Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (54 page)

“Mr. and Mrs. Saunders,” said Lacey gaily, “you remember Nick Twisp, don’t you?”

No one rose in welcome. Mr. Saunders looked up and squinted myopically at me. Mrs. Saunders cut me dead and sarcastically pretended to be absorbed in admiring my splendid gift.

“You are very, very tall,” gurgled Sheeni’s father, staring intently at me.

More sarcasm!

“No, he’s not, Dad,” corrected Paul. “He only appears to be tall because you are seated on the floor.”

“I feel the power of the floor pushing against me,” noted Mr. Saunders. “Do you feel it too, tall youth?”

“Sometimes,” I replied, glancing quizzically at my hosts.

“Paul served his parents an appetizer earlier,” said Lacey, beaming.

“Yes,” said Paul, “it’s a recipe I picked up in the Southwest. Stuffed mushrooms.”

“Now remember, Paul,” declared a voice that could grate Parmesan. “You promised you’d let me sample some later!”

As the speaker desired, we all turned to watch as she continued her entrance down the stairs. Taggarty had dressed for the occasion in a bizarre green cape that was either fashionable art-to-wear or a fragment of an asbestos theater curtain.

“Hello, Nick!” she said, walking over and greeting me, New York-style, with a wet, casually intimate kiss full upon the lips. “How’s the star-crossed, persistent lover?”

“OK, I guess,” I said, wiping off her saliva. “How are you, Taggarty?”

“Glorious, as usual,” she replied.

“Nick, you look parched,” said Paul. “Running is thirsty work. What can I get you to drink?”

“Uh, ginger ale for me,” I said uneasily.

“I’ll have some sherry,” said Taggarty, eyeing me languidly.

“Right,” said Paul. He escorted Lacey back toward the kitchen, leaving me to converse with my caped adversary.

“Are you a jogger, Nick?” asked Taggarty.

“Only when events demand it,” I replied cryptically. “How was your trip?”

“Not bad,” replied Taggarty. “I never realized Sheeni’s hometown was so extraordinarily far into the hinterlands. How ever do you cope?”

“We have cable TV,” I said.

“Where is Sheeni, by the way?”

“Upstairs, Nick. She saw you coming up the walk and locked herself in the bathroom.”

“Is she crying?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Nick. More likely she is laughing hysterically.”

“Did she invite Trent?” I asked, ignoring the gibe.

“Of course, Nick. He’s one of her dearest friends. But he just called to say that he may be arriving late. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

“Same here,” I lied.

Thankfully, at that moment Paul returned. “Mom, Dad,” he said, handing us our drinks. “Let’s use our noses. Hmmmmm. What is that aroma?”

Following their son’s example, Mr. and Mrs. Saunders began to sniff the air.

“Turkey,” croaked Sheeni’s craggy mother.

“Big turkey,” added her husband. “Big, big turkey.”

“The turkey smells so marvelously…rustic,” commented Taggarty, swigging her sherry like a lapsed twelve-stepper.

“Thanks,” said Paul. “Lacey reports it’s almost ready to come out of the oven.”

“I thought you might be barbecuing it, Paul,” I said. “I know how much you like to roast things outdoors.”

Paul flashed me a wry grin. “Only after dark, Nick. And only when coached by a beautiful woman. Now, where’s my baby sister? Nick, why don’t you go upstairs and see if you can hurry her up?”

I found Sheeni lying on her bed reading a book. Her bedroom was charmingly decorated in shades of virginal white.

“Hello, Sheeni,” I said. “Dinner is almost ready.”

“Hello, Nick,” she replied, not looking up. “I do not intend to be a party to my brother’s absurdities. He has invited you and drugged my parents.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “But I think your parents may be deriving some good from the experience. You yourself have observed on numerous occasions that they are excessively straitlaced. Perhaps this brief psychedelic interlude will broaden their horizons. I know it did mine.”

“Yes, it certainly seems to have expanded your vistas to the east.”

“I repeat, Sheeni. I have never slept with Apurva Joshi. I am willing to submit to a polygraph test, should you desire it.”

Sheeni looked up from her book. “How is my dog?”

“Excellent,” I said. “He should be coming out of the oven right about now.”

I ducked to dodge a flying book.

“I hate you, Nickie!” said Sheeni, leaping from the bed. “I hate you too,” I said, taking her in my arms.

We had a long, slow, intense kiss such as the kind teens are warned can lead inexorably to premarital sex.

