Revoltingly Young (6 page)

Silly me. I thought we were joining all those lovebirds for life.

Speaking of Cosmic Love, I’m still dateless. After working myself into a tizzy, I sent Toby in to buy another candy bar. No Uma. Her work hours seem most irregular. Fat Marvin was there giving me the evil eye. I got a closer look at that cretin’s nametag. Won’t you know it, he’s a Tuelco–the old man’s youngest son, according to Grandma. I think ol’ Gus should have pulled out early that night.

10:45 p.m. I’ve been researching the female vagina. This is quite easy these days, thanks to the profusion of porn sites on the Internet. You can get some full-color views from a true gynecologist’s perspective. Seems a pretty simple affair–at least from the outward appearance. Not nearly as much variation as you get with penises, which should be helpful for us neophytes. I think it’s great there’s so much information out there these days. I can just imagine how mystified my dad or grandfather must have felt when they first started poking around down there. Of course, this information exposure only heightens my desire to experience the real thing. I wonder if Uma finds the subject (carnal relations) similarly captivating?

That question I hope to answer soon.

FRIDAY, July 8 – Payday at last. No check yet, but by tonight I expect my net worth will have skyrocketed. Meanwhile, I at last received an e-mail response from my elder brother. Nick apologized for not getting back to me sooner, saying he was “away for a week in Prague for a jugglers’ convention.” Why is it that everyone on Earth goes to conventions but the one sub-group that really needs to mix it up: horny teenagers? Nick writes and I quote: “I have no reason to believe that Lance Wescott is not your father.”

OK, either the guy is totally clueless or a compulsive liar. I’m inclined toward the latter. In my experience, we Twisps much prefer a complicated lie to the simple truth. We are by nature a devious clan.

The town’s meager black population has gone up by one. Carlyle’s package was delivered today. Unlike Toby, Carlyle tries to distract attention from his blue eyes and dearth of Negroid features by speaking an extreme version of ghetto English. The effect is arresting to say the least. I suggested he throttle back a notch to appear less like an offensive caricature, but he wasn’t buying it. He has also modified his walk to an in-your-face ghetto strut (with twitches). More than a bit ridiculous, but I must be supportive of my fellow gang member. Now he has hit the streets in full regalia to buy a metal comb for teasing out his big ’70s-style afro.

5:12 p.m. Momentous news! Toby spoke to Uma again. First he got fat Marvin out of the way by asking him if he knew some “old guy named Gus?”

“
My dad’s named Gus,” he replied, eyeballing me suspiciously.

“
That’s too bad,” Toby said. “I just heard he collapsed into his macaroni and cheese at the senior center.”

Marvin cursed, spat, and hustled out the door.

“
Is that true?” inquired Uma, adorning the gum display with her Mediterranean beauty.

“
Probably somewhere on this planet,” replied Toby, nervously scanning the candy bar rack. My Big Moment was approaching.

“
I wish I could eat candy like you do,” Uma remarked.

“
Why don’t you?”

“
I have a grandmother who weighs 300 pounds.”

“
So do I. But fortunately I’m not related to mine.”

Not wishing to appear too hedonistic, I put back my jumbo bar and selected a regular-size Payday.

“
How did you manage that?” Uma asked, sliding my bar under the scanner.

“
It’s a long story.”

“
That will be $1.29. Do you know Mary Glasgow?”

I fished out my wallet. “Sure. I’ve known her since kindergarten.”

True enough, but I doubt stuck-up Mary would deign to spit on me if my clothes were on fire. Uma, I knew, was tight with her.

“
She’s having a Christmas in July party. Are you interested?”

Toby had a mild coronary. Could it be that Uma was asking
me
out?”

“
Uh, sure. Yes. Really, I’d love to. When is it?”

“
Tomorrow night. Her parents are going out of town. We’re supposed to dress in holiday-appropriate attire–whatever that means.”

“
Sounds good. What time should I pick you up?” I had to get this nailed down before she changed her mind or came to her senses.

“
I don’t know. Eight o’clock?”

