Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (16 page)

“And will you write to me, darling?” I asked.

“As often as I dare,” said Sheeni. “Unfortunately, this episode could not have come at a worse time. School starts Monday and I’ve yet to complete my fall wardrobe purchases. So, some parental appeasement will be required—at least temporarily.”

“I’m sure you’ll be lovely,” I said wistfully, wishing with all my heart that I could walk the halls of Ukiah’s Redwood High School hand in hand with my love.

“Thank you, darling,” said Sheeni. “Well, I’m shivering from the cold, and I don’t like the way my erect nipples are outlined enticingly against this thin fabric. So, hugs and kisses. I’ll talk to you soon. Say hi to Lefty for me. Bye, darling.”

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” I whispered.

At that moment, the overhead light snapped on, blinding me. I dropped the phone and turned around. It was Mom, standing in her robe by the light switch. If looks could kill, I’d be a cinch for the Channel 2 news.

“What the friggin’ hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. Albert growled at me from his ringside seat.

“I, I couldn’t sleep. So I phoned for the time.”

“You better be telling the truth,” said Mom. “Because I’m calling the phone company tomorrow. And there better not be any more collect calls on this line.”

Guess what, Lefty (wherever you are)? My life is a living hell.

10:15
A.M
. I never got back to sleep. I lay in bed, feeling like moldy roadkill, wishing I could fast-forward through the coming week. The day dawned appropriately gray, gloomy, and cold. I thought of whacking off for some brief, transitory pleasure, but my libido is off somewhere hiding out.

The liver had its revenge on Mom too. I heard her go in the bathroom and toss her cookies. Not even the sounds of her violent bodily distress gave me pleasure.

Dreading another confrontation, I didn’t go down for breakfast. Mom didn’t call me. After a while, she walked into my room (without knocking) and said I owed her $83.12 in long-distance fees. To her surprise, I took out my wallet and paid her in cash. “Where’d you get all that money?” Mom demanded.

“Dealing dope,” I muttered.

“What’d you say?”

“It’s my savings,” I replied. “My entire college education fund except for $7.”

Mom, though, was impervious to guilt. “That phone is off-limits to you,” she said, pocketing the greenbacks. “You want to talk to somebody, you write them a letter.”

“I’m not going to talk to anyone,” I replied. “I’m going to stay in my room and become a maladjusted, antisocial hermit.”

“Good,” said Mom, “that sounds like an improvement to me. But first you’re going to walk that dog.”

Albert was in a bubbly mood and ready for exercise—even with me. We walked to the donut shop, where I blew four of my last seven dollars on the extreme depressive’s breakfast: a large coffee, two maple bars, a cinnamon twist, a blueberry turnover, a chocolate old-fashioned, and a dozen donut holes. Even the clerk (an immense, middle-aged black woman), who doubtless deals daily with the profoundly sugar-compulsive, seemed impressed.

On the way back, I had to rescue Albert from a large Doberman who trotted over menacingly to sniff his heinie. Albert’s defense was to growl nervously,
sit down, and look around to me for protection. I felt like maintaining strict neutrality, but for Sheeni’s sake, I hoisted Albert out of danger range. He thanked me by dribbling on my shirt.

When I got home, Mom was in Joanie’s room hanging frilly baby-blue curtains on the windows. The effect is strikingly juvenile. Joanie, I am sure, will be pissed. Albert sauntered in and hopped up on the bed to watch Mom. She didn’t object, and greeted him affectionately—while lobbing a scowl in my direction. Frankly, I think the two of them deserve each other.

I went to my room and sat at the computer. Any second now, I expect the phone to ring and the next stage of my life (as a juvenile offender) to commence.

12:45
P.M
. The phone never rang. At 10:30 Lefty’s parents showed up without an appointment. I heard the car stop out front and watched from my bedroom window. Lefty was in the back seat looking red-eyed, subdued, and just slightly swelled up. He spotted me in the window and quickly looked away. He didn’t get out of the car.

When the doorbell rang, I felt a strange tingling at the base of my scrotum. This, I realized, is the physical sensation of extreme terror. It’s probably what the noblemen in France felt right before the blade of the guillotine hurtled down.

