Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (41 page)

“Let me explain: you fill out the application, win the scholarship, and then we contrive to have the school newspaper do a big write-up about you. All about this extraordinary honor that has come to Redwood High and how much you will miss everyone during your years abroad. Maybe we could get a story in the town paper too. Anyway, we make sure Sheeni’s parents get copies. They’ll be overjoyed and decide to bring Sheeni back. Then, right at the last minute, you have a change of heart and decide not to go.”

“Won’t they change their minds too?” I asked skeptically.

“Not if they don’t find out,” exclaimed Vijay. “Winning an honor is newsworthy. Turning it down is not. The newspapers won’t bother reporting that.”

“But I might run into them downtown,” I pointed out. “I know for a fact Sheeni’s mother shops for magazines at Flampert’s variety store.”

“Well, you—what is the expression—lie low for a while. Or you wear a disguise. Grow a mustache. Dye your hair.”

“It might work,” commented Fuzzy.

“How do you know I’ll win the scholarship?” I asked.

“Why not? You’re intelligent. You get good grades. Besides, no one else has applied. But we’ll need your father’s signature on the application.”

“No problem,” I replied. “I’ve been forging that for years.”

8:15
P.M
. To celebrate her coming week of carnal license, Lacey gave Mrs. Crampton the day off and took Mr. Ferguson and me out to dinner. Only I ordered steak, so of course there was a vicious dogfight when we got back for possession of the bone. I don’t know who won—I haven’t a clue which is which. Each Albert exhibits the same outthrust lower jaw, the same bugged-out bloodshot eyes, the same curly pig’s tail attached to the same ratty black body besmirched by identically lopsided smears of white muzzle and chest fur. For all I know, they may be harboring matched sets of genetically identical fleas.

FRIDAY, October 26
— A spectacular day for dating. The planets must be all lined up, spelling “Go for it, baby!” Even as I write this, I can still taste Apurva’s mint-flavored lipstick on the deepest recesses of my tongue. Meanwhile, Lacey is entertaining a local trumpet player in Dad’s own private bedroom. Occasionally, the springs pause in their rhythmic song, and the odor of burning hemp wafts out from under the door. François is seething with jealousy, but I prefer to dwell on the positive side. Besides being my future brother-in-law, Paul may someday marry my near-stepmother. Thus my ties to the Saunders family grow ever more numerous.

I met Vijay and his knockout sister at 7:45
P.M
. in the lobby of the school auditorium. Apurva singed the eyeballs in a mind-numbing red satin dress and my mother’s best high-heel shoes. François had selected my outfit: black trousers, Dad’s gray suede jacket, fluorescent cranberry shirt, and a soft mauve scarf borrowed from Lacey and knotted jauntily at the throat. It was somewhat more flamboyant than my usual dress-for-invisibility costume.

Apurva approved. “Nick, you are sensational. The other girls will be very jealous of me tonight.”

“Paroxysms of envy will grip the fellows when they see me with you,” I replied. “Your beauty leaves me speechless, my dear.”

“How fortuitous for me that it does not,” replied Apurva sweetly.

Our chaperon had heard enough. “Let us go now and buy our tickets, please,” said Vijay peevishly.

Flush with twenties (I had cashed my paycheck immediately, lest it be seized again by a creditor), I paid for my date’s ticket. We chose prime seats in the orchestra—close to the front where we would be seen by the multitudes. I insisted our chaperon sit at least one seat removed. Vijay sighed and scanned the audience for pretty girls.

“How is my essay coming along?” I asked him. The application form for
the scholarship, we had discovered to our distress, required a 1,000-word essay on the topic “Why I wish to study in India.” Vijay, as the resident Indian expert, had generously volunteered to write it for me.

“It’s coming,” he said. “My difficulty is in making it illiterate enough so that they will believe it came from the pen of an American.”

“Thanks a generous pantsful,” I said. I turned to the more alluring branch of his family. “Apurva, I hope your father was not offended this morning. My dad, I fear, was somewhat rude.”

“I’m afraid he came away with a very bad impression. He was not happy to hear that we were going to the theater with you this evening.”

“But Vijay is here with us,” I pointed out.

“Yes, thank God. He would not have agreed to it otherwise. He is under the impression I came along with Vijay simply out of boredom. Oh, Nick, you can keep my precious Jean-Paul—can’t you?”

