Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (36 page)
Read Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp Online
Authors: C. D. Payne
Lacey has been bounced back to the living room—having turned down roommate offers from Dad, Mr. Ferguson, and François. I think Mr. Ferguson’s may have been made facetiously. Lacey thumbtacked a king-size flowered sheet to the ceiling, walling off a privacy nook in a corner. Then she and I jammed in a dresser, lamp, and her still-damp mattress. Dad grumbled about this “outrage” to his decorating scheme, but Lacey silenced him with a menacing stare.
Redwood High’s most notorious car thief was back in school today. Improbably, the authorities have released Bruno into his parents’ custody. At lunch I overheard him telling his buddies he thought he had been set up by “that backstabbing, ass-kissing Stinky Limbert.” Just then, Stinky walked into the cafeteria holding hands with Candy Pringle. Bruno let out a strangled cry and hurtled over the tables toward his rival in a spray of flying potato chips and milk cartons. In the ensuing scuffle Bruno had his nose broken and Stinky was stabbed in his passing arm with a fork—earning Bruno another trip downtown with the cops and throwing the Marauding Beavers into turmoil. They
are now a team without a leader—right before the big game with that school whose name I can never remember. And the cheerleaders kept chanting it incessantly in the halls all day too.
11:05
P.M
. I just called Sheeni in Santa Cruz. With any luck, my first paycheck will arrive before the phone bill—thus forestalling the premature termination of my life. By repeating several French phrases that Vijay had written out phonetically, I was able to navigate the Frog-speak barrier and reach The Woman Who Knows How (I hope).
“Sheeni, did you hear the big news?” I asked. “Bruno Modjaleski was arrested!”
“You mean Bruno Modjaleski the football player?” she asked, feigning indifference.
“Yes, you know,” I repeated. “Bruno!”
“And what did Bruno do, Nickie?”
“He stole a car and stabbed a student in the cafeteria.”
“You mean stabbed him with a knife?” asked Sheeni, shocked.
“Not exactly. He used a fork. But there was still lots of blood.”
“Well, those football players are a rowdy bunch,” she observed calmly. “What else has been going on in town?”
“Sheeni, Bruno may have to forfeit his athletic scholarship. He may even be sent to jail!”
“That’s a shame, Nickie,” she replied. “I’m sure Candy Pringle must be upset.”
“You don’t care?” I demanded.
“Well, darling, I am as exercised as the next person, if not more so, when justice miscarries. Do you believe Bruno to be falsely accused? Are you circulating a petition for redress? I shall sign it, of course.”
“Not at all!” I retorted. “I am sure he richly deserves all the punishment meted out and more. I just thought you might be interested in his case, since you and he were…were…”
“Were what?” she asked.
“Well, you know …were lovers.”
“What! Nick Twisp, I do not know what sort of person you imagine me to be, but I can assure you that I have never addressed two words to Bruno Modjaleski, let alone had a physical relationship with him.”
“But, but, you said you gave up your virginity to a local jock named Bruno. I heard you!”
“I did, perhaps unwisely, divulge that detail of my intimate life to you. But at no point did I link the surname Modjaleski to the given name Bruno. That was your doing, Nick Twisp. I really can’t imagine what you must think
of me to imagine me capable of selecting that Neanderthal for my initiation into the practice of male/female relations.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” I protested. “Honestly, I found it very hard to believe myself. I was frankly incredulous. I still am! But there was all this circumstantial evidence. And Bruno is not that common a name. So, I guess it must have been a different Bruno? Huh?”
There was no reply. The Woman of My Dreams had hung up.
I called back immediately, but the Frog-speak barrier had become suddenly impenetrable.
Oh no! All along I’ve been despising the wrong dumb jock! Who is the rightful Bruno? And how do I get the stolen-car rap switched over to him?
FRIDAY, October 19
— I awoke feeling like yesterday’s Pampers to find a pair of frightening pink-and-white dentures soaking in a tray in my bathroom. All the hot water had been exhausted. I took a cold shower, squeezed an erupting zit, shoved the vanity drawer closed on Mr. Ferguson’s upper plate (distorting it slightly), then returned it to the soak solution. Bathroom guerrilla war has been declared.
After breakfast I sent this telegram (the first of my life) to Sheeni: “Foot extracted from mouth. Patient abject. Call collect. Love, Nick.”
Not bad for just ten words.
Later, while pretending to work out on the parallel bars in gym class, I interrogated Fuzzy about alternative Brunos.
“Well,” he replied, sucking his teeth, “there was that tennis player named Bruno who graduated last year. I guess you could call a tennis player a jock. I think they do wear them. At least, the guys do.”
“What was his last name?” I asked.
“Let’s see. What was his name? He was pretty smart. I think he’s going to USC now. Oh yeah, I remember. His name’s Preston. Bruno Preston.”
