Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (15 page)

“Do you think he ran off with some woman?” asked Lefty’s mom. She sounded quite distressed.

“That would surprise me,” I said. “Lefty’s always been pretty shy around girls.”

“Well, if you hear from him, Nick, please tell him to call home immediately.”

I said OK and hung up. Damn that bent retard!

I immediately called Sheeni. Her ancient mother answered and said Sheeni and Leff Ti had taken their Bibles to read down by the lake. I felt like asking if Sheeni had also packed along her suntan lotion, but instead requested that Sheeni telephone me immediately when she returned. Without fail!

“What, may I ask, is this in regards to, young man?” asked the prying old crone.

“I can only say it involves international ramifications,” I replied.

“Goodness!” she exclaimed. “I knew there was something fishy about that young man. I can always tell. I saw through you immediately.”

I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Saunders,” and hung up. I hope, after we’re married, Sheeni won’t expect me to do much socializing with her parents. I don’t think I could stand it.

2:00
P.M
. No call from Sheeni yet! I can feel the tension churning directly into zits. Mom was gabbing on the phone with some girlfriend for 42 minutes about her deceased lover. It was all I could do to keep from strangling her.

3:45
P.M
. Finally, Sheeni called (collect, of course). I told her what happened and asked to speak to the Burmese idiot. Lefty, of course, was quite surprised to hear that the postcard was a tactical error. “I always send postcards when I go places,” he observed. “I sent you two from France this summer. The stamps cost me over a buck.”

“Yes, but you weren’t running away from home then,” I replied. “People who run away from home don’t send postcards to their parents!”

“Oh, well, I never heard that rule,” said Lefty. “I just didn’t want them to worry too much.”

I started to explain that that was the point of the entire charade, but gave up in exasperation. “OK, Lefty. The vacation is over. You have to take the next bus home today.”

“But what will I tell the Saunderses?” protested Lefty. “And Sheeni and I were going to rent a video tonight. Some Frog movie called
Breathless.”

Great! Just the two of them sharing an evening together on the sofa. “Sorry to interrupt your plans, Romeo,” I said icily. “But you have to get home as soon as possible. Sheeni will think of an excuse to tell her parents. Here’s what you have to do. Now pay attention.”

“I’m listening,” grumbled Lefty.

“OK. You fell off the Berkeley pier…”

“I did?” asked Lefty, surprised. “When?”

“The day you disappeared.”

“Why’d I do that?” asked Lefty. “I can’t swim.”

“Just listen and don’t interrupt! You fell off the pier. You swam—OK, no, you dog-paddled across the harbor. You got out of the water. You were too afraid to go home. So you hitchhiked up to Clear Lake.”

“Can’t we say I walked to Clear Lake?” asked Lefty, worried. “If my parents hear I was hitchhiking, they’ll pound me for sure.”

“Your parents won’t care this time. I guarantee it. Just, whatever you do, don’t mention me, Sheeni, or the Saunderses. You did this all on your own.”

“I did it all on my own,” repeated Lefty doubtfully. “But it was your idea, Nick.”

“That’s true,” I conceded. “And it was working fine until you screwed it up. But everything will still turn out OK. Just get home—quick!”

“Oh, all right,” said Lefty. “Anyways, I’m getting tired of being swelled up and going to church all the time.”

“If you do as I say—keep my name out of it—I’ll let you in on a nice secret.”

“What kind of secret?” asked Lefty suspiciously.

“I’m not going to tell you now,” I replied. “But you’ll like it a lot. Just don’t mention my name.”

“I heard you,” said Lefty.

“Nobody likes a squealer.”

“I’m not a squealer,” said Lefty.

I still needed more insurance. “Good,” I said, “because I’m sure you wouldn’t want your parents to find out how you got all your hotrod magazines and baseball cards and stuff.”

“I’m not a squealer!” insisted Lefty. “My lips are sealed.”

Eight more hours of hell. I figure everything should be over—one way or another—by midnight. I just hope the tension doesn’t pockmark my face for life.

5:00
P.M
. Tired from painting, Mom whipped up a fast meal of fried beef liver, boiled red beets, and steamed lima beans—the three food substances I find most despicable. I gazed in horror at my plate.

“You might as well eat it,” said Mom, chowing down with alacrity. “If you don’t, it’s all coming back tomorrow in a casserole.”

