Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (60 page)

“What’s the matter, Nick. You look kind of sick.”

“Uh, nothing. Say, Frank, could you sneak me out a gun?”

“Sorry, Nick. Dad keeps the gun room locked up tight. I think he’s afraid Mom’ll turn on him. What do you want a gun for?”

“Uh, protection. In case somebody tries to break in.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Nick. This neighborhood is pretty peaceful.”

It won’t be for long if François has his way.

THURSDAY, December 3
— I fear the imminent onset of cabin fever. There is only so much stimulation a modern teen can derive from extended confinement in the modest stucco bungalow of a deceased elderly Italian widow.

And why, I wondered indignantly, didn’t Fuzzy drop by after school? Twenty-four hours have passed and my only human connection has been to Geraldo Rivera on TV. No wonder I am filled with self-loathing.

FRIDAY, December 4
— Fuzzy got a surprise when he stopped by after school today. Seated on the bedoilied chintz sofa, applying red polish to her nails, was a strange woman.

“Hello, young man,” she said.

“Oh, uh, hi,” he stammered. “I was looking for… somebody else. Who are you?”

“I’m the Avon lady,” she replied, displaying five crimson fingertips. “This shade is called Sophomoric Passion. Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I guess so. You know, uh, my grandmother died.”

“Did she? I didn’t know that. We have some lovely shades to coordinate with all the popular casket linings. Has she selected her makeup for the funeral?”

“She’s buried already.”

“Oh, dear. That does seem precipitous. I should really have been consulted first, you know.”

“Uh, have you seen a guy named Nick?”

“Is he a good-looking fellow with a mustache?”

“Well, he has a mustache. Sort of.”

“Yes, I saw him. He was telling me about you, in fact.”

“He was?”

“Yes. He said you had a girlfriend in Santa Cruz named Heather. He said you two had been apart now for some time and consequently were horny in the extreme.”

“Nick! Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” I said in my natural voice. “How do you like my new look?”

“Nick, I think the pressure’s got to you. You’ve completely flipped out.”

“Not at all, Frank. You yourself pointed out my mustache was not making it as a disguise. So I shaved it off and tried on your late granny’s clothes. They fit me perfectly. Even the shoes.” I thrust out a foot garbed in gleaming black orthopedic lace-ups. “Your grandmother must have had quite large feet.”

“Not that big,” he replied defensively.

“I also shaved my legs and my armpits. I never realized being a woman entailed so much work in performing one’s toilette.”

“Nick, what are you using for boobs?”

“Oranges for now. The firmness is commendable, but they are inclined to droop unattractively. Tomorrow I’m going down to Flampert’s variety store and buy a nice padded brassiere.”

“That I got to see.”

I stood up and modeled Mrs. DeFalco’s black rayon dress and bouffant miracle-fiber wig. “Well, Frank, how do I look?”

“Like an ugly chick with pimples. And really rotten taste in clothes.”

I appreciated Fuzzy’s honesty. “I don’t look like Nick Twisp?”

“Not at all. It’s amazing. Grandmama’s glasses help a lot. Can you see out of them?”

“Unfortunately no. Everything’s a nebulous blur. I’ll have to pick up some neutral reading glasses at Flampert’s.”

“The voice is great too. Say something again, Nick.”

“Hello, Frankie darling. Would you like to caress my nubile body?”

Fuzzy laughed. “I don’t believe it, Nick. I’d swear you were a girl. The makeup job is really professional too.”

“Thanks, Frank. I used to watch Mom layer it on when she was trying to reinvigorate Dad.”

“My mom does the same thing.”

“For the same man,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, Nick, don’t remind me. Well, what should I call the new you?”

“The name’s Carlotta,” I replied, “Carlotta Ulansky. My mother is a famous obscure film personality.”

9:10
P.M
. Despite Carlotta’s seriously impaired vision, I decided to take her out for a preliminary field trial to the Golden Carp, Ukiah’s budget-conscious Chinese restaurant. Strolling toward downtown in the late-afternoon twilight, she was the object of much probing scrutiny by curious passersby. Carlotta gripped her black shawl and walked resolutely on, pausing only to feel her way around obstacles. On Main Street near the restaurant, she walked straight into a poorly illuminated fire hydrant, suffering a nasty knock to her right shin and tearing her hosiery.

“Fuck!” she exclaimed, startling an elderly couple walking nearby. As she bent over to attend to the injured limb, an orange tumbled out of her dress and bounced into the gutter. “Hot fucking damn!” she muttered. The couple paused to stare as she felt around under a parked car for the errant citrus.

