Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (68 page)

“OK,” he replied. “It’s a deal. But I’m tired. Let’s go finish our wine in the bedroom.”

“No, Bruno. We’re staying here.”

“Come on, Carly,” he said, standing up and grabbing my arm. “Let’s take a time-out in the old locker room.”

I pushed the drunken brute away, sending him staggering against the stove.

“Boy, Carly,” he said, surprised, “you’re pretty strong for a chick. Wanna wrestle?”

I grabbed a bread knife off the drainboard. “Hit the road, Bruno,” said Carlotta, standing her ground.

“Is that thing loaded?” asked Bruno, eyeing the foot-long serrated blade.

“Yes, and I’m prepared to use it.”

“Carly, I like you,” he whined. “Didn’t I give you a nice ride on my Harley?”

Bruno piloted a Honda, but I thought it wise to overlook that point.

“I appreciated your thoughtfulness, Bruno. But I don’t appreciate rude behavior like this.”

“I’m sorry, Carly,” he said, rubbing his hamlike hand over his oft-dislocated face. “I, I just like you so much, I want to prove it. The only way a man can!”

I wondered if that was the line that conquered Candy.

“Bruno, the best way you can show your regard for me is to treat me with respect. And leave. Now!”

“OK, OK, Carly. I’m going.” He drifted toward the door. “Sorry, if I offended you. Some chicks go for the rough stuff.”

“Well, I don’t!” declared Carlotta, still clutching the knife.

“Are we still friends, Carly?”

“I guess so, Bruno.”

“Then how about a friendly good-night kiss?”

“I can’t, Bruno.”

“Why not?”

“Er, Fuzzy wouldn’t like it.”

“Fuck Fuzzy!” he said, an unnerving edge of belligerence creeping back into his voice. “I ain’t leavin’ ’til I get a kiss!”

“That’s impossible, Bruno.”

“Why?”

“I’ve, I’ve got VD.”

“No, you don’t. Besides, you can’t catch the clap from kissin’. Coach said so. So pucker up, Carly. ‘Less you want to stand there all night with a knife in your hand.”

At that point, diary, I concede I was desperate.

“OK, Bruno. I’ll give you a kiss. But I’m keeping the knife. So don’t try anything.”

“It’s a deal. Come here, baby.”

Reluctantly, Carlotta walked over to Bruno until they were separated only by the width of a knife blade. Gingerly, conscious of the cutlery between them, Bruno put an immense arm around her shoulder and pulled her to his coarse lips. They kissed. Fireworks on one side (I presume), extreme revulsion on the other. It wasn’t so bad after he stopped trying to pry my teeth open with his tongue. Eventually, like root canal surgery or junior high school, it was over.

“Thanks, baby,” he said, savoring the salivary aftertastes. “That was nice. Change your mind about the dance?”

“No, Bruno. I promised Fuzzy.”

“Too bad. I guess I’ll just have to murder Stinky and take Candy.”

“You do that, Bruno,” Carlotta said. “It sounds to me like an excellent plan. Good night.”

“‘Night, Carly. Thanks for the wine.”

Then, miraculously, he was outside and the dead bolt was clicked safely closed.

And Frank complains that Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week. Sometimes a guy doesn’t know when he’s well off!

SUNDAY, December 13
— 7:45
P.M
. I’m back from the big city. What a delightful day! We went to the downtown Santa Rosa mall, another big mall, plus the fashionable east-side shopping center. After approaching a state of near-despair, Carlotta found a lovely azure chiffon dress with three-quarter-length
sleeves, beaded bodice with high lace collar, and a daringly scooped-out back. I was hesitant at first, but Sheeni insisted it was “perfection personified.” A brassiere will be impossible, of course, so I’m not exactly sure yet how I’ll work out Carlotta’s figure. I may have to strap things on with duct tape. Dress, gloves, and shoes (high heels!) came to $368.17. Being a young woman in the social whirl certainly runs into some tall paper. I wish I had rich parents like Sheeni.

I also had to kick in another $43.89 for a completely useless clutch purse. I may be able to cram in a lipstick, eye shadow, and eyebrow pencil, but what will I do with my blusher and breath mints? Fuzzy may have to lug those. Thank God I don’t have to worry about tampons. I’d have to decorate them with rhinestones and wear them as earrings.

That reminds me. Sheeni is insisting I get my ears pierced. Another painful sacrifice for love and I’m still only 14. When will it all end?