Are there no bounds to parental sadism? I picked up my fork. With each bite, my body shuddered in revulsion. The lima beans and beet slices I swallowed whole, like horse pills. The liver—tough, gritty, stringy with real cow veins—necessitated actual mastication. My palate recoiled in shock with each chew. Swallowing ensued as a horrible relief.

6:05
P.M
. A worried call from Sheeni! Her father took Lefty to the bus station more than an hour ago and has not returned!

“Maybe he stopped at a bar for a quick one,” I suggested hopefully.

“Would that he would do something so normal,” replied Sheeni. “Both of my parents are zealous abstainers. Yet a prolonged alcoholic binge is precisely what each of them needs. I think it would do them such a world of good.”

“Well, where can he be?” I asked.

“I fear the worst,” said Sheeni. “Oops, here comes Mother.”

Sheeni hung up. Panicked, my stomach contemplated its vile contents and decided to revolt. I ran to the bathroom and reexperienced my meal—in reverse. Up came the gritty liver, up came whole lima beans, up came pellets of boiled beets—red as clotted blood. Hot acidic wave followed hot acidic wave—each bilious spasm so horrific, I fear my aesthetic may never fully recover. From a corner under the sink, Albert watched with ghoulish delight.

Mom barged into the bathroom and demanded what was going on.

“Food poisoning!” I exclaimed, still prone upon the cold tiles.

“Don’t be silly,” replied Mom, handing me a towel. “Food poisoning indeed! That was a good, nourishing meal. Better than the homeless had tonight. You should be grateful.”

“I’m grateful I’m still alive,” I said, struggling to my feet. “Now I can go kill myself.”

“Don’t say things like that!” exclaimed Mom. “It’s disrespectful of the dead. Think of poor Jerry and poor Lefty.”

“They’re better off,” I said. “At least they never have to eat liver again.”

“Jerry loved liver,” snapped Mom. “I fixed it for him all the time.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and look what happened to him.”

Mom swung back to clout me one, but decided—for once—to resist her deep-seated impulse toward child abuse. “You get to bed!” she exclaimed.

“Can I get a razor blade first?” I asked.

“Get to bed, smarty-pants!” yelled Mom, shoving me out of the bathroom. Thrilled by this display of violence, Albert barked excitedly. “And don’t forget to walk that dog,” added Mom.

“How can I walk him in bed?” I asked. That was a mistake. Mom officially lost it and flew off the handle. She delivered a stinging, flat-hand slap to my right cheek. Albert encouraged her with another lusty bark.

“OK, smart-mouth!” bellowed Mom. “I’ll walk the dog. You go to bed!”

“All right,” I said appeasingly. “I was just asking.”

“And I’m telling you!” screamed Mom. The veins on her forehead were beginning to stand out and turn purple—always a cautionary sign. I turned and hurried down the corridor to my room.

“Why do I put up with that kid?” Mom asked Albert. “Why?” The traitorous canine looked in my direction and sneered. I could tell he wanted to add some slander of his own, but words—as usual—escaped him.

9:30
P.M
. I heard the phone ring downstairs and Mom answer it. I opened my bedroom door and slipped silently up the hallway to the head of the stairs. What I heard chilled my blood.

“I’m sorry, Sheeni,” said Mom. “Nick can’t come to the phone now, he’s being punished. … I’m sorry, I don’t care if it is an emergency. … All
right, I suppose I could give him a short message. …You don’t say! OK, I’ll tell him. And please don’t call here collect again. I can’t afford the expense. I’m sorry to hear about your father. … No, Nick won’t be calling you tomorrow. He’s not permitted to make long-distance calls. I suggest you write. Good night, Sheeni.”

I hurried back to bed as Mom climbed the stairs. She looked in from the hall and scowled.

“Don’t pretend to be asleep. That was that girl Sheeni. She told me to tell you her father has been arrested at the Greyhound bus station in Lakeport.”

I was paralyzed with horror. “Why?” I croaked.

“For kidnapping some boy,” replied Mom with distaste. “It all sounds quite sordid to me.”

“Did, did she say anything more?” I stammered.

“That was all,” replied Mom. “I don’t see how it concerns us anyway. Now go to sleep. You’re grounded.”

“For how long?”

“Until I see a change in your attitude,” said Mom, slamming the door.

Great! An indeterminate sentence, the worst kind. But I don’t think it’s going to matter to the FBI that I’m grounded when they come to haul me off to jail.

WEDNESDAY, September 5
— 12:30
A.M
. I can barely type from the trembling in my fingers. Thank God, correcting mistakes is so easy on a computer. How I pity those troubled, literary teens of the past who had to type their journals on ordinary typewriters.