“Any relation to Trent Preston?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, I think they’re cousins. But Bruno’s better-looking.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, mildly flabbergasted. “You’re telling me Bruno Preston is better looking than Trent?”
“Yeah,” said Fuzzy, “and taller too. He looks like that new actor they have playing James Bond. What’s his name?”
I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to devote all of my cranial capacity to unfettered hatred.
At lunch, I brought up a delicate matter with Vijay and Fuzzy. “Guys, we don’t really want to get Bruno in serious trouble, do we?”
“Better that fellow than us,” replied Vijay in a conspiratorial whisper.
“But what if they convict him?” I said.
“So what?” whispered Fuzzy. “A guy with that many pass interceptions deserves some jail time. We’re doing this town a favor. You know who Coach is starting in tonight’s game? Rupert Trobilius! All he’s supposed to do is hand off to the backs and fall down to get out of the way. They’re not even going to let him attempt a forward pass. We’re going to get slaughtered. I just hope Heather doesn’t get wind of the score down in Santa Cruz.”
I ate my peanut butter sandwich and Twinkie in silence. Only François, a sociopath untroubled by the qualms of conscience, enjoyed his food.
Work was intolerably tedious until 4:59 when Mr. Preston handed me an envelope. Inside was my first paycheck: $44.12. The total would have been higher except for missing work on Saturday and the exactions of a global superpower. My labors bought three rivets for a Cruise missile and a highball for a colonel in Guam. The balance will go toward my lingering Santa Cruz restaurant debt and monstrous phone bill. I only pray Dad doesn’t demand a tithe toward room and board.
A momentous day for mail. First, I opened this scented missive:
Dear Nick,
It was so nice meeting you the other evening. Vijay informs me that you are good friends with Sheeni Saunders down in Santa Cruz. I have a chum in that area also. I wonder if it might be possible for us to get together sometime to discuss this situation?
I am downtown studying in the library most every weekday afternoon from 3:30 to 5. Perhaps you could stop by sometime soon? I would like that very much. By the way, I should appreciate it if you would keep this correspondence confidential.
Sincerely,
Apurva Joshi
The beautiful Apurva wants to have a secret rendezvous with me!
Then I opened this welcome but unsettling letter, written in a bizarre, left-slanting scrawl:
Dear Nick,
What a surprise to receive your letter. It’s the first I got all term. I almost thought it had been put in my mailbox by mistake. But no, it was addressed to me. Wow!
I did just what you suggested. Tuesday when I was scrubbing the floor in the administration office I sneaked out some of Dean Wilson’s stationery. I typed the letter and mailed it that same night. Don’t worry, I mentioned the naked stud with the condom and a lot of other stuff you don’t know about.
For your information, I saw Trent and Sheeni hanging around outside the Catalyst last night about 10:30. They looked pretty friendly to me. If I were you, though, I’d ask her about a sophomore named Ed Smith from Des Moines. I see them walking to class and eating lunch together all the time. The word around school is that Ed really has the hots for her. It doesn’t look to me like she’s doing much to discourage him.
In case you’re wondering what I was doing scrubbing the floors, that’s part of my job as a scholarship student. I also have to wait on all those stuck-up snobs in the dining hall. If you’re not rich at this school and don’t have nice clothes, no one will give you the time of day. I don’t care, they’ll all get theirs someday.
If you visit again, stay away from Darlene. She really despises you for touching her precious towel. Thanks for the letter. Feel free to write again. I’ll keep you posted on what’s going on with little Miss Two-timer.
Regards,
Bernice Lynch
P.S. Why waste your time on Sheeni? You deserve somebody better.
Ed Smith? Ed Smith! Sheeni has a presentiment that she’s going to marry an artsy French philosopher named François, but in the meantime she’s hobnobbing with a sophomoric Iowa hayseed named Ed Smith. Do I really deserve this, God?
Oh well, Sheeni will be a fading memory to Mr. Smith soon enough. I figure Dean Wilson’s letter ought to be detonating in her parents’ mailbox anytime now. Thank you, Bernice. I could (almost) kiss you.
No call from Sheeni. I wonder if I should have had Vijay translate that telegram into French before I sent it?
SATURDAY, October 20
— The phone rang during breakfast.
“Hello, Nickie. How are you?” It was my repulsive, oft-married mother.
“Oh, hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Nickie, when we got back last night the house had been broken into! Everything was a mess and the TV and VCR were gone. I feel so violated. They even vandalized Lance’s uniforms. And stole my best pair of red pumps.”
“That’s too bad, Mom,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic. “Maybe it was Leon Polsetta again.”
“No, Leon’s away in the army now. He’s training to be a demolitions expert. His mother is so proud. I’m sorry, Nickie, but Lance seems to think you might be involved in this somehow. He says only you would have written that hateful message on the mirror.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, affecting my most righteously indignant, earnestly innocent tone. “I haven’t been away from here five minutes. You can ask Dad. He’s right here. Do you wish to speak to him?”