For being an ancient wacko religious zealot, Sheeni’s mother can let her hair down and be surprisingly pleasant to be around. Of course, long years of intensive practice have made Sheeni a master at maternal manipulation. Under her daughter’s skillful cajolery, Mrs. Saunders drove over 150 miles through heavy holiday-shopping traffic, bought us all a nice lunch, and wrote out checks totaling nearly $700 for Sheeni’s ball finery.

As for Carlotta and Mrs. Saunders, they got on like two cross-generational soul mates. I think Sheeni’s mother approves of Carlotta as a companion for her daughter because she dresses conservatively, is respectful of her elders, and acts like a lady. I also told her at lunch that I was thinking of going into missionary work when I graduated from college. She was thrilled and invited me to attend church with them next Sunday. I also agreed I would help pray for her son’s release from the temptations of mortal flesh (Lacey).

Carlotta had some firsthand experience of this herself as she was helping her friend try on dresses. Just the two of us together in nearly a dozen intimate dressing rooms. What a shock when Sheeni prepared to squeeze into that first fuchsia gown.

“Goodness, Sheeni,” remarked Carlotta, “you’re not wearing a bra.”

“Well, I’m looking for something strapless,” she replied, tugging up the skintight satin. “So I thought I’d better not wear one today. I hope you’re not offended.”

“Uh, not at all,” said Carlotta, sitting down and struggling to think about the stock market. “It’s just us girls here.”

Carlotta was more modest. She went into dressing rooms alone and obdurately declined her friend’s gracious offers of assistance. These brief
interludes of solitude also served as welcome cooling-off periods for my flagrantly overstimulated nervous system.

“Mutual funds,” repeated Carlotta to herself as she struggled into silks, satins, velvets, and chiffons. “Stock mutuals versus bond funds. Which, do you suppose, offers the best opportunity for long-term capital growth and tax-sheltered income? Nope, not this dress. I look like I’m testing for the remake of
Bride of Frankenstein!”

Despite Sheeni’s entreaties, Mrs. Saunders resolutely vetoed every strapless design, finally consenting to a moss-green silk dress with spaghetti straps. Still, no one could describe this compromise gown as conservative. Going on, on, and coming off, it registered a cumulative 9.2 on my Richter scale.

To spite Vijay, Carlotta had a change of heart and talked her friend into buying the highest pair of heels in Northern California. I only hope you know what doesn’t wind up at her escort’s eye level.

MONDAY, December 14
— No news in today’s paper about the mysterious Nick Twisp disappearance. Good. I hope the FBI loses interest and goes back to wiretapping Teamsters and harassing environmentalists.

As expected, Bruno was waiting for Carlotta this morning in the alley.

“How about another kiss, baby?” he cooed.

“I’m not your baby,” replied Carlotta coldly. “And I feel my herpes flaring up again. I’m getting another ugly chancre on my lip.” “Where?” he demanded.

“I’ve covered it over with lipstick, Bruno. I had to. The pus was beginning to drain.”

That cooled his ardor in a hurry.

In world cultures class, Dwayne took a break from snapping Carlotta’s bra straps to invite her to be his date for the Christmas dance. In this instance, I felt tact was uncalled for.

“Dwayne,” declared Carlotta, “I wouldn’t go with you to a dogfight in Tijuana.”

Dwayne looked intrigued. “I ain’t heard about that, Carlotta. Who’s arrangin’ it? Maybe I could enter Kamu, my wonder dog.”

“Why don’t you,” replied Carlotta, sensing an entrepreneurial opportunity. “The entrance fee is only $25. Payable to me.”

“That’s a lot of money,” he said doubtfully.

“Yes, but the grand prize is $5,000.”

“OK, I’ll ask my mom. So you wanna go to the dance with me, Carlotta? Huh? Huh?”

“No, thanks, Dwayne. I’m already spoken for. I’m going with Fuzzy DeFalco.”

“Fuzzy, huh?” said Dwayne, obviously disappointed. “Then who should I ask, Carlotta?”

“Why not Janice Griffloch? I hear she has the hots for you.”

“OK,” said Dwayne, “I will!”

At lunch, hurrying to commandeer a vacant chair beside Sheeni, Carlotta was amazed to encounter her sartorial mirror image.

“Tina,” said Carlotta, “where did you get that lovely outfit?”

“Like it, Carlotta?” Tina Manion asked, twirling around. “It’s the Mussolini Revival!”

“It’s a breath of fresh, fashion-conscious air,” I replied.