After Mom delivered her doomsday message, I lay in bed, listening to the muffled sounds of the TV from downstairs and contemplating my forthcoming years in the custody of the California Youth Authority. I wonder if anyone has ever gone on from reform school to literary renown? Probably not.

It was well past 11 before Mom switched off the TV and climbed the stairs to bed. I waited until I heard her begin to snore (everyone in my family snores, including—much to Sheeni’s likely future distress—me), then I sneaked downstairs to the phone. A growl from the dead Chevy caused me to jump. It was my repellent dog, reclining in the dark on his Body-by-Fisher bed. I whispered for him to hush and dialed Sheeni’s number. After two rings a strange man’s voice answered.

“Deputy Riffman,” it said. “Who is this?”

I hung up. Are they arresting Sheeni as an accomplice? Am I dragging the woman I love down a sorry, sordid path to perdition? What exactly does “perdition” mean? These questions torment me.

I’ve decided to sleep (as if I could!) beside the phone. I must know what is happening. This uncertainty is living torment.

4:20 A.M. The jangling telephone jarred me to consciousness. I had turned down the bell, so it didn’t wake Mom. As usual, it was the operator asking if I wished to accept a collect call from … “Yes, yes!” I interrupted, whispering eagerly.

“Nickie, darling. Is that you?”

It was The Voice of the Woman I Love. She sounded very far away.

“Yes, it’s me, Sheeni. What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. A bit chilled. I sneaked out to call from a pay phone. It’s a little scary. I hope all the Lake County rapists have retired for the night. I’m just in shorts and a tube top.”

“Not the yellow one, I hope,” I said, alarmed.

“Yes,” replied Sheeni, “how did you know?”

“Why must you dress so alluringly?” I demanded. “Especially when you’re sneaking out in the middle of the night.”

“It’s just my nature, I suppose,” replied Sheeni philosophically. “Although this evening’s upheavals, I feel, may at least partially excuse this particular sartorial lapse.”

“What is happening?” I asked.

“What is not happening might be a more appropriate question,” said Sheeni. “It has been a night to remember. Father is back finally. I don’t think they’re going to charge him with anything. Although he should not have struck that sheriff’s deputy.”

“Why was he arrested?” I asked urgently.

“Lefty’s parents notified the sheriff’s office here. They were watching the bus station. Father, you’ll recall, was somewhat in the dark at that point. At first he thought it was some kind of immigration matter. Then, when they said he was under arrest for kidnapping, he thought it was a joke. Some sort of a gag arranged by his law partners. Then, when the deputies persisted, he got angry. Father, as you may know, is apt to do anything when he gets angry.”

“What about Lefty?”

“He went back home with his parents. They’re probably getting into Oakland about now.”

“Did he talk?”

“Like ZaSu Pitts on Ecstasy. First he clammed up. Then he got rattled by all the uniforms. His mother screaming hysterically didn’t help his composure either. So, I’m afraid, Nickie darling, your pal spilled the beans.”

“All of them?” I stammered weakly.

“Apparently so,” sighed Sheeni. “Your name came up rather prominently. My parents have forbidden me ever to speak to you again.”

“What!”

“Yes,” said Sheeni. “Exactly so. You’ve been banned from my life. Of course, you realize this parental edict now makes you even more desirable in my eyes.”

“It does?” I asked wonderingly.

“Well, yes,” replied Sheeni. “Frankly, Nick, I was always somewhat appalled by my parents’ approbation of Trent. In some ways it was the only chink in his armor of perfection.”

“Then I’ll get to see you again, Sheeni?”

“Of course, darling. But it’s going to be difficult. We’ll have to sneak around and lie to our parents. Can you do that?”

“I do it all the time,” I replied.

“Good,” said Sheeni, “I hoped you’d say that. I was worried you might be a bit of a Goody Two-Shoes.”

“Hardly,” I said. “I’m in a state of permanent open revolt around here. That’s why my mother wouldn’t let me come to the phone.”

“Then, darling, I shall take strength from your outlawhood. We shall revolt together. This will be the bond of our love. This and darling Albert. You must affect a girlish handwriting, Nickie, and communicate by letter daily. Write the name ‘Debbie Grumfeld’ as the return address on the envelope. She’s a friend of mine who moved to Oakland last year. We’re returning to Ukiah tomorrow, so send the letters to my home there.”