I heard Mom open the front door and exclaim when she saw Lefty in the car. Five seconds later, I heard Lefty’s parents exclaim when they saw the bedoilied Chevrolet in the living room. Then there were muffled conversational sounds interrupted periodically by loud expostulations from Mom. Then heavy footsteps stormed up the stairs and my bedroom door exploded open. Mom, several frightening emotional states past livid, stood in the doorway. “Get…get downstairs!” she raged.

I darted past the erupting volcano and hurried downstairs. Mom thundered down after me. From the couch next to the Chevy, Lefty’s parents looked up in reproachful indignation. The next 15 minutes were an excruciating blur. I remember hysterical screaming (the two moms’), tears (mine), outraged bellowing (Lefty’s dad’s), expressions of heartfelt remorse (mine), threats and recriminations (Mom’s), and abject cowering (mine). Finally—my emotions shredded, my self-esteem in tatters—I was sent upstairs to await punishment. (What do they call what they just put me through?)

Thank God it looks like Lefty’s parents aren’t planning to call in the cops—though Lefty’s mom did say she was going to send us the bill for her daughter’s “psychological counseling.” I fear I may have applied too freely the red-hot poker of guilt. I just hope Martha recovers her mental equilibrium
in a hurry. God knows, psychological counseling is a luxury we can’t afford.

Then I had to endure more abuse as I was carrying the computer and baseball cards out to Lefty’s car. (His dad turned out to be a both a liar and an Indian giver.) Lefty didn’t even look at me as I was loading his computer into the back seat. Just see if I ever try to help out a pal in trouble again. He can walk around with permanent, Day-Glo peter tracks for all I care.

Mom has been phoning around trying to locate Dad. Whenever there’s serious abuse, I mean discipline, to be handed out, she likes to rope in Dad to foster the illusion of parental consensus. Thus the tyrannical misuse of power is cloaked in a sheen of ersatz legitimacy. Naturally, I’ve been trying to anticipate what forms the parental decrees may take. Knowing Dad, I can expect some radical diminution in my allowance. I may also have to mow his yard gratis for the next 2,000 years. Mom, though, is harder to predict. She has a sadistic side that probes for deep emotional wounding through creative discipline. My worst nightmare is that she’ll banish Albert. If she uses that sword against me, I don’t know what I’ll do.

2:15
P.M
. Mom just burst into my room. “Your father is falling-down drunk!” she exclaimed accusingly.

“Oh,” I replied. I didn’t see quite how I was at fault here.

“I’m going to Marin,” continued Mom. “Don’t you dare leave this house.”

“OK.”

“While I’m gone, I want you to take Joanie’s bed apart and put it in the garage.”

“OK,” I said meekly. I didn’t point out that to accomplish this task I would have to leave the house.

“It’s none of your damn business why!” said Mom.

“OK,” I said. “I didn’t ask.”

“Well, don’t!” she added. “Just do it!”

5:30
P.M
. Joanie’s bed came apart with great reluctance. It’s a vast oak monstrosity custom-built for athletic newlyweds. (Joanie inherited it at the age of seven when my parents moved on to twin beds.) I had to wham on it with a sledgehammer to free the bed rails—splintering some of the fine oak in the process. Then the mattress got away from me on the stairs, narrowly missing a small ugly dog.

Later, when I was closing the garage doors, Mr. Ferguson called my name from the bushes.

“Great news, Nick,” he said, peering through the foliage. “I just heard on Channel 2 news that your friend Leroy is alive. He didn’t drown after all!”

“That’s nice,” I said, walking quickly toward the house. I didn’t feel much like talking to Mr. Ferguson.

Then, as I was watching Kate Cruikshank giving an exclusive live report from Lefty’s front yard, the phone rang.

“I hate your slimy guts,” declared a familiar voice.

“Lefty, I don’t think you’re being entirely fair,” I replied.

“All my stuff is gone. My parents think I’m a sicko. And the whole world knows I’ve got a crooked dick. Thanks a pantsful, Nick.”

“What about Millie Filbert?” I said. “Did you hear what she said at your funeral?”

“Yeah, I watched the tape. So what? I’d be too embarrassed ever to speak to her again. Did you see that article about me in the
Chronicle?”

“How did you get a copy of that?” I demanded.

“Martha saved all the newspapers. She also taped all the TV news reports. God, no way I can face school on Monday. I’m going to kill myself for sure now.”

“Don’t be retarded, Lefty,” I said. “You know what you are now?”

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“You’re a big-time celebrity. A famous personality. And what do media superstars all have coming out of their ears?” “What?”

