Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (23 page)

This morning, François got out of bed feeling more than usually dangerous. As he passed the bathroom, he heard male and female voices inside. “Shit!” he muttered. “Those fuckers are taking a shower together. How repulsive.” So François sauntered downstairs and closed the valve on the hot water heater. This produced loud shrieks from above. Then François untied Albert, who sniffed the air, growled, and darted up the stairs salivating for cop blood. More screams and bellowing ensued.

At breakfast, François made no effort to conceal his contempt for the
Cheerios-slurping cop. “What was all that racket last night?” he demanded coldly.

Mom put down her cereal spoon and blushed. “I’m, I’m sorry, Nickie, if we disturbed you.”

François was unappeased. “You know this is my home too. All of a sudden some stranger starts sleeping over. I’m not even consulted.” François was amazing Nick with his outspokenness. He also was clearly amazing their mother.

“What’s it to you, kid?” demanded the cop. “Mind your own damn business.”

“You mind your business, Lance!” said Mom. “He’s my son. I’ll talk to him. Nickie, you’re right. I should have informed you that Officer Wescott would be spending the night. I’m sorry.”

My mother actually apologized to me! But François was determined to draw blood. “I thought there were laws in this city against illicit cohabitation. Or are they just another big policemen’s joke—like the laws against burglary?”

The red-faced cop was really steaming now. “Kid, you are asking for trouble…”

“What are you going to do, shoot me with your gun?” taunted François.

“Why you little worm, I’ll…” The cop lunged toward François, but Mom flung herself against his great hairy arm.

“No, Lance,” she shouted. “Nickie, go to your room!”

François rose coolly, flung down his napkin, and walked toward the back door.

“Where are you going?” demanded Mom.

“Out,” replied François.

“You’re grounded, buster!” she screamed.

“Not anymore,” said François, banging the screen door as he departed. He strolled across the lawn, expecting two angry adults to fly out after him. But curiously, they did not. “Showed those fuckers,” muttered François.

“You certainly did,” I agreed.

I walked down to the corner and called Lefty from a pay phone. His sister Martha answered. “Hi, Martha,” I said. “How’s the psychotherapy going?”

“None of your damn business,” she replied. “And why hasn’t your mother paid Dr. Browerly’s bill?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she has an emotional block against it. Can I speak to Lefty?”

“You tell her that Dr. Browerly says if he is not paid this week, he will have to suspend our consultations.”

“That would be tragic,” I agreed. “Is Lefty there?”

“The dweeb went up to Tilden Park,” she replied, hanging up.

Lefty was not alone in the park. When he spotted me approaching on the trail, he dropped Millie Filbert’s hand like it was a red-hot report card. “Hi, Nick,” he said nonchalantly, “long time no see.”

“Hi, Lefty. Hi, Millie,” I said.

“Hi, Nick,” answered Millie. She was looking tremendously alluring in pale-peach shorts and thin cotton tee shirt. Perhaps for the convenience of her date, she had left her bra at home. Lefty was right. Improbably, they did not droop.

“What are you guys up to?” I asked.

Poor choice of words. They both turned red. “Just hanging out,” said Lefty. “Want to go on a hike with us, Nick?”

François knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to brain Lefty and drag Millie Filbert into the bushes. But ever-tactful Nick was in charge. “Sorry, I can’t stay,” I said. “I’m running some errands. Call me tonight, Lefty. OK?”

“OK,” said Lefty.

“Bye, Nick,” said Millie sexily.

Lefty and Millie headed off up the trail. In that direction, I knew, lay the remote glen Lefty and I had discovered just a few weeks before. After wrestling my conscience into submission (François helped), I decided to follow them surreptitiously. Lefty wouldn’t mind, I decided. As best pals, our sex lives are open books to each other.

As expected, Lefty and Millie soon departed from the main trail and headed down into the ravine. I hiked on another 200 yards, then circled down toward the glen from the south end of the canyon. Threading my way silently through the thick brush, I reached a clump of bushes on a small rise. About 30 feet below, the two lovers were making themselves at home in the tiny cloistered clearing. I ducked down and peered out through the foliage. At this close range, I could easily overhear their conversation.

