Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (64 page)

What a relief to take off my dress, wipe off my makeup, and just be Nick Twisp, runaway youth again. Peering out the front window, I was pleased to spy a Federal Express package waiting for me on the porch. I sneaked it inside, tore open the box, and found page after page of expensively engraved, obviously genuine physician’s stationery. Unhappily, across each sheet some officious meddler had caused to be printed, in giant letters, in shocking red (indelible?) ink, the word
SAMPLE
.

8:55
P.M
. Kerosene, gasoline, lighter fluid, spot remover, fingernail polish
remover, acetone, Windex, zit cream, lemon juice, vinegar, toothpaste, human spit, Right Guard, turpentine, Chianti, hair spray, bag balm, Clorox. The damn red ink defied them all.

9:45
P.M
. Eureka! Just as I was about to resign myself to keeping a firm grip on my towel (and on my erectile response) in Miss Arbulash’s locker room, I discovered the lifesaving solvent. All along the solution was right under my ears. I should have used my nose. What dissolves red ink? The same remarkable formula that dissolves inhibitions as it inflames the libido—Carlotta’s perfume of choice: Writhe by Kevin Clein.

THURSDAY, December 10
— Carlotta’s new hairstyle was a great success. The unsuspended Bruno redoubled his coarse alley blandishments, Fuzzy in homeroom was lavish in his compliments, Miss Pomdreck nodded approvingly from across the corridor as she disappeared into the boys’ locker room on a counseling errand, and dearest Sheeni in physics class was unstinting (for her) in her praise.

Once again, Carlotta and Sheeni dined apart. Today Redwood High’s newest student was the subject of a lunchtime interview in a private corner of the cafeteria by ace reporter Tina Manion.

“Really, I’ve led such a boring life,” confessed Carlotta. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to interview me.”

Tina bit provocatively into a potato chip, and gazed abstractly at my chest. Carlotta did the same to hers, trying not to recall other tuberosities those luscious lips had nibbled.

“You are too modest, Carlotta. I understand your mother is a famous actress.”

“Well, Mother has acted, uh, somewhat anonymously, in many films. She prefers those small, meaty parts,” said Carlotta, suddenly coloring.

“What sort of parts?” asked Tina, flicking potato chip crumbs from her blouse onto my skirt. I wondered if this was some form of subliminal communication.

“Character roles,” explained Carlotta. “My mother often plays those small, but demanding character roles. For example, she appeared as the gypsy fortune teller in
Terminator
2.”

“Oh, I saw that movie. But I don’t remember a gypsy fortune teller.”

“Mother would be flattered to hear that. She believes great actors identify so completely with their characters they disappear in the mise-en-scéne. I had to watch the film three times before I noticed Mother. And I, of course, was looking for her.”

“And your father, Carlotta? Was he in the movie business as well?”

“Er, possibly. I, uh, I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?” asked Tina, journalistic confusion adding another enticing layer to her allure.

“You see, Tina. I don’t know who my father is. Mother is acquainted with all the candidates, presumably, but she refuses to discuss the issue. She claims it’s none of my business.”

“None of your business! Who your own father is! Why, it could be… It could be…Steve McQueen!”

“I don’t think so, Tina. Mother prefers tall men. Steve McQueen was short.”

“Steve McQueen was short?” she asked, shocked.

“Dreadfully short,” Carlotta shuddered. “Practically a midget.”

“That’s amazing,” said Tina, peering intently into Carlotta’s face.

I shifted uneasily in my chair. “Is, is something wrong, Tina? Is my lipstick smeared?”

“No, Carlotta. I’m just trying to see if you look like anybody famous.”

“Oh. Do I?”

Tina studied Carlotta’s face for some moments before replying. “Well, you look like somebody I’ve seen before. I just can’t quite put my finger on who.”

“Actually, I look just like Mother,” I said, endeavoring to throw her off the scent. “The genetic contributions of my father, such as they were, must have been entirely recessive. I seriously question whether such a self-effacing person could have been an actor at all.”

“Then who could he have been?” insisted Tina.