“Girlfriends. Think about it, man. You can ask out any chick in the school.”

“What about my wang condition?” asked Lefty doubtfully.

“It’s only a negative if you make it a negative,” I said. “Why not look on it as an asset? Flaunt it, guy! You have something that’s out of the ordinary. Something unique. I bet there are lots of curious chicks out there now just dying to get their hands on your zipper.”

“You think so, Nick?”

“I know so, man.”

Lefty pondered that for a moment. “What’d your mom say?” he asked.

“She’s still working on the terms of my punishment. She went over to Marin to talk to my dad.”

“That sounds bad,” said Lefty.

“I expect it will be pretty horrible,” I said. “What did your parents do?”

“I’m grounded for two weeks.”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah, and I can’t play video games for a month.”

“That’s all you got for an attempted suicide?” I asked. “Boy, Lefty, your parents are pretty lenient.”

“Yeah, well, they also wanted me to go for counseling like Martha, but I talked them out of it.”

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“I said it was all your idea. That I really never wanted to run away or commit suicide.”

“Thanks!”

“Sorry,” said Lefty. “I’m sorry I ratted on you, Nick. Thanks for not ratting on me.”

“That’s OK.”

“Well, I better go,” he said. “I’m not really allowed to talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“My parents say you’re a bad influence. And Martha hates you too. Funny, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Martha’s attitude,” replied Lefty. “What a change. She’s been really nice to me ever since I got back.”

9:30
P.M
. Disaster to end all disasters! Dad’s been on a three-day binge since Monday. He tried to run some old guy off the road for cutting in front of him on the freeway. Turns out it was Mr. Flagonphuel, the president of Agrocide Chemicals—the ad agency’s biggest account. So on Monday, Mr. Flagonphuel demanded—and received—Dad’s head on a silver platter. He’s been canned!

Dad has no job prospects, no savings, and no funds for next month’s child support. What does this mean exactly? It means—Mom informed me with malicious relish—that there are no tuition funds to send me to St. Vitus Academy. IT MEANS I HAVE TO GO TO THE OAKLAND PUBLIC SCHOOLS!

The horrors don’t end there. My allowance is reduced to ninety cents a day for lunch money only. I am grounded for two months. And I am not allowed to phone or write Sheeni. Not for a week. Not for a month. Not for a year. Never again! (But I can keep her lousy, stinking dog.)

“Why?” I demanded, stunned and incredulous.

“Because,” said Mom, “your father and I don’t feel she has been a good influence on you.”

“My father has never met her,” I objected. “And besides, he’s an unemployed drunk.”

“That’s just what I mean,” replied Mom. “Backtalk like that. You’ve been willfully disobedient ever since you met her.”

Willful disobedience? Willful disobedience? Lady, you have not yet begun
to experience willful disobedience. But keep your eyes open. And stand back.

THURSDAY, September 6
— Another tormented, sleepless night. I bet if you totaled up my stress factors, they’d go right off the chart. I hope I don’t have any unsuspected aneurysms in my brain—I’d be dropping dead from a stroke any minute now.

Being an iron disciplinarian must be getting to Mom. She chucked her chips again this morning. I rose to the bracing aroma of warm vomit wafting down the hall. Fortunately, we’re not speaking to each other, so I didn’t have to offer any phony filial commiseration. She left right after breakfast for God knows where.

Then, while I was eating my Cheerios, Mr. Ferguson knocked on the back door. He had been talking with Mom and wanted the bus fare and his $40 back. So I invited him in and told him the whole ugly story. He was so sympathetic, he canceled the debt. And gave me another crisp $20 bill to boot! It’s a relief to know there are some decent adults in this world—even if they are leftwing commie pinkos.

After breakfast I gave Albert the executive dog walk (condensed to save me time), and—willfully disobedient—phoned Sheeni’s number in Ukiah. Thank God, it was her incomparably desirable voice that answered. Quickly, I filled her in on all that had transpired. She was alarmed—and indignant—to hear that she had been banned from my life.

“I knew my parents were meddlesome and shortsighted,” said Sheeni, “but yours, Nick, seem determined to pursue unenlightenment into hitherto unsuspected regions.”

“What should we do?” I asked. “I’m desperate.”

“Well,” said Sheeni, maintaining her composure, “we might look upon your father’s firing as a blessing in disguise.”