Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (17 page)

“How so?”

“Because, Nickie, if we are both destined to have second-rate public school educations, at least now perhaps we can acquire them in the same school system.”

“You mean you’d transfer to the Oakland schools?” I asked, amazed. Did Sheeni really love me that much?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied Sheeni. “I’m proposing that you move up here. We’ll get your father a job in Ukiah and you can come live with him.”

“I don’t know if I could live with my father,” I said doubtfully. “My father is a moron.”

“Well, your mother doesn’t sound so compellingly congenial at the moment either,” Sheeni pointed out. “At least if you lived here we could be together. And I could see darling Albert too. Yes, I think we should find him a job. What does he do?”

“He’s a writer—sort of. He writes advertising copy.”

“That’s bad,” said Sheeni. “The employment opportunities for writers up here are necessarily slim. I don’t suppose he’d like to change careers?”

“Maybe. What sort of jobs do they have up there?”

“How about a short-order cook?”

“No,” I replied, “my father isn’t interested in any job that involves actual work. I think it would have to entail some kind of bogus brainwork. And preferably high-paid.”

“OK,” said Sheeni, “I’ll see what I can do. Do you think he’d be amenable to moving?”

“Maybe, if the rents are cheap enough. He’s always complaining about the high rents in Marin County. And if I was with him in Ukiah, he wouldn’t have to pay child support. Plus, he’d have his own live-in slave.”

“That could be a powerful incentive right there,” agreed Sheeni. “And housing up here is relatively inexpensive—especially if you’re willing to live in a mobile home.”

“I’d live in a drainage culvert to be with you,” I confessed.

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary, darling,” said Sheeni. “Especially if you ever intend to invite me over. Yes, Dolores, I’ll be taking the advanced math class too.”

I could tell one of Sheeni’s loathsome parents had entered the room. I promised to rush Dad’s résumé to her, then reluctantly said goodbye.

“Goodbye, Dolores,” said Sheeni, “I hope to see you in class very soon.”

Oh, if only that miracle could happen! Yes, to be near The Woman I Love I would willingly live in the boonies with an insensitive, competitive, penny-pinching jerk.

4:30
P.M
. I just sent Dad’s résumé to Ukiah by Express Mail. I hope Sheeni’s parents don’t question why their daughter’s old school chum Debbie Grumfeld has suddenly begun marking her correspondence “extremely urgent.”

I found one of Dad’s old résumés in a desk drawer and doctored it slightly (he is now a graduate of Yale). Since Dad’s version itself was not unremittingly truthful, the document is now almost entirely a work of fiction. Still, if vice presidential candidates can do it, why not lowly copywriters? I even managed to dredge up some snappy writing samples from back issues of
California Farmer
.

Mom came home with the Lincoln jammed with bags and boxes. Since we’re not speaking, I saw no reason to volunteer to help her unload. She lugged the packages up to Joanie’s room—which she is now keeping locked. Perhaps she’s starting a small in-home business fencing stolen merchandise. I certainly hope she didn’t buy all that stuff. She should be saving her money for school tuition.

7:15
P.M
. Liver, beets, and limas for dinner again. Mom must really hate my guts. We ate in silence—her chewing and me gagging. Then I did the dishes and it was back to my room. These four walls are certainly beginning to seem familiar. I figure this enforced captivity is good practice in case I am ever sentenced to a long prison term (for matricide?).

9:30
P.M
. Lefty just called with some amazing news. (Mom let me take the call, but limited me to three minutes lest my life seem too normal.) My pal has a date with Millie Filbert!

“How did you ever work up the nerve to call her?” I asked.

“It wasn’t too hard,” replied Lefty. “She called me.”

“What about Willis?”

“Oh, that’s over and done with,” said Lefty. “She’s dropped that turkey.” “And the kid?”

“I don’t know,” said Lefty, “it sounds like that might have been dealt with.”

“You mean she got an abortion?”

“No way. She wouldn’t do anything like that. Probably she had a miscarriage.”

“But she’s definitely not pregnant?” I asked.

“No way,” said Lefty, offended. “I don’t think she ever was either. If you ask me, it was all a nasty rumor.”

“Well, what does she say? Did you ask her?”

“No way,” said Lefty. “I can’t ask a girl that. I just know she’s not knocked up.”

“When are you going out?”