“No, Nickie, please. I’m upset enough already. I told Lance I didn’t think it was possible. I didn’t mean to sound like I was accusing you. Everything is in confusion here. We went next door to ask Mr. Ferguson if he’d seen anything, but there was no answer. I was afraid he might be inside paralyzed from a stroke or dead or something, so I had Lance break down the door. The house was empty. Mr. Ferguson is missing!”
“No, he’s not,” I replied. “He’s right here. He’s eating oatmeal without his teeth. Boy, I don’t think he’s going to be happy when he hears about his door. I hope he doesn’t press charges against your husband.”
“Don’t be silly, Nickie. I’m sure he’ll understand. What on earth is he doing up there?”
I filled Mom in on Mr. Ferguson’s quest for labor justice.
“Well, Nickie. Study hard. Don’t eat too much fried food. And think about maybe spending your Christmas holidays down here with us.”
“I’ll think about it,” I lied.
“I miss you, Nickie.”
“Thanks for calling, Mom. It’s time for me to go to my job now.”
Click
.
We need an answering machine. I have to start screening my calls.
I rode my Warthog downtown and climbed those now familiar creaking, dusty stairs. The office was deserted. I set to work arranging the ever-accumulating “P” files in a shiny new plywood filing cabinet. Mr. Preston, it seems, was able to complete his project without further assistance from Dad. Thankfully, the fresh green enamel obscured the bloodstains.
While engrossed in these tedious labors, I made an extraordinary discovery.
In a file marked “Personal,” I found several pages of a rambling, revelatory narration evidently torn in haste from a notebook and then forgotten. The boldly masculine handwriting I recognized at once as that of my affected windsurfing rival. I had stumbled upon nothing less than a fragment of the private journals of Trent Preston!
Heart fibrillating, hands shaking, I read these words:
… expression of these perceptions through words must necessarily lessen the experience. That, it seems to me, is the dilemma only the greatest poets (other artists too?) are able to overcome—and then never with any constancy. Words can embrace only a tiny fraction of the infinite jumble we call human consciousness. Plus, there is the whole issue of purely bodily sensations which do not (always? sometimes?) register upon the mind. What is the interplay between words and the body? How does the temperature of the hall, for example, affect an audience’s perception during a poetry recital? Should the wise poet, seeking true communication, first seize control of the thermostat? Why cannot I put into words what I experience at every level—consciously, physically, and unconsciously—when I grasp Sheeni’s naked breast? Why, when I strive for poetry, do my words read like soft porn?
Sheeni practically insisted we make love last night. I continue to resist, telling her (and myself) we’re too young. Perhaps I am being masochistic—savoring the anticipation of pleasure by denying it in the present. (Admittedly, I was also held back by the lack of appropriate birth control—a complication that didn’t seem to deter my partner.) Yet I found last night’s crazed naked fondling (for lack of a better term) exquisitely pleasurable in its own right. When we move on (as inevitably we must), shall we ever know such fevers of desire again? Total honesty here: How much of my reluctance stems from resentment of Sheeni’s continuing flirtations with Bruno? Do I hold back to punish her for her lack of fidelity? I don’t know. Why does the mind have to erect these elaborate screens to hide its hurt?
I must try to obtain some condoms. This necessarily
poses problems in a small town, where everyone minds everyone else’s business. Sheeni has volunteered to go on the pill, but I wouldn’t want to be within 500 miles of her parents if they found out. Why does this society hold so steadfastly to the fiction that its children are asexual?
I noticed in the mirror this morning a small red dot on my chin. I am hoping it will develop into a pimple. All the writers I admire were physically unattractive; most were ugly in the extreme. Their art was forged out of rejection, humiliation, and suffering. I’ve known none of this. Perhaps I should be thankful Sheeni pains me by pursuing my cousin. Why was I cursed with such harmonious features? At least my situation is not as desperate as Bruno’s. He will never have to struggle. He will never know if he owes the admiration of society to his accomplishments or his physical beauty. I wonder if Sheeni has slept with him yet?
I ran into Apurva at the library again this afternoon. Luckily, Sheeni wasn’t with me this time. We had a long conversation in the poetry aisle, our hands touching occasionally unconsciously (or consciously). Her pronunciation of “T. S. Eliot” triggered such a rush of desire, I longed to taste her warm, sweet, full lips. Because of our vastly different cultural backgrounds, I can’t tell for certain if she has any romantic feelings toward me. Perhaps Indian women just enjoy intellectual conversations about poetry. So I hold back. What if she does like me? Dare I ask her out? Could I ever leave Sheeni? Our hearts have been intertwined so long, sometimes I feel we have merged into one identity. Is there no…