“Carlotta,” said Tina, gripping her shawl, “I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend. I figured out who your father is. He wasn’t a writer at all!”

“I know,” I said, interrupting her. “Inspired by your interest, I put the question directly to Mother. She broke down and told me everything. My dad was Adolf, her Rumanian masseur.”

“Oh, dear,” said Tina. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Mother finally produced the missing birth certificate. What a shock to discover one is half Rumanian. But what a rich heritage to explore. Would you like a massage sometime, Tina?”

“Oh dear,” she replied anxiously. “I hope there’s time to change my news article.”

“Why, what’s the problem?”

But my fashion double had abruptly fled.

Carlotta also missed a deadline. When she arrived at the Scholarly Elites’ table, her chair was occupied by a dwarfish Indian speaking French. Seething inwardly, I dined at the Shunned Loners’ table, from which seat I was able to observe zit-plagued Janice Griffloch administer a sharp rebuke to the jaw of a despised bra-strap snapper.

Carlotta received her second dance invitation of the day after school at the lunch counter of Flampert’s variety store. The assignation was made hurriedly during art class, at the request of you know who. Though surprised, Carlotta agreed. I assumed Trent wished to discuss his situation with Apurva. His actual intention, when haltingly but charmingly expressed, nearly knocked me off my stool.

“You want me to go to the dance with you?” asked Carlotta, dumbfounded.

“Yes,” replied Trent softly. “If you’d like to, Carlotta.”

“But, Trent, what about Apurva?”

“Apurva’s been banned from my life, Carlotta. Her parents found out about us.”

“So?”

“Well, so I can’t see her anymore.”

“Why not?” Carlotta demanded.

“What do you want me to do, Carlotta? Sneak around?”

“That’s a good place to start. Apurva loves you, Trent. Who cares what her parents say?”

“I do. I think we should respect their cultural traditions.”

“Even if their tradition is dogmatic parental fascism?”

“That’s our interpretation of it, Carlotta, as Americans. To us, raised in our cultural milieu, their actions seem unfair and heavy-handed.”

“They are!”

“Not necessarily, Carlotta. Not in the context of their social structure.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t sleep with Apurva?” I asked.

“Who told you that?” he demanded, shocked.

“Trent, between Apurva and me, there are no secrets,” I lied.

“Well,” he conceded, “that’s part of it. Her culture believes brides should come to the marriage bed as virgins.”

“Her culture also occasionally burns brides when their dowries prove inadequate,” I pointed out. “Do you condone that practice as well?”

“Of course not, Carlotta. Why are you getting so upset?”

I ignored the question. “OK, besides cultural qualms, what else is holding you back?”

“You’ll misinterpret what I say.”

“Try me, Trent.”

“Carlotta, Apurva is a very beautiful girl, I mean, woman.”

“That’s a fair statement,” I conceded.

“How do I know I love Apurva? I mean intellectually. How do I know I’m not just entranced by her physical beauty?”

“What difference does it make?”

“It means a great deal to me.”

“I see, Trent. So you thought you’d ask out somebody less attractive to see if you can divorce aesthetics from love.”

“That wasn’t the only reason, Carlotta. I do like you. You’re very… offbeat.”

“Trent, you don’t love someone intellectually. You love them with your body. Physical appearance is a powerful source of desire. Believe me, I know.”

“Beauty is an accident of genetics and societal conventions,” he retorted. “What about the unlucky people? Don’t they have an equal right to be loved?”

“Sure. And they are—by other ugly people.”

“I wish I were ugly,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Then if someone said they cared for me, I’d know they were sincere.”

“Yes, unless you were rich or well connected or sang rap songs or juggled flaming torches or distinguished yourself in a thousand other ways. There’s always room for doubt, Trent, if you want to play those games.”

“I do feel strongly for Apurva,” he admitted. “I think about her incessantly. Especially when I walk her dog.”

“Then make love to her, Trent. She wants you to, quite badly.”

“You’ve spoken to her on this topic, Carlotta?”

“At length, Trent. Believe me, she’s made up her mind. Taking her to bed would not be an act of cultural imperialism.”

“I’m too young for marriage, Carlotta.”

“Apurva does not expect marriage, Trent. She’s a modern woman living in a global culture. She realizes young love can be transitory.”

“Thank you, Carlotta. You’ve given me much to think about.”

“Don’t think, Trent. Act!”

“I’ll try, Carlotta. If I require assistance, can you serve as our go-between? Apurva’s parents aren’t likely to suspect you.”

“I’d be glad to, Trent.”