Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (31 page)

“I tried, Nick, but she wouldn’t listen. I think she may be doing it out of a misplaced sense of gratitude.”

“Gratitude! For what?” I demanded.

“Oh, you know,” said Wally, blushing. “Helping cover up after the fire.”

“Oh, that.” More guilt for Nick. “How’s that going?”

“Fine, don’t worry. The arson investigators have been out once or twice to talk to your mother. They searched your neighbor’s house and got real suspicious when they found all the radical pamphlets. But they didn’t have any evidence to arrest him on, so they let him go. Now the city’s offering a $10,000 reward.”

I swallowed nervously. $10,000 was a lot of money. Anyone might turn me in for a sum that large. Even I was tempted.

No time to write any more. I just told Dad about Mom getting married, so he’s taking Lacey and me out for steaks to celebrate. His long nightmare of debilitating alimony payments may soon be over.

MONDAY, October 8
— The damning evidence against Bruno continues to mount. Vijay’s friend Fuzzy DeFalco confirmed at lunch today that Redwood High’s star quarterback (star so far of one tie and five defeats) lives on the same street as Sheeni’s parents. Yet could Sheeni really have yielded up her delicate virginity to such an oafish clod? I recoil in contemplating such desecration. So instead I ruminate on tortures involving steam-heated jockstraps and sharpened steel cleats grinding into low, hairy brows.

Speaking of hairy, I’m told Fuzzy acquired his nickname at the age of nine when he first came to the attention of scouts for the U.S. Olympic Body Hair Team. He could shave nonstop from his eyes to his toes, but instead maintains only a small facial clearing that ends arbitrarily about two inches above his collar. All his clothes float away from his body on a dense layer of red fur. Vijay has suggested he seek government recognition as a National Hair Transplant Reserve.

Fuzzy takes this ribbing good-naturedly, but gets mad when girls tape flea collars to his locker. They also pretend to scratch when he enters a room, which makes him even madder. Still, his perpetual five o’clock shadow remains
zit-free, so he has no real reason for complaint. His parents have money, which in my book compensates for virtually all genetic disfigurements (excepting only the horror of penile abbreviation).

Vijay claims that despite all the evidence to the contrary, Fuzzy is extremely intelligent. “He’s just misguided,” says Vijay, “a victim of your mediapromulgated American mass culture.” Perhaps from watching too many beer commercials, Fuzzy aspires to be a jock, but is hampered by chronic klutzitis. He has tried out for all the sports teams (including the namby-pamby ones like golf), but has been rejected for incompetence by them all. Nonetheless, he continues to yearn for athletic stardom.

After school, I shuffled up the dusty stairs of doom and entered the World of Work. Only 10 minutes later I could feel brain cells starting to wither and die. Why are all the jobs offered to youths so cripplingly boring? You’d think the gods of capitalism would give us the interesting jobs. Then, when we’re safely shackled into the system with marriages and mortgages, they could turn the tedium up full blast. Nope, we’re immediately abandoned, naked and defenseless, on the icy tundra of ennui—and paid peanuts for our suffering to boot.

My job of the day was to file an immense stack of papers in a vast bank of musty green cabinets. This proved to be harder than it looked (but no more interesting). There was one cabinet for A–D, one for E–L, one for M–O, 28 cabinets for P, and one for R–Z. I doubt if anyone in the lumber industry consulted the file clerks when they decided to name particle board with the same first letter as plywood. And did no one think to remind them of that popular wood called pine? Not to mention paneling, pecan, poplar, and pecky cedar.

I got so perplexed and peeved among the P’s, I fear my filing soon grew somewhat prankishly perverse. Plus, the obvious indifference of my predecessors to alphabetical rigor only encouraged continued capriciousness. I filed a report on Swedish furniture-grade plywood under G (for Greta Garbo) and a survey of decorative particle board paneling under O (for “only for the aesthetically impaired”).

Dad, true to character, pretended we weren’t related and ordered me about like the Despot of Constantinople. He even insisted I address him as Mr. Twisp to, in his words, “maintain proper business decorum.” I complied, but let my pronunciation slide. “Yes, suh, Mr. Twit,” I salaamed. It felt right somehow. This brought a smirk to the primly powdered face of Mr. Preston’s secretary, Miss Pliny (first name Penelope—no, she does not wish to be called Penny).