We all sat down to dinner a few minutes later. Trent was still happily delayed. With much coaxing from Lacey, Mr. and Mrs. Saunders moved from the living-room floor to the dining-room table. Thankfully, my considerate hostess seated Mrs. Saunders at the opposite end of the polished mahogany table from
Sheeni and me. Lacey did, however, commit the social gaffe of placing Sheeni’s father to my immediate left. Following the first law of etiquette, I ignored him as much as possible. Opposite me sat Taggarty—fortunately partially screened by the turkey carcass.

Lacey led us in prayer: “Dear Lord. Thank Thee for Thy bounty which we are about to receive. Help us be tolerant and accepting of others—especially the boyfriends and girlfriends of our immediate relations. Thank Thee also for sending us the company of Taggarty and Nick and Trent, who has been slightly delayed. Amen.”

“Amen,” we echoed.

First course was Lacey’s hearty consommé—steaming, bracing to the palate, with a delicate aftertaste of metallic can coatings.

“How are you feeling, Taggarty?” Sheeni asked her friend, who appeared to be boycotting the soup.

“Fine, Sheeni. I’m afraid I’ve lost my taste for hot liquids. It’s irrational I know, but somehow I still fear they might contain drugs.”

Damn, I thought. I should have smuggled in a capsule or two.

“I understand perfectly,” replied Sheeni. “You’ve been through a terrifying ordeal.”

“Not as terrifying as our friend’s,” I said, pointing to the main course.

Only Sheeni’s mother laughed. I hope at future family get-togethers she continues to find my jests amusing.

The roasted turkey was served with sage stuffing, candied yams, mashed potatoes and gravy, buttered noodles, cranberry sauce, individual molded salads, hot rolls and muffins, and mixed steamed autumn vegetables. To my amazement, everything was delicious.

“Paulie made the rest of the meal,” confessed Lacey. “He likes all the traditional Thanksgiving foods.”

“What is Thanksgiving without traditions?” he asked. “Sister dear, how long has it been since we all gathered ’round this groaning board to observe the rituals of thanksgiving?”

“Not long enough, Paul,” Sheeni replied.

“I hope it’s the first of many such occasions for me,” I said, giving a start as Sheeni tweaked my white meat under the table.

“Don’t push your luck, pal,” she whispered coyly.

Just as my hunger asserted itself and I began to eat in earnest, the doorbell rang. My stomach convulsed anew in a fresh spasm of anxiety.

“That must be Trent,” said Sheeni, jumping up and hurrying toward the door.

And then, eight seconds later, my enemy walked into the room. Imagine,
if you can, a young Laurence Olivier with a tall, lithe swimmer’s body and a California tan. Imagine a chiseled, noble profile—like a Roman coin come to life. Imagine golden lashes curling over smoke-blue eyes that seem to flash—like subliminal neon—“Bedroom. Come with me to the bedroom. Now.” Imagine all that and then know this: words alone cannot begin to limn the formidability of my adversary.

Trent turned toward me. Smoke-blue eyes locked onto François’s dingy brown ones.

“Oh, Trent, darling,” said Sheeni, “this is Lacey, Paul’s friend.”

Trent broke my gaze and turned, radiating charm like an illicit plutonium broker, toward his hostess. “Oh, yes,” he said. “We’ve met—at my dad’s office. Hello, Lacey.”

“Hello, Trent,” said Lacey, barely controlling an impulse to swoon.

“And this is my friend Nick,” said Sheeni.

Trent swiveled around slowly and looked again into my eyes. I gazed back, probing for weakness, but meeting only stout walls, thick armor, and endless ranks of heavy cannon. “Hello, Nick,” said Trent, extending his hand.

“Hello, Trent,” I said, briefly grasping his dry, patrician warmth with my arctic clamminess.

“Do sit down, Trent,” said Sheeni. “We’ve just begun to eat. Paul’s dinner has turned out improbably toothsome.”

“I’m sorry, Sheeni, I regret to say I can’t,” apologized Trent, gazing steadily at me. “There’s been a new development in the Bernice Lynch case. It demands our immediate attention. Taggarty, this concerns you as well.”

“What is it, Trent?” she asked, obviously thrilled.

“Before I left school, I searched Bernice’s room,” he declared, still looking at me. “Thoroughly. From top to bottom.”

“Did you obtain proper authorization from school officials before doing so?” François demanded.