“Are you sure this is private, sweetie?” asked Millie, looking around.

“Sure, baby,” said Lefty, unzipping his backpack. “Nobody comes down here. And if anybody did, we’d hear them in plenty of time.” From the ancient pack, he extracted a blanket (brand-new and still in its plastic wrapper), a split of screw-top champagne, two plastic cups, and a box of condoms. Whatever his conversational shortcomings, Lefty certainly had the makings of a good provider.

Millie helped Lefty spread out the blanket, then nestled down beside him, poised expectantly for a torrid kiss. Instead, Lefty handed her a cup and
poured her some bubbly. His hand, I noticed, was shaking. (So were mine!) Lefty emptied the champagne into his cup, clinked it against Millie’s, said “Many happy returns,” and took an exploratory sip. Millie gulped hers.

“I love good champagne,” said Millie, setting aside the empty cup. She reached down, lifted her tee shirt over her head, folded it neatly, and lay back on the blanket—her fabulous breasts bobbling pale white in the dappled sunshine. There was no question she had undergone major developments this summer.

Lefty continued to sip his champagne. “I feel this wine lacks body,” he commented, his voice quavering.

“How about mine, honey?” cooed Millie, slipping off her shorts. A vivid patch of black between creamy thighs confirmed her undergarment boycott was total. I felt the blood drain from my head. Most of it was going, I noticed, straight to my pecker. As Millie casually picked lint from her navel, her smoldering sexuality finally overwhelmed Lefty’s fear. He jumped her. After a brief tussle (what exactly was he trying to do?), she helped him pull off his clothes, then reached for his ramrod stiff (if not ramrod straight) tool.

Lefty groaned as Millie’s luscious lips closed over his scimitar-shaped sword. Then it was his turn to triple up the middle, as Millie opened her legs and he lapped eagerly at her soft pink center. I watched in stunned amazement as my boyhood chum hurtled past me in sexual experience. While I was stalled on a siding, Lefty was riding the express straight out of virgin territory.

“Shall we do it, honey?” inquired Millie.

“Oh yes!” whispered Lefty.

As Millie expertly slid a condom over Lefty’s gnarled spruce, my left foot slipped, I grabbed for a branch, missed, and tumbled forward over the bushes. As the sky, earth, and forest swirled around me, I felt an explosion of pain in my back and heard a woman scream. The rest was a blur. I remember striking my head on a rock just before coming to a halt, followed by more yelling, then I think someone kicked me. Then it was quiet for a long time. Then I had a dream (I think it was a dream) that a naked Millie Filbert was walking over my body. I remember realizing with surprise as her bare toes gouged into my privates that agony could be fun. Then I woke up and somehow struggled out of the canyon and got back to my bike. But my shoulder hurt too much to ride. So I walked the bike back home, feeling all the while like I was going to faint or barf or drop down dead. Then I remember Mom yelling at me as we drove to the hospital in Jerry’s Lincoln. Then an old bald doctor said “This may tingle” right before he pushed my dislocated shoulder back into place. It hurt like hell. Then, a pretty nurse washed out all my cuts
and applied about 12 miles of duct tape to my upper torso. Then I came home (somewhat less yelling this time) and took a long nap. Could it have been the pill that nice nurse gave me?

9:30
P.M
. If my pain-wracked body were any stiffer, typing would be a physical impossibility. I just had a disquieting phone call from Lefty. Millie Filbert has terminated their relationship. Unfairly, my friend blames me.

“Some pal you are,” complained Lefty. “Millie thinks I arranged in advance for you to spy on us. She thinks we’re both sickos!”

“How come you guys left me there?” I demanded, strategically changing the subject. “I could have died!”

“Serve you right,” replied Lefty. “Do you realize how close I was?”

“Only too well,” I said. “Gee, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll write Millie a letter and tell her you didn’t know anything about it.”

“Sign it in blood!” he demanded.

“OK,” I said. “And how about I staple on my right testicle too?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Lefty. “Write it tonight and I’ll pick it up on the way to school tomorrow. I want to give it to Millie before some other guy puts the moves on her.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “With a body like that, she’s bound to be popular.”