Miss Pliny is either a prematurely faded 30 or a well-preserved 50. She wears soft-focus coordinated pastels, pins her sweater around her shoulders with a gold chain, sips gunpowder tea out of a china cup (with saucer), keeps a rose cachet in every desk drawer, speaks like an elocution teacher, and—anomalously—daubs her smoldering lips with flamboyant lipstick (color: autopsy red). As
Progressive Plywood
’s official proofreader, she ruthlessly blue-pencils every contraction, giving the already wooden prose an oddly stilted quality—as if it were composed by 19th-century scribes. Improbably, François finds her fascinating. I’m surprised—she doesn’t seem at all like his type.

When I got home, I received the shock of my life. There at the dining-room table, napkin tucked under his double chin, fat face composed in an expectant grin, slouched my girlishly breasted classmate Dwayne.

“Hi, Nick,” he exclaimed, “Mom’s makin’ pork roast for supper!”

It was true. Despairing of bridging the yawning language chasm, Lacey has hired as housekeeper (for a one-week trial) the only Anglo applicant: Mrs. Flora Crampton, mother of you know who. Dad has agreed to let Dwayne eat with us in exchange for a slight reduction in the already penurious wage.

“You must be… Nick,” said a phone-booth-sized woman in a frilly orange apron as she carried a big pan of corn bread out from the kitchen. “I’m Flora…Go wash your hands, boy…I don’t … serve two shifts.” She spoke amazingly slowly, as if she were inventing the language as she went along. If you speeded up the tape, you might discover she speaks some obscure dialect of the rural Midwest.

I frowned and counted the place settings on the table. Five!

“Uh, Lacey,” I whispered, “shouldn’t the help and their children eat in the kitchen?”

Flora overheard. “Well aren’t you… the stuck-up … little snot!” she said, slamming down the pan and huffing back into the kitchen. I noticed she had to crab-walk sideways through the too narrow (for her) doorway.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Crampton,” called Lacey. “Don’t be silly, Nick. We’re all going to have a nice meal together. Mrs. Crampton is a wonderful cook.”

Well, she’s an OK cook—if you’re partial to white trash cuisine. God knows, we all seem to be. For dinner we shoveled down pork roast and gravy, bread stuffing, candied sweet potatoes (with multi-hued mini-marshmallows melted on top), mustard greens, and buttered corn bread with cherry jam. Dessert was homemade coconut cream pie. Dad had thirds of everything, his gustatory enjoyment dimmed only by the unnerving sight of the two Cramp-tons matching him calorie for calorie. Mrs. Crampton also helped herself
freely to the zin jug. I suspect he may demand a further adjustment in the compensation package.

Dwayne did miss out on his third piece of pie. He fell asleep in his chair.

“I don’t know …what’s got…into Dwayno,” said his mother. “I been catchin’ him … up at all hours…playin’ with that damn Nintendo … He thinks he… don’t need no…sleep!”

Dad volunteered me to do the dishes, but Mrs. Crampton said no. “I hear he’s a … scholar, let him … go do his school…work.” So she poked Dwayne awake and made him do them.

I fear I may have misjudged her. Sometimes you just can’t trust your first impression.

I sauntered into the kitchen as Dwayne was scrubbing up the last of the pots and pans.

“Your mother calls you Dwayno,” I observed.

“So what!”

“So how much is it worth to you not to have that fact repeated at school?”

Dwayne emptied his pockets. “All I got’s 78 cents.”

I took the proffered change. “It’s a start. Dwayno.”

TUESDAY, October 9
— School, job, homework, dog walk, TV. Another boring day. Not even a letter from Sheeni. Do you suppose the human race invented boredom to make the prospect of death more palatable?

Another monstrously caloric meal by Mrs. Crampton. Dad, I fear, may have to moonlight on the weekends to pay his grocery bill—assuming he can heave his burgeoning blubber off the couch. Only Lacey eats lightly to preserve her traffic-stopping figure. It’s hard to believe, seeing them side by side at the table, that Mrs. Crampton and Lacey are members of the same sex of the same species. One might almost suppose them to be from different solar systems.

In between bites, Dwayne has taken to playing footsie with me under the table. In retaliation, I try to dirty as many dishes as possible.

I committed a slight faux pas over dessert (egg custard with whipped cream). “Where does Mr. Crampton have his dinner?” I asked innocently.

Dwayne blushed. Mrs. Crampton lowered her spoon. “My man… takes his meals… down at San Q,” she replied. “And will be… for the next… 10 to 20 years.”