“In two weeks. As soon as I’m ungrounded.”

“Wow, Lefty,” I said, “you have a date with an experienced woman.”

“I know, Nick. This could be the start of something big.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t suck its thumb and call you Dada.”

“You’re gross,” said Lefty. “Anyway, I’m going to swipe some condoms. Just in case I need them.”

“Good idea,” I said. “You’ll need them. Kid, the days of your cherry are numbered.”

“You really think so?” asked Lefty.

Mom, wearing her best liver-fed scowl, came back into the room. “Yes, Lefty,” I said, “I won’t be seeing you Monday at St. V’s. My parents are too poor to provide their son with a quality education.”

One of Lefty’s jailers must have entered his room. “OK, Jim,” he said, “I’ll swap you a Stan Musial for a Bob Feller.”

FRIDAY, September 7
— The last day of summer vacation. I awoke a grounded, estranged, lovesick, virtually penniless, balding teen with zits. Soon I shall be another casualty of the tragic neglect of our public school systems.

Mom made it three mornings in a row. She catapulted her kibble just like clockwork at 7:06
A.M
. I wonder if the liver was as delectable for her on its return flight? I hope she goes to the doctor soon—I’m beginning to experience parental regurgitation guilt. Of course, no one claimed it was easy raising a teenager.

At breakfast Mom broke her vow of silence long enough to tell me to go register at the local junior high school.

“But come straight home afterward,” she added in her sternest wardenlike voice. She shuffled over to the stove for a coffee refill. I noted with some trepidation that her ankles were grossly swollen. God, I hope Jerry didn’t give her the clap! And all this time I’d been doing my usual indifferent job of washing the dishes. From now on everything Mom touches gets sterilized in bleach.

The junior high school was a tired-looking collection of stucco buildings lavishly autographed in spray paint by the local hoodlum associations. Crudely lettered signs on the entrance doors directed new students to the cafeteria—a large, low-ceilinged room teeming with Future Dropouts of America. I signed my name on a sheet and took a seat. If only I had thought to bring a book. No such novelty as reading material was in evidence anywhere. So I sat and studied my fellow prospective students. The melting pot, it seemed, was aboil. Many diverse tongues were being spoken, but conspicuously absent was English.

After 94 minutes by the clock, a thin, harassed-looking man with glasses called my name. He said he was Mr. Orfteazle, my guidance counselor. He led the way to a tiny, windowless office knee-deep in computer printouts. I sat in a tiny chair (grade school surplus?) facing Mr. Orfteazle’s cluttered, battle-scarred desk.

“So you want to transfer from St. Vitus?” he asked, studying me with evident interest over the top of his glasses. No wedding ring on his hairy fingers. Probably subscribes to
Mandate
, I concluded.

“Yes, sir.”

“We don’t get many transfers from there. Your father drop a bundle in the stock market?”

“He got fired from his job,” I replied.

“It’s usually something like that,” he said. “Well, Nick, you look like a bright kid. Too bad you didn’t drop by last month. I might have got you in some of the tracked classes. But those are all filled now.”

“What does that mean?” I asked uneasily.

“It means we have to put you in the regular classes. At least for the first semester. The pace may be a little slower than you’re used to.”

“How slow?”

“Bring a good book,” said Mr. Orfteazle with a conspiratorial wink. “Only kidding, of course. We have an excellent teaching staff here. You’ll do fine.” He hit a few keys on a battered computer terminal attached to the desk with what looked like ship’s anchor chain. “Now, let’s see what classes are still open.”

A half hour later I left with a school ID card (to get me past the armed guards) and a computer printout of my fall schedule. Assuming Dad doesn’t move to Ukiah or I don’t run away from home, I shall be taking gym, English, American history, biology, study hall, lunch, Spanish I, wood technology, and basic office skills. How’s that for a curriculum guaranteed to wow the admissions officers of elite eastern colleges?

As I was walking down a long, grimy hallway toward the exit, someone said, “Hi!” I turned around. It was fat Ms. Atari from the library. She had a construction-paper badge labeled “voluntere” (sic) pinned to her already matronly bust.

“Are you going to be going to our school?” She posed this question so beamingly I wondered if she was high on drugs. Probably it was just her repellently upbeat fat personality.

“Maybe,” I replied. “I mean, I hope not.”