“Perhaps a screenwriter,” Carlotta speculated. “You know, one of those weak, alcoholic types with the nicotine breath and typewriter pallor. Mother is always summoning them to her trailer and demanding rewrites. Perhaps some late-night story conference got out of hand.”

“And nine months later out popped the surprise ending,” added Tina.

“It’s possible,” agreed Carlotta. “I do have a pronounced literary inclination. Of course, that wouldn’t necessarily point to a screenwriter.”

“I could swear you look familiar, though, Carlotta. Are there any famous screenwriters?”

“Alas no, Tina. It’s an entirely anonymous profession.”

“I know what,” said Tina. “Give me your phone number. If I think of who you remind me of, I’ll call you.” After recording my number on her steno pad, Tina had one final question. “Well, Carlotta, as a new student here, what are your impressions of Redwood High?”

“It’s not a bad place,” Carlotta replied magnanimously. “A bit provincial,
of course. That’s to be expected. And the fashion of dress among the student body is so amusingly antiquated. I almost feel as if I’ve traveled back in time.”

Tina bristled. “I don’t mean to be unkind, Carlotta. But one could say the same thing about your choice of outfits.”

“People have, Tina. In fact, they’re probably scrawling it on the rest-room walls as we speak. The poor misguided dears.”

“What do you mean?” she asked uneasily.

“Tina darling, to be perfectly blunt, in case you don’t know it, my current ensemble is the
dernier cri
in Beverly Hills.”

“It is?” she gasped.

“Of course. The color is black and the cut is prewar Italian. It’s the Mussolini Revival.”

“But, Carlotta, I haven’t seen it in any of the magazines.”

“Time lag, Tina,” explained Carlotta, adjusting her shawl. “Those magazines are printed months in advance. The Il Duce sirocco just swept up Rodeo Drive last week.”

“It did?”

“Yes, but I’m resisting some of the more extreme trends.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like not shaving your legs,” whispered Carlotta. “Tina, razor sales are plummeting in Brentwood and Bel Air. The shaggy look is in.”

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Tina, horrified.

“Of course, it may be some time before it reaches Ukiah,” Carlotta added consolingly.

Reporters are all alike, thought Carlotta later, walking slowly toward the soporific quagmire of business math class. So inspiringly gullible. Especially the cute ones.

After school Carlotta headed downtown to the library to use its battered rental typewriter. Since the dissolved red ink had tinted my medical stationery pink, to allay suspicion I decided to employ the letterhead of a female physician. In 15 minutes, I had produced this sterling counterfeit:

Very professional, I’d say. Indeed, I wonder if Hilary herself, with all her years of medical training, could have done any better.

On my way out, I heard a soft “How about those 49ers!” gasped lyrically from the poetry stacks. I stopped and peered down the dimly lit row. In the gloom under Twentieth-Century Poetry, Trent Preston was being repulsed in his attempts to nuzzle Apurva Joshi. Decisively removing his hand from her sweater, she glanced up, saw Carlotta, and smiled a warm greeting.

“Oh, hello, Carlotta. How nice to see you again. Trent darling, this is my friend Carlotta.”

“Carlotta and I have met,” said Trent affably. “Apurva, Carlotta and I are in art class together. But I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“We’re old friends,” said Apurva. “I was hoping I’d see you, Carlotta. It would please me very much if you could come to dinner tomorrow night.”

Carlotta forced a smile. “You mean with your family, Apurva?”

“Yes. My mother is an excellent cook.”

Dinner with Vijay and the stern Mr. Joshi. What an assault on the digestion. “I’ve got a better idea, Apurva. Let’s go out for dinner tomorrow night. Just the two of us. It’ll be my treat. Say 7
P.M
. at the Golden Carp?”

“Well, yes, fine, Carlotta. If that’s what you’d prefer. Do they have vegetarian dishes?”

“Oh, yes. They have an extensive vegetarian menu. The kung pao tofu, I’m told, is to die for.”

“Good. I don’t care myself, but Mother will want to know.”

“Darling, why don’t I ever get invited to dinner at your house?” pouted Trent.

“Because my father would delight in poisoning you,” replied Apurva.