“
I’ll be there.”

“
OK.”

“
OK, Uma.”

“
Are you intending to pay me? Or do I have to call a cop?”

“
Oh, right!”

Toby paid for his item and wandered off in another golden fog.

I have an actual date with Uma!

I have joined the One Billion Club at last. This asking out chicks was much easier than I expected.

By the way, my paycheck seemed suspiciously low. Lots of onerous deductions for frivolous taxes, plus no reimbursement for Toby’s pricey used shoes. Mrs. Dugan claimed she “forgot.” I let it slide, cause ol’ Toby is now slaving (happily) for date money.

SATURDAY, July 9 – The most momentous day of my life. I less than 12 hours I may be holding Uma’s hand (assuming I can work up the courage). Lots of overnight leakage and thumb molestation I’m attributing to nerves. My composure was not improved by Stoney arriving bright and early to grill me on these latest developments. Somehow she had heard, although I informed no one except Grandma and my employers. Just try having a secret in this town.

“
Why would Uma invite
you
to Mary Glasgow’s dumb party?” demanded Stoney.

“
Why not? Maybe she likes me.”

“
You wish. No, it’s got to be something else. Maybe they intend to humiliate you for trying to pass as black.”

“
That’s Carlyle. I’m only doing Toby for the bucks.”

“
I fear the worst. Did you ever see the movie ‘Carrie’?”

“
Stoney! Uma’s not like that. Besides, I’m not going to the party as Toby.”

“
You’re not? Does your girlfriend know that? As I recall she invited Toby not Noel.”

“
And how, may I ask, do you know that?”

“
I have my sources. Are you going as an elf?”

“
Certainly not.”

“
It’s a Christmas party, you dork.”

“
I know that. I thought I’d wear a red shirt and my green corduroy pants.”

“
You’ll look like an idiot.”

“
Stoney, did you come over here just to undermine my confidence and make me feel bad?”

“
Sure, Noel. What else are friends for?”

1:17 p.m. Carlyle’s transformation to an urban minority youth has not gone down well with his foster parents. They’ve scheduled an emergency appointment for him on Monday with the county juvenile psychologist. Carlyle has met with this chick (Dr. Quentina Freep) many times in the past, and regards her as “kinda sexy,” but “nosy as hell.” At least she’s black, so Carlyle expects a more sympathetic hearing than last time when he just a “white punk” setting the county ablaze.

Carlyle loves being black, but doesn’t appreciate all the scrutiny he’s now receiving on the street from “honky assholes.” Toby pointed out that’s a fact of life in a county that’s so lily white. It’s too bad Carlyle didn’t aspire to be Hispanic. We have lots of those, and he’d fit right in (assuming he spoke Spanish, didn’t twitch, and was generally less strange).

6:17 p.m. Too nervous to eat any dinner. I expect there will be snacks at the party. I’ve been listening to Grandma’s Christmas CDs to get in the mood and calm my nerves. Mel Torme and Tony Bennett were OK, but the Carpenters’ holiday album made me feel a bit suicidal. I wonder if it’s just me or does Karen Carpenter’s voice provoke extreme anxiety in everyone?

7:15 p.m. Time to go. I will now leave my childhood behind and commence Life with Uma.

SUNDAY, July 10 – I slept until 1:30 in the afternoon. Not a record, but up there even for me. No leakage. After a hard workout, my kidneys were taking the night off. Very hot day. Took a shower and turned up the swamp cooler. Now roaring like a 747 that just sucked in a goose. Had to fix my own lunch as Grandma was out. No phone messages, no interesting e-mail.

Details of last night’s date? Oh all right, if you insist.

