. You didn’t write or anything.”

“I’m not much of a writer, Sheeni,” I lied. “How have you been?”

“Terrible, Rick. It’s been a hellish week. That test was a joke. It turns out I am pregnant. The doctor in Tucson told my parents!”

“They didn’t take it well?”

“Hardly. And they’re insisting I have the kid. Most so-called pro-life fascists at least sensibly make exceptions for their immediate family, but not my parents. Not those hypocrites. They insist on standing firm on their principles—by holding me and my body prisoner.”

“They won’t let you out of the house?”

“Only to go to school, Rick. My mother drops me off and picks me up. Can you believe that? So I’ve been cutting classes left and right. My friend Vijay is appalled. He thinks my grades will suffer—as if I could care about that now.”

“What’s this I hear about Trent Preston being the father?”

“I suppose everyone in school is gossiping about that. What does it matter who the father is? I’m not going to have it anyway, Rick.”

“Trent’s wife is in my driver’s ed class, Sheeni. She seems a bit upset.”

“She should have my problems.”

“So Trent is the father, Sheeni?” I was nothing if not persistent.

“I said it to shock my parents, Rick. I was sick of their high opinion of Trent. So, of course, he turns out to be too much of a gentleman to deny it.”

“And now your parents want him to marry you?”

“Do they ever. I think they’d even consider bigamy, if it were legal. I could be esteemed Wife Number Two and sleep with him on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On Sundays we could flip a coin. I don’t know why they don’t hate Trent. They certainly despise you, Rick.”

“Most parents do,” I admitted. “What do Trent’s parents say?”

“Oh, they hate me. They’ve decided to make the best of Apurva and their Indo-American grandchild.”

“Is that a rumor or a fact?”

“The latter, unfortunately. There was a big parents’ conference at my house last night. Apurva and I appear to have conceived at approximately the same hour. We may have adjoining beds in the delivery room. Won’t that be fun? Darling Trent can assist with both deliveries.”

“So what does Trent say?”

“Well, last night he graciously volunteered to adopt my kid. I’m not certain he cleared that idea beforehand with Apurva. I suppose they’d be raised as twins—one of mixed race and one not. Quite the modern blended family. That’s when I started screaming hysterically and locked myself in the bathroom.”

At that moment a dark shadow fell across our table. I looked up into the violet-highlighted eyes of Sonya Klummplatz, who was smiling at me while pointedly ignoring my companion.

“Oh, there you are, Rick. I’ve been looking for you, honey. We need to discuss the colors I’ll be wearing to the spring dance on Saturday.”

My Love released my hand and gazed at me in stunned surprise. True to his Gallic roots, Rick S. Hunter could only shrug.

After Sheeni left in a huff, Sonya informed me that she would be wearing a lilac gown (no surprise there) to the dance, and that I should keep that in mind when selecting her corsage.

“Definitely no yellow mums, honey,” she stressed. “I don’t want to wind up looking like the Easter Bunny.”

Since My Love opted to eat her bland bagged lunch with odious Vijay, rather than risk another Sonya encounter, I walked the few blocks to my apartment and fixed a sandwich. Lunch is always the most stressful part of the school day for friendless new students, and Rick S. Hunter is not the type of guy to linger on the fringes and be snubbed.

Later in driver’s ed I drove all the way to Hopland on Route 101 at freeway speeds and had only one minor near-miss with a logging truck. On the return trip I sat next to Apurva in the back seat, and we had a hurried whispered conversation. I told her that I had met Sheeni recently in Mexico and she had assured me that the father of her kid was some guy named Nick Twisp. Apurva brushed back a tear and replied softly, “Yes, Rick, I know.” I thought she would appreciate hearing her husband wasn’t a two-timing louse, but it didn’t seem to cheer her up.

8:15 p.m. Taking no chances, I just called Joanie in Oakland from the pay phone down the block. To my surprise and displeasure my mother answered. It was the news I wanted to hear, but not a person I wished to speak with.

“Miss Joan Twisp please,” I said in Rick S. Hunter’s most resonant voice.

“Who’s calling?” she demanded suspiciously.

“Uh, Polonious DeFalco,” I replied, saying the first name that popped into my head.

“Never heard of you. Joanie’s out walking the baby.”

Do infants have to be walked like dogs?

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll call back tomorrow.” Click.

A brief but illuminating conversation. Sheeni’s check must have gone through. I may be in the chips!

TUESDAY, April 13 — After my class in California problems (social studies floundering for relevance), I spotted My Love loitering beside Rick S. Hunter’s locker. I shifted my body language into smoldering languor and sidled toward her.

“Hello, Sheeni.”

“Hello, Rick. Where’s your Miss Klummplatz?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Isn’t she your girlfriend?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I lied.

“Want to cut class with me?”

“Sure, Sheeni.”

“I haven’t seen your new place, Rick.”

“Let’s go check it out.”

We dumped our books in my locker and strode purposefully toward the nearest exit. Once off campus I wanted to take Sheeni’s hand, but decided I’d better resist the urge.

“What class are you cutting now, Rick?” asked My Love, also keeping her hands to herself.

“Computer lab.”

“Vijay says that class is a joke. He says everyone ignores Mr. Hiesgweem and just plays computer games or cruises the Internet for porno.”

“Some do, but I’m working on my programming skills.” I felt I could use a brush-up after that Geezer Virus fiasco.

Sheeni was appalled when I told her my class schedule. “They put you in life skills, Rick? I thought you had to be retarded to get in that class.”