“I think you dropped this, ma’am,” said the man, picking up the body-temperature orange and offering it to her.

“Many thanks,” replied Carlotta.

The man and his wife glanced questioningly at her lopsided chest. Carlotta pulled her shawl tightly around her.

“I do like a nice piece of fruit when I’m out for a stroll,” Carlotta remarked. “It can be so…so refreshing!”

The couple edged away and crossed the street. Thank God they weren’t out on a mission for Chinese food.

In the restaurant Carlotta held up her menu as a screen and discreetly rearranged her charms. That accomplished, she ordered the Economy Dinner for one: egg roll, pork fried rice, prawns with vegetables, champagne sherbet, fortune cookie, and tea. All that and an exotic foreign ambience for just $3.95.

Later as she was nibbling the tail of her final delectable prawn, she was alarmed to observe Steve the waiter lead a familiar couple to a table across the
room. It was Sheeni’s trumpet-playing brother Paul and his love goddess girlfriend Lacey.

As Carlotta hurriedly gulped her sherbet, Paul stopped beside her table on his way to the rest room.

“Hi,” he said, smiling.

“Er, hello,” she replied nervously. “Do I know you?”

Paul chose to ignore the question. “Did you hear?” he asked. “Bernice Lynch is going to be OK. She’s out of the hospital now.”

“Yes, I had heard that.”

“She told the police everything, though. I think her mother’s going to sue Nick’s parents.”

“Well, they’re certainly used to it,” Carlotta sighed.

“Your fortune cookie may have some good news,” he added.

“I could use some,” she replied. “You won’t, uh, mention to anyone you’ve seen me?”

“I didn’t see anything. Nice dress. Very becoming… Carlotta.”

“Thanks, Paul,” she said, impressed as usual by his omniscience.

After he left, Carlotta cracked open the cookie. Her fortune read: “Despair not. An unexpected windfall awaits.”

All right!

11:30 P.M. No windfall yet. Going to bed. Today I dressed as a woman and thoroughly enjoyed it. In fact, I developed a fairly spectacular T.E. just now while Carlotta was disrobing. I wish I could afford psychoanalysis to find out what precisely this means. Do you suppose there’s any cause for concern?

SATURDAY, December 5
— I’M RICH! I’m in the chips. My ship has come in. I’m rolling in it. I have acquired some tall paper. I’m a member of the affluent classes. Bodybuilders could develop powerful muscles hoisting my wallet. In short, I’m loaded.

François was right. Why didn’t I pay more attention to him? Unscrupulous people always know best.

This morning as Carlotta was preparing to go out, she opened Mrs. DeFalco’s underwear drawer. As she was rummaging about for a fresh pair of black hose, she felt a curious lump in a repulsive-looking garment she took to be a girdle. Her curiosity piqued, she overcame her revulsion, reached inside the shriveled spandex, and pulled out an immense roll of U.S. government currency (yes, the genuine green variety, in startlingly large denominations).

All plans were put on hold as she unrolled the giant wad and counted the awesome cash cache.

$2,385!

More actual money than I’d ever seen before. Five lifetimes of my erstwhile meager weekly allowance.

I could buy a near state-of-the-art computer, thought Nick. I could buy a large-caliber revolver, ruminated François. I could buy modern panty hose, speculated Carlotta. Or, pointed out Nick’s practical side, I could buy food. I could actually postpone disagreeable starvation for many months. For a change, all my choices were pleasant ones. Such is the awesome power of money. François is convinced wealth is the ultimate aphrodisiac. That’s why Republicans are so conservative. Sexual satiety naturally stunts the social conscience.

4:30
P.M
. I’m back. What a glorious day. Carlotta, I discovered, was born to shop. Money flows from her hands like drool from a toddler. Of course, it helped that all the stores downtown were piping in festive holiday music. Swept up in the spirit of the season, Carlotta indulged her every whim.

She began with a midmorning snack of six maple bars in her favorite donut shop. Then it was on to Flampert’s for lingerie shopping. Disappointed by the thinness of the foam in the padded brassieres (why such deplorable timidity on the part of the undergarment industry?), she had to augment her purchase by stuffing in two large shoulder pads from the notions counter. Then she bought eyeliner, mascara, blusher, lipstick (color: Carmine Swoon), perfume (Writhe by Kevin Clein), six pairs of black panty hose (no more outmoded garter belts), and a nice pair of rhinestone-studded reading glasses.