“Certainly,” I replied. “Well, I’ll try. It may take some artful subterfuge. Fortunately, I have an aptitude for that.”

“Good. Also, we must try to improve your standing with my father,” she said, looking worried. “It is quite low at the moment.”

“What about my applying to study in India?” I demanded. “Surely that must have scored some points with the old boy.”

“He said what with communal strife, religious conflict, and political unrest, India has more than enough problems without being burdened with the task of educating you.”

As I prepared to reply to this slander, the lights began to dim and the curtain rose.

The play was
Hay Fever
. How unfortunate that our laws are so lax in regulating high school dramatic arts. I believe draconian fines should be imposed by statute for such crimes as reckless disregard of the text, willful abuse of comic timing, and falsely impersonating an English accent. In addition, whoever cast the Zit Queen as the breathless ingenue should be barred from the theater for life.

At intermission I took Apurva’s warm, wheatish hand and we strolled lovingly among the surprised swim team retinue and their dates.

“I think it is quite good for a school production,” commented Apurva. “Don’t you, Nick?”

“Possibly,” I replied, “for a grammar school.”

“Nick, you must not be so severe. These are not trained actors.”

“In fact, they are not actors at all,” I said. “Shall I buy you some punch?”

“Yes, please,” she replied.

But first François demanded a kiss. While Apurva was complying enthusiastically,
she was addressed by a bronzed, muscular junior named Baborak.

“Hullo, ‘Purva,” he said. “What you hear from Trent?” “He’s fine,” she replied. “He is enjoying his windsurfing. Do you know Nick Twisp?”

“I seen the dweeb around,” Baborak replied, cutting me dead and walking away.

Apurva squeezed my hand and whispered into my ear. “Nick, our plan is working. Already Trent’s friends dislike you.”

I didn’t tell her that even when I’m not French-kissing their buddy’s girlfriend, guys like Baborak always despise me. It’s instinctual with them.

Eventually the curtain came down on the last act. I was sorry that what with all the liberties the thespians were taking with Mr. Coward’s story, they hadn’t altered the ending. A surprise stabbing of the ingenue would have produced a much more satisfying climax than the author’s.

After the show, I squeezed in beside Apurva in her father’s rad Reliant for a short cruise down Main Street to the Burger Hovel drive-in. We made Vijay sit in the back and slump down so that he could not be observed by our fellow cruisers.

“How did you like the play?” I asked him.

“I found it quite appalling,” replied Vijay’s voice from near the floor. “Do they imagine upper-class Brits speak with Cockney accents?”

“You boys are too critical,” said Apurva. “I think it requires a great deal of courage to stand up on a stage and perform. I should be petrified with fright.”

“Petrification could only be an improvement,” said the backseat critic.

“We should look on the bright side,” I pointed out. “At least it wasn’t a musical. No one stood up and burst into song.”

The restaurant was filling fast with the elite of Ukiah’s theatergoing community. We claimed the last unoccupied booth in the back.

“I’m going to have a quarter-pounder,” announced Apurva, studying the greasy menu.

“Mother won’t like it,” warned Vijay.

“Mother doesn’t have to know,” she replied pointedly.

“At least request it well-done,” said Vijay. “So the blood doesn’t run down your arm.”

“Vijay remains a militant vegetarian,” commented Apurva. “None of us had ever had meat until we came to the U.S. When we were flying over, the stewardess came around serving cold cuts. I almost vomited from the sight of them. I imagined they were slices of raw flesh!”

We all laughed. “Now the cows run when they see her coming,” said Vijay. “They can see the bloodlust in her eyes.”

“I eat very little meat,” retorted Apurva.

“The animal hardly misses it,” countered Vijay.

Something told me they had had this conversation before.

Vijay ordered a double serving of onion rings; I had the house specialty: jumbo chili dog with nachos in a basket.

While we ate, Apurva and Vijay talked about life in Pune.

“You Americans have such crazy impressions of India,” complained Vijay. “You think we sleep on beds of nails and spend our time standing on the street corner with our begging bowls.”

“You mean you don’t?” I asked, feigning surprise.

“We had movies,” said Apurva. “We had TV. We’d have our friends over to play records and dance. I made clothes on my sewing machine. Vijay rode his bicycle. Father would go to the country club to play cards.”