Being car-less and license-less, I rode my bike to Uma’s. Since I’ve been making a study of her life, I knew where she lived and knew it was just a few blocks from Mary Glasgow’s. I ditched my bike in some shrubbery and rang the doorbell. An older Italian-looking lady opened the door. Not fat, thank God. Introduced herself as Uma’s aunt Rosa. Seemed to know who I was, and did not call police to have me ejected. Made small talk in posh foyer, then Uma showed up. Dressed most provocatively in silver ice-skating costume. Leotard-like top and very short ruffled skirt. Lovely slim legs encased in matching iridescent tights. Hair pinned up and festooned with tinsel. Sparkly be-jeweled Christmas tree broach fastened above left breast. Bright green eye shadow and red lipstick that coordinated nicely with my apparel. No actual ice skates, of course, just silver ballet slippers that softly caressed each lovely toe. She was like the best Christmas morning you could imagine, multiplied a million times. Somehow she even smelled like a pine forest.

“
Hi, Noel,” she said. “Where’s that Christmas music coming from?”

“
It’s my iPod. I’ve connected it to small amplified speakers concealed in my pants pockets.”

“
Very ingenious.”

We said good-bye to Aunt Rosa and set off for the party–linked if not by hand (I was too chicken) then by a shared sense of festive anticipation. Soon, Mel Torme gave way to Barbra Streisand. Walking in the deepening twilight with the woman of your dreams in your own cocoon of mood music is a great way to start one’s Saturday night.

“
Does this bra look too ridiculous?” asked Uma.

Rendered virtually speechless by her query, I inspected the area in question.

“
Uh, no. You look fine, I mean great.”

“
I wasn’t going to wear one, but my aunt insisted. She said people could see my nipples–as if every person on the planet doesn’t have them.”

“
Uh, some people,” I stammered, “some people have more than two.”

“
Well, don’t get your hopes up in my case, Noel.”

I was not entirely sure what she meant by that.

“
Your aunt lives with you?”

“
Yes, ever since she left the convent. She used to be a nun.”

“
A man? Really! She had a sex-change operation?”

“
Hardly. I said ‘nun.’ She used to be Sister Rosa.”

“
Oh. Sorry.”

A night of firsts: First time I had spoken to a nun. First time I had discussed intimate apparel with a girl.

“
For 17 years. Can you imagine that? Then she called it quits. She wants to get married, but she hasn’t had any luck finding a fellow. She needs a cultured gentleman of the old school. Catholic too, of course. Just try finding that type in Winnemucca. Know anybody?”

“
Uh, I don’t think so.”

“
Well, we’ve got to find her someone, Noel. I can’t have an ex-nun telling me how to dress for the rest of my life.”

I liked her use of “we” in that sentence. I was about 98 percent ready to grasp her dangling hand when I noticed that we had arrived at our destination. Mary Glasgow herself answered our knock and squealed out an enthusiastic “Merry Christmas!” Draping a skinny arm around her shoulder was Drew Kolstiner, my long ago grade-school next-door neighbor and best friend. His mother remarried, they sold their trailer, they moved to a fancier street, and that was that. His romantic interest in Mary Glasgow was news to me, though probably not to the rest of Winnemucca.

“
Hi, Drew,” I said.

“
Hi, Noel. What’s with the bulge in your pants?”

Everyone looked down at my crotch. Nope, nothing amiss or inflamed down there.

“
Those are speakers in his pockets,” volunteered Uma. “Noel’s a walking Christmas concert.”

“
Very nice,” said Mary, obviously meaning “very weird.” She should talk, being dressed in fuzzy pink rabbit pajamas like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story.”

I switched off my iPod, as I’d need a sound truck or a nuclear bomb to compete with the din blasting forth from the Glasgows’ stereo. The CDs were being fed in by Dasan Williams, one of the few authentic African-Americans in our class. Despite the announced party theme, his cutting-edge tastes apparently did not embrace Christmas music.

We made our way into the living room, crowded with Winnemucca’s teen elite. Providing the only illumination were twinkling lights strung on a bizarrely decorated artificial Christmas tree in a corner of the room.

“
I hope you’ve brought your decorations,” screamed Mary over the noise.

Uma nodded, opened her purse, extracted a limp jockstrap, and hung it on a branch next to a hood ornament off someone’s Mercedes. I prayed her contribution was not a memento of some steamy encounter with Scott Chandler.

“
Where’s yours, Noel?” screamed Mary.