From Flampert’s, she proceeded on to an electronics store, where she purchased an expensive AM/FM stereo walkabout tape player with inconspicuous bud earphones. Unfortunately, neither her dress nor her shawl was equipped with pockets. After some experimentation, she discovered her personal stereo system would nestle conveniently between the shoulder pads in her bra (although adjusting the controls tended to attract unwelcome stares from fellow shoppers).

Next, at the local record shop, she purchased two Frank Sinatra tapes (the store’s entire meager selection), and cassettes by Artie Shaw, Duke Ellington, Jeri Southern, Karen Akers, Ella Fitzgerald, and Mildred Bailey.

“You’re losing something, lady,” said the clerk listlessly.

I interpreted this remark as a comment on my musical tastes. Apparently this strung-out young woman with purple hair felt I was missing out by not purchasing the newest mind-rotting heavy metal releases.

“They’re for my aunt in Cleveland,” apologized Carlotta. “Her tastes are quite conservative.”

“You’re losing something,” repeated the phlegmatic clerk, pointing casually to her Young Dickheads sweatshirt.

My God, I thought, this woman is completely stoned. They must let them do dope right here at the cash register. I only hope she hands over an extra ten with my change.

Then Carlotta glanced down at her dress. An ear-bud cord had become tangled in a shoulder pad and dislodged it. Several inches of white pad were visible above her heaving bodice. Blushing, Carlotta fumbled to free the cord, then hurriedly stuffed the pad back into place.

“Perfume blotters,” explained Carlotta. “They’re the newest sensation over at Flampert’s.”

“I never shop there,” huffed the clerk, handing me the correct change. “They sell
Hustler
magazine.”

Damn. I knew I’d forgotten something.

After a pleasant lunch at the Golden Carp, a heavily laden Carlotta crept back up the alley toward home. As she was about to duck behind the garage, a gate opened across the alley and out bounced a large garbage can gripped in the powerful but uncoordinated arms of Bruno Modjaleski, Redwood High’s most celebrated gridiron mediocrity.

“Oh, hello,” guiltily gasped a startled Carlotta. I still suffer qualms of conscience for nearly sending Bruno upriver for car theft.

“’Lo,” he replied shyly, but with evident curiosity. “Need some help with your packages?”

With Frank crooning in both ears, Carlotta missed the question. She turned down her stereo—an operation Bruno observed with much interest. “Beg your pardon?” she asked.

“Your packages,” repeated Bruno. “Need any help carrying them?”

“Oh, uh, no, thank you. I can manage.”

“You’re stayin’ at Mrs. DeFalco’s, huh?” he asked.

“Uh, am I?” I replied uncertainly.

“I seen you goin’ in and out of the bushes there.”

“Uh, yes. It’s a handy shortcut. Well, good day.”

“Bye,” he said with a stare that suggested he could be devoting some of his limited cranial capacity to the act of mentally undressing me.

Carlotta hurried into the house and dumped her packages. Damn. That alley is not as deserted as I had supposed. I just hope Bruno can keep his big fat mouth shut. I wonder if football players are prone to gossip?

2:15
P.M
. Four-dozen peanut butter cookies—fresh from the oven. I hope they do the trick.

8:15
P.M
. I feel totally paralyzed with a leaden black angst. Why is the exhilaration of sudden wealth so short-lived? Now my wonderful new tape player seems like a needless, frivolous expense.

François reminds me to accentuate the positive. At least I am enjoying my new panty hose. It’s true: I get a curious thrill every time I slip them on.

SUNDAY, December 6
— I JUST SAW SHEENI SAUNDERS! I ACTUALLY SPOKE TO HER!

The good news is she’s even more achingly lovely than I remembered. The bad news is she was on her way to meet loathsome Trent Preston. They are going on a long, intimate walk—just the six of them (Sheeni, Trent, Apurva, Vijay, Albert, and Jean-Paul). If you ask me, it all sounds suspiciously like a double date with dogs.

Carlotta was about to dive into her usual donut assortment, when into the shop walked Sheeni carrying the Sunday
New York Times
. As Carlotta watched transfixed, Sheeni ordered three orange-glazed cake donuts and a large coffee, then carried them over to THE TABLE NEXT TO MINE. Gripped by a sudden disquietude, Carlotta concealed her tremulous hands under the brown Formica table. Sheeni was on her second donut and well into the Book Review section before Carlotta worked up the nerve to speak.