“If you do,” she said, “I hope you’ll join our computer club. I’m the president!”

“That’s nice,” I said, edging toward the door. “But I don’t think I’ll have time for extracurricular activities.”

“Why not?” she asked, following me.

I tried to think of a sufficiently irrefutable reason. “I’m on parole.”

“Oh!” said Ms. Atari, beaming with even more interest. “You don’t say!”

“Yes,” I replied, finally reaching the door. “And I’m late for a gang meeting.”

Ms. Atari had one last question. “What’s your name?”

“Nick.”

“Mine’s Rhonda,” she called, still beaming.

It figured. She looked like a Rhonda.

When I got home, Mom was banging away in Joanie’s room with the door closed. Perhaps she’s constructing a teen torture chamber. She might as well. When I opened the refrigerator to fix some lunch, I got the shock of my life. Mom had been shopping. We now have 23 frost-free cubic feet filled with jars of red beets, packages of frozen lima beans, and tubs of beef liver. Dietary war has been declared!

I extracted Mr. Fergusons’s $20 bill from its hiding place (the thumb cavity of my official Rodney “Butch” Bolicweigski first baseman’s glove), and sneaked out of the house to McDanold’s. I ate slowly, savoring the burgers and fries. This could be my last decent, greasy meal for a long time.

When I got back, Mom was gone. She had left behind a note affixed by a magnet to the liver refrigeration chamber. It read in stark simplicity: “You’re in trouble, buster!”

SATURDAY, September 8
— I am writing this in pencil. Mom has confiscated my computer keyboard for a week for violating my prison sentence. If my dick unscrewed, I’m sure she’d have that hidden somewhere too to prevent unauthorized access to bodily pleasures.

Mom went for the grand slam this morning. At 7:12
A.M
. she pitched her pabulum. The slight delay I attributed to a more leisurely pace on the weekend.

Later, while Mom was hammering in Joanie’s room, the phone rang. In breathless anticipation, I accepted another willfully disobedient collect call from Sheeni. Great news! She has actually dredged up a writing job in Ukiah.

“Progressive Plywood
is looking for an assistant editor,” reported The Woman of My Dreams. “It’s perfect for your father.”

“What’s
Progressive Plywood
and how much does it pay?” I asked.

“Its a trade magazine,” explained Sheeni. “All about the wonders of plywood, with occasional digressions on waferboard. The salary starts at 32.”

“Wow, that’s kind of low,” I said doubtfully. “And Dad’s not much of a woodworker. I’m not sure he knows what plywood is.”

“That’s OK,” said Sheeni. “They’re just looking for basic writing skills. The salary is quite generous for up here. And I had to pull some strings to get even that.”

“Oh,” I said suspiciously, “you have clout with trade magazine editors?”

“Indirectly,” replied Sheeni. “The owner is the father of a friend of mine.”

“Anyone I know?”

“OK, it’s Trent’s father. So what?”

“So why should Trent want to help my dad move to Ukiah?”

“I told you, darling. Trent harbors you no ill will. In fact, he’s looking forward to meeting you.”

I didn’t believe that for a second. “And I’m looking forward to meeting him,” I lied.

“Can you call your father today?” asked Sheeni. “They’re anxious to fill the position.”

“I can’t do that. My father would never take a job I found for him. It would violate his competitive Type A standards.”

“You’re probably right,” said Sheeni. “OK. I’ll pretend to be a head-hunter and I’ll call him up.”

“Flatter his ego,” I advised. “He’ll go for that.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Put your charm in overdrive,” I added.

“Why, Nick,” said Sheeni innocently, “I don’t know what you mean.”

After lunch, Lefty came over with a steak bone for Albert. Both dog and bone giver were happy to see each other. Lefty’s body has returned to what passes for normal for him. He is still grounded (aren’t we all?), but since both his parents work, he is free to be willfully disobedient during the day. By 4:45, though, Lefty is back in his room—pretending to be bored and cranky from a day of tedious confinement.

Mom was in the kitchen baking cakes when Lefty arrived. She greeted him with cold correctness. Perhaps she’s jealous that Lefty rose from the dead but Jerry hasn’t so far.

“Gee, that smells good,” commented Lefty, after we went upstairs to my room. “What’s your mom making?”

“Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies. You name it. She’s going all out.”

“What’s the occasion?” asked Lefty.