That makes two of us, thought Carlotta, smiling benignly at the happy couple.

9:45
P.M
. Washing the dinner dishes, I was startled by a knock on the back door. Hurriedly flipping out the light, I peered out through the old lace curtain.

“Nick, it’s me,” said a shadowy figure on the back porch. “Let me in.”

“Hi, Frank,” I said, opening the door. “What a surprise. I thought you were grounded.”

“I am,” Fuzzy replied, coming in and shedding his heavy parka. “But my theory on grounding is if you just ignore it, eventually it goes away. Anyway, my parents are too busy hating each other right now to pay much attention to me.”

“I know the feeling, Frank. Want some wine? I got a jug of rotgut your granny left behind.”

“Lay it on me, guy.”

I poured two generous tumblers of the vile red swill.

“To the indifference of parents,” I said, holding my glass aloft.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Fuzzy, clinking his glass against mine and tossing back a chug.

I took a tentative sip, fought an impulse to gag, and—overruling the well-founded objections of my palate—swallowed. Fuzzy gave signs of struggling similarly.

“Tastes a bit off,” he admitted. “But it gets the job done.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said.

I found a dusty can of mixed salted nuts in the pantry. We sat at the kitchen table and sampled the refreshments. The rancidity of the nuts, I observed, complimented the brackishness of the wine. Fuzzy belched in agreement.

“It’s good to see you again, Nick,” he said. “I was starting to think of you as a girl.”

“Sometimes I’m almost beginning to feel like one,” I conceded.

“I don’t know, Nick. It may not be so healthy dressing up like a chick all the time. You could get, you know, warped.”

“I don’t feel particularly warped yet, Frank.”

“Well, watch out, Nick. It could sneak up on you.”

“One thing, Frank, I do have a new appreciation for what women go through. Take my word for it, being a chick isn’t easy.”

“Are you sure, Nick? Maybe it’s just not easy being a chick when you’re a guy.”

“I don’t think so, Frank. I mean, just preparing to go out the door in the morning. It’s more work than guys have getting ready for a wrestling match and the senior prom put together. And then there’s the constant worry during the day if your makeup and hair are all right. Not to mention the harassment.”

“What harassment, Nick?”

“Bruno and Dwayne, Frank. They’ve got the hots for Carlotta.”

“You’re kidding, Nick.”

“No lie. And, if you ask me, Trent’s being awfully chummy too. I know for a fact something is holding that guy back from getting it on with Apurva.”

“But, Nick, compared to Apurva, Carlotta is dog meat on the hoof. Er, no offense.”

“Well, God knows I try,” I replied, offended. “Besides, buster, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Carlotta
is
a popular chick,” conceded Fuzzy. “You should see what they’re writing about her in the boys’ room at school. Have you been in there lately?”

“Of course not. I use the girls’ bathroom.”

“Is that legal, Nick?”

“There are no signs posted against it, Frank.”

“What goes on in there, Nick? I never been in a girls’ rest room.”

“Well, I should hope not. It’s nothing special. Just the usual: smoking, swearing, gossiping, extorting petty cash from the meek, forming cabals. Oh, and a great deal of competitive primping. If the cigarette smoke doesn’t kill you, the hair spray will.”

“Do the chicks like take their clothes off?” leered Fuzzy.

“Why would they, Frank? Do guys take off their clothes in the boys’ rest room?”

“Just Malcolm Deslumptner.”

Malcolm Deslumptner was the junior class’ famous exhibitionistic masturbator. He did it everywhere: in rest rooms, into a beaker in chem lab, behind the auditorium curtain during an Honor Society induction (you could see the red velvet moving rhythmically), on the bus during a debate team outing, and once in the stands during a pep rally in full view of the varsity cheerleaders (who shouted Go! Go! Go! as Malcolm went, went, went).

“That guy is a total sicko,” observed Fuzzy.

“He just craves attention,” I replied. “We all do in our own way. Speaking of which, what are they writing about Carlotta in the boys’ rest room?”

“Nasty stuff, Nick, I’m sorry to say. Someone’s been writing that Carlotta has the hots for Sheeni. They’re calling you a lesbian, Nick.”