“No, Nick. I acted on my own initiative. In Bernice’s closet, hidden inside a can of brass polish concealed under a large bag of soiled laundry, I found this cache of letters,” he said, dramatically extracting several familiar-looking envelopes from his jacket pocket.

“Who are the letters from?” asked Sheeni.

“Someone sitting at this very table,” replied Trent, stooping shamelessly to melodrama.

Everyone gazed curiously about the circle of tense faces.

“Who was it?” demanded Taggarty.

“In the letters,” continued Trent, ignoring the question, “the writer expressed
a strong affection for Bernice. And instructed her to begin a program of sedating Taggarty with the drugs he himself supplied.”

“Nickie, you didn’t!” screamed Sheeni, recoiling in horror.

“Well, you see,” I stammered. “There’s a simple, logical explanation …”

“Nick, you could have killed me!” shouted Taggarty, overplaying her emotional hand as usual.

“As it is,” interrupted Trent, not raising his voice, “if Bernice should die, he may well be an accomplice to homicide.”

“Oh, Nickie!” exclaimed Lacey, obviously disappointed.

“Bad break, Nick,” said Paul sympathetically.

“Who died?” demanded Sheeni’s mother.

“No one yet, Mrs. Saunders,” replied Trent.

“Arrest him!” screamed my future mother-in-law, pointing a dead geranium at me.

“I can’t arrest him,” said Trent. “But I have called the Santa Cruz police. They are on their way here now.”

More alarming déjà vu for Nick. Hands shaking, I placed my napkin beside my plate. “Well, I shall be going now. Please continue on without me.”

“Nick, I would advise you to remain here,” said Trent. “And face the consequences of your actions like a man.”

“Thank you for that unsolicited counsel, Trent,” I replied. “And please, do drop dead.”

To a clamor of remonstrances, imprecations, and violent condemnations, I resumed my long walk to the front door.

“Goodbye, Sheeni,” I said, turning to face my accusers. “I did it all for you.”

“You are completely contemptible,” declared My Love. “I never wish to see you—ever again!”

With that dreadful proclamation ringing in my ears, I left the house.

Not quite the festive holiday celebration I had been anticipating.

Now what do I do?

Sitting here in the trash-strewn gloom as cars and trucks roar by overhead, I see only two ways out: suicide or India.

I’m leaning toward the former, but François suggests I try the latter first. Then, if that doesn’t work out, I can kill myself with a clear conscience. There is some logic to that.

I have my passport and ticket voucher. On the other side of the world wait new friends, new experiences, and 10,000 captive rupees.

Now, how do I get to San Francisco airport?

More to the point: How do I get past all the police roadblocks?

FRIDAY, November 21
— Well, what would you do in my place? You’re a 14-year-old intellectual minor, reviled by all of your former friends, relentlessly pursued by three police jurisdictions, and stranded in the boonies 100 miles from the airport that offers your only hope of escape.

Faced with that dilemma yesterday, I did the only sensible thing. I turned the problem over to François Dillinger, my always resourceful, ever-sociopathic alter ego.

“Give me 20 cents,” he said brusquely, wiping his hand over his sensual mouth like Jean-Paul Belmondo.

François took the proffered dimes and deposited them in the slot of a grimy pay phone next to the beef jerky and belt buckle displays in Irma’s Fast Gas, just outside the dusty city limits of Ukiah, California. He adjusted his crotch and dialed a number.

“Hello,” said François, “let me speak to Tina Manion. This is Nick, Nick Twisp. A friend of hers from school.”

Forty minutes later we were hurtling south through the black night on Highway 101. Tina drove the big Buick station wagon like she wrote news articles for the high school paper: badly, but with a curious erotic intensity. She has fiery dark eyes, smooth olive skin, interestingly upturned nose, and an artfully composed journalist’s body.

“Sure you don’t want me to take you all the way to San Francisco, Nick?” she asked.

“No, thanks, Tina. I can catch the airport van in Santa Rosa. I really appreciate your coming out on Thanksgiving to help me out.”

“Holidays bore me to tears,” she replied. “Besides, I need more practice driving at night. I just got my license last month. How come those cars keep flashing their lights like that?”

“Uh, Tina, I think you’re supposed to dim your brights for oncoming traffic.”

“No way, Nick. I can’t see a damn thing out there as it is.”

“Oh,” I replied, casually bracing my knees against the dashboard as fog-shrouded redwoods whizzed by.