Later, as I was in the kitchen using three glasses to swallow three vitamin pills, Dwayne glanced over sheepishly from the sink. “You won’t tell anyone my pop’s in jail, will you, Nick?”

“I don’t know,” I replied thoughtfully. “What’s he in for?”

“He cashed some bad checks.”

“I didn’t know you could go to prison for that,” I replied, surprised. “My father does it all the time.”

“Well, the checks were stolen,” Dwayne elaborated, “off a guy he shot.”

“Did the man die?” I asked, shocked.

“No, he’s just, whatchamercallit, brain dead. But the jury said it weren’t murder, so my pop didn’t have to fry.”

“They gas people in this state,” I corrected him. “Your father would have been executed in the gas chamber.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Dwayne. “Do you s’pose they’d have let us watch?”

“Of course,” I said. “The family’s always invited. Otherwise, it would be cruel and unusual punishment.”

Dwayne yawned. “I don’t see how you stay awake, Nick. I try as hard as I can, but I’m always tired.”

“Just keep at it. You only feel sleepy if you let your eyes close.”

“But sometimes they just go and fall down on their own,” he complained.

“Don’t let them. When you feel your eyes shut, go splash water on your face and hop around on one foot. That’s what I do.”

“Wow, Nick. How did you get to be so smart?”

“Staying awake,” I replied. “Sleep deprivation hones the mental processes.” I opened the oven door. “Damn, some fool put the meat platter back in with the oven turned on high. Boy, that sure looks charred on bad. I suggest you use a Brillo pad and trisodium phosphate.”

“Thanks, Nick,” said Dwayne gratefully. “When I’m through, can I take Albert for a walk? Can I, huh?”

“I suppose I could do you that favor,” I replied.

“Gee, Nick. You’re great.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said.

WEDNESDAY, October 10
— I got a C- in wood technology on my doorstop. Mr. Vilprang said my edges were not planed to true right angles and my shellacking was blotched. This is the lowest grade I have ever received. I wonder if Stanford is this academically demanding?

While I was disconsolately starting in on my next project (a napkin holder), the no-neck jock Bruno came in to spend a free period sanding his Early American maple dry sink (at least that’s what I think it’s supposed to be). Bruno’s in the advanced class and gets to work on all the power machines Mr. Vilprang says “would rip the thumbs right off you bozos.” Ham-handed as he
is, Bruno still retains all his digits. To my chagrin he survived that period intact as well. I must find a way to bump him while he’s looking into the planer or doing close work on the shaper. He likes to stick his tongue out as he works—perhaps he could snag that appendage in the belt sander.

Now that the novelty has worn off, my after-school job has become even more excruciatingly mind-numbing. Today my assigned task was to enter into the computer a stack of incoherent and poorly spelled letters to the editor. To relieve the tedium, I selectively altered the occasional “now” to “not” and vice versa. This insidious typo often escapes detection by proofreaders and can greatly enliven even the dullest writing. I am hoping for the best.

Dad was in his cubicle the whole time keeping a low profile. Mr. Preston overheard him ask Miss Pliny how long she’d been “parking her pretty can at Regressive Plywood.” She replied coldly, “I do not know to what you refer,” while Mr. Preston gave Dad a look that could splinter mahogany.

Lacey made leftovers for dinner. Mrs. Crampton had a family emergency and couldn’t come.

“What kind of emergency?” I asked.

“She had to take Dwayne to the doctor,” replied Lacey. “She found him in her kitchen at 4 A.M. He was dripping wet and jumping around on one leg.”

7:30
P.M
. The phone rang after dinner and Dad handed it to me.

“Hello, Nickie darling.”

It was my repulsive mother.

“Oh, hi, Mom,” I replied coldly.

“How are you doing, Nickie? Are you getting along with your father?”

“Yes, he’s great,” I lied. “I really like it here a lot.”

“That’s nice, Nickie. I’ve been worried about you.”

“Yes, my legs have almost healed from the beating. I still limp a little, but it looks like my injuries are not permanent.”

“I’m sorry if Lance was a little too severe. We were all upset that night.”

“Uh-huh,” I replied.

“Did you hear that Lance and I are getting married this Saturday?” she continued brightly. “We were hoping you could meet us in Reno for the ceremony. I can send you a bus ticket.”

“Uh, gee, I’d like to. But I have an appointment to get my teeth cleaned. Maybe next time.”

Long silence.

“Well, OK, Nickie. It sounds like you don’t want to come. I think, though, if you gave Lance a chance you’d start to like him.”