“Did you have Kmarts and donuts?” I inquired. “How about shopping malls and Rose Bowl parades and hot tubs? Or jacked-up pickup trucks and lowriders and long-haired rednecks and
Mad
magazine? How about Twinkies and jumbo chili dogs?”

“Alas, we have not yet achieved that level of civilization,” lamented Apurva wryly.

“But we do have the bomb,” boasted Vijay. “And the largest middle class in the world.”

How bourgeois, I thought.

SATURDAY, October 27
— An entire weekend without Dad. No one to yell at me to mow the lawn or remind us so acutely of the looming disappointments of middle age. What a luxury!

To celebrate, I put on my favorite F.S. album and went back to bed. While Frank crooned softly, I snuggled under the covers and gave free rein to my erotic imagination. As an all-girl team of precision, naked tumblers performed daring sexual acrobatics in my head, a trumpet on the other side of the wall began to play along to Frank. The song was “The Girl Next Door.” When the tune ended, the horn accompaniment stopped abruptly and bedsprings began to rock.

A phone call finally got me out of bed. It was Bernice, calling collect with important dispatches from the front:

“Nick honey, Sheeni is going with Ed Smith today to Monterey!”

“What for?” I demanded.

“They’re going to visit the Aquarium,” she explained.

Oh, yeah? Why this sudden enthusiasm for marine biology? As if either of them had ever shown any interest in a fish that wasn’t under a lemon wedge on a plate.

“Did you slip him a capsule?” I asked anxiously.

“I tried to, Nick honey,” she replied. “But I, uh, got it in the wrong cup.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, as they were driving off, Sheeni looked a little… tired.”

“You drugged Sheeni!”

I imagined my Sweet Love regaining consciousness in some tawdry Fisherman’s Wharf motel—her clothes awry and a satiated Iowan leering at her unashamed.

“I didn’t mean to, Nick honey. It was an accident. Besides, what do you care?”

“Well, Bernice. I, of course, don’t mind that much. It’s, uh, just that I don’t want you to waste the capsules unnecessarily. Do you know when they’re coming back?”

“Sheeni’s signed out until tomorrow. She told the matron she was going to stay with Darlene at her parents’ house in Salinas.”

My mind reeled at this grim news. “Bernice, what kind of car does Ed have?”

“He doesn’t have a car. I doubt if he even has a license. He’s only 15.”

What flagrant flouting of California highway laws! As a guest in our state, the fellow should show more respect for our legal institutions.

Bernice continued, “Taggarty loaned them her car. She doesn’t need it since she sleeps all the time.”

“Good job, Bernice. Now, what kind of car does Taggarty have?”

“It’s a red Isuzu Impulse—you know the sports car. She’s always bragging guys can’t resist the Impulse when they see her.”

“Do you by any chance know the license number?” I asked.

“Sure. Are you dumb?”

“Bernice, I was just asking.”

“No, Nick honey. That’s her license:
R U DUMB
. That’s the first thing she asks guys when they try to pick her up.”

“OK, Bernice. What I want you to do is call up the Santa Cruz police and tell them your red Isuzu was stolen.”

“You mean pretend I’m Taggarty?” asked Bernice skeptically. “Gee, Nick, I don’t know if I could lie to a cop. What if he asks to see my ID? I could get into big trouble.”

She’s turning chicken on you, warned François. I went to Plan Two. “OK, Bernice. Here’s another idea: you call up the Monterey police and tell them
your car was stolen in Santa Cruz. Say you’ve already given a report to the Santa Cruz police, but you have reason to believe the thieves may be headed to Monterey. They’ll take the information over the phone.”

“Boy, Nick honey, you sure think fast on your feet. I’m impressed.”

“We make a good team, Bernice,” I lied. “But make sure the real Taggarty stays unconscious so she’s out of the picture.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Nick.”

“Has Taggarty gone to see the nurse yet?”

“Nah, she thinks she’s as smart as any doctor. I heard her tell Darlene she’s experimenting with herbal remedies for chronic fatigue syndrome.”

“Good. If you see her taking any herbs, skip her next pill. That way she’ll be encouraged to think her remedies are working.”

“Great idea, Nick!” replied Bernice. “Uh, Nick honey, I wanted to ask you one more thing. There was a rumor going around this morning at breakfast. Something about Trent Preston’s girlfriend up in Ukiah two-timing him with a stud named Nick Twisp.”