“Don’t you talk about my girlfriend’s body!”

11:15
P.M
. Time for bed. I just composed this letter of contrition for Lefty:

I hope that is servile enough for Lefty. What a day! François certainly has a lot to answer for. I’m a mass of cuts and bruises, my body looks like something from the Egyptian Room of the British Museum, and the tenderness of my shoulder precludes any sort of relief-giving rhythmic arm movement.
I must not think about s-x. I must not let my mind dwell on M.F.’s alabaster b—y.

Oh no! Creaking bedsprings through the wall. I’d like to boil that Lance!

MONDAY, September 24
— My body is driving me insane! I awoke at 3
A.M
. gripped by a frenzy of uncontrollable itching. Under the surgical tape and bandages, every skin pore shrieked in prickly rage. Poison oak! Leaping out of bed, I tugged at a piece of tape. Agony! Each pull felt like I was skinning myself alive with a rusty fish scaler. Not daring to remove the tape, I scratched furiously, then ran to the bathroom, filled the tub with cool water, and hopped in. The firestorm of itching slackened slightly.

I spent the rest of the night in the tub. Only when I heard Mom and Lance stirring did I sneak back to my room. Almost at once my skin flamed out of control anew—the wet tape still clinging resolutely to my tortured epidermis. “Mom!” I called feebly. “Mom, help me!”

Looking none too cheerful, Mom eventually answered my pleas. “What is it now?” she demanded.

“Poison oak!” I croaked.

So Mom and Lance ripped the tape from my screaming flesh. It was difficult to tell which of them enjoyed it more. As for me, I was incredulous that a human being could retain his reason through such agony. When at last the final piece of tape was plucked from my raw, inflamed, now virtually hairless torso, Mom rubbed on a soothing salve. Slowly, the torment began to subside.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said.

“The way you’ve been behaving, I should have let you suffer,” replied Mom. “That’ll teach you to disobey me.”

“I already know how to do that,” mumbled François.

“What did you say, buster?”

“I said I know better than to do that.”

5:30
P.M
. I stayed home from school, of course. As the itching subsided, my nervous system regained the circuit capacity to register the merciless throbbing in my shoulder.

7:45
P.M
. The loathsome Lance was here again for dinner (I had mine in my room on a tray). His patrol car is still parked outside. Meanwhile, parked across the street and staring moodily toward the house is Mom’s erstwhile lover, Wally Rumpkin. I fear she must have given him the word that his services would no longer be required. I only hope if Wally is packing a gun, he is an accurate shot. I would hate to catch a misdirected bullet intended for a fat policeman.

TUESDAY, September 25
— Another day alone in my room. A couple more weeks of this and I’ll have tied Nelson Mandela’s record. What with the bruises, bandages, and patches of distressed skin, one might almost suppose I was in the custody of the South African police.

Speaking of police, there was a mild altercation on our street at 2
A.M
. last night. When Lance discovered that Wally was still parked out front, he phoned in a request to his colleagues for some middle-of-the-night police brutality. Three squad cars answered the call and within 20 seconds a half dozen cops had Wally out of his car and spread-eagled facedown on the asphalt. Then one cop “found” an open container of beer on Wally’s front seat, so they cuffed him and carted him off for driving under the influence. I hope the charge doesn’t jeopardize Wally’s trucker’s license. I’ve decided Mom’s boyfriends are a lot like U.S. Presidents. You keep thinking they can’t get any worse. And then she comes up with a Lance Wescott.

11:00 A.M. Sheeni just called. After the phone rang 35 times I knew it couldn’t be one of Mom’s friends, so I answered it. It was My One and Only Love, dialing direct.

“Hello, darling,” said Sheeni. “I guessed you’d be cutting school. How wonderfully bad of you!”

I decided not to divulge to Sheeni that I had a valid medical excuse. “Yes, I’m being flagrantly rebellious as usual,” I said. “Where are you calling from, sweetheart?”

“From the hallway of dear old Redwood High,” she replied. “Some boys in the electronics shop altered the pay phone so you can call anywhere in the U.S., Canada, or Europe for free. It’s proving a great boon to the study of geography.”

“Were your parents angry when you got back late?” I asked.