Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (12 page)

“How’s it going with Lana?”

“Great. I’m already up to base two-and-a-half. You’re right, Nick, she’s one hot tamale.”

“What’s the half base?”

“Well, I almost got to third base, but she was wearing a sanitary napkin.”

“God, Frank, that’s gross.”

“I know, Nick, but I was totally high at the time. Lana gets the most awesome weed. Don’t spread it around, but I think her father may be a grower.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, she lives way out in the boonies, she’s totally mum on the subject, and she’s incredibly well-supplied.”

“Frank, I may have found you the world’s ultimate girlfriend.”

“I know, Nick. If she was beautiful, I’d already be saving up for our tickets to Mississippi.”

3:45 p.m. Sheeni just phoned while I was killing time by the pool until Paul and Lacey finished their “nap” in the cave. I took the call on a weather-resistant cordless phone disguised to look like a native succulent.

“Nickie, I have shocking news!”

Instant circulatory arrest.

“What’s happened?” I gasped.

“I just found out from Vijay: Trent has resigned from the swim team!”

Alarm waned, confusion waxed. “So?”

“So he was the best swimmer on the team. It’s a disaster for Redwood High.”

“Sheeni, as I recall you have no school spirit and zero interest in athletics. Why do you care what happens to the swim team?”

“It’s all that Apurva’s fault. She’s ruining his life. He’s had to get an after-school job! He’s going to be lugging bags of concrete for Fuzzy DeFalco’s mafioso father.”

“Well, hard work never hurt anybody.”

“Nickie, you sound just like a Republican. Trent should be devoting his free time to the further enrichment of his extraordinary mind. This precipitous and premature marriage is a fiasco.”

Confusion waned, alarm rewaxed. “Sheeni, quitting the swim team is a small price to pay for a fulfilling marriage with the woman he loves. Trent and Apurva are very happy. You shouldn’t interfere.”

“Who says I’m interfering? And how do you know they’re happy? As I recall, you’re 600 miles away.”

“Sheeni, darling, you have to accept that they’re married. Apurva may already be expecting.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. Trent was always very careful when—”

“When what?” I demanded.

“Well, he’s always been a sensible person … when driving, for example.”

Yeah, right. Time to change the subject.

“Sheeni, have you set up an account yet for me with your bank?”

“Of course not, Nick. You have to do that yourself. I could request that they mail the paperwork to you, if you like.”

“Sheeni, maybe you should just send me a check for the full amount.”

“Don’t be silly, Nickie. How would you ever cash it? Your money’s safe. I’ll make sure you get all the interest. Don’t you trust me?”

I certainly want to, darling. But so far everything that Connie warned me about seems to be coming true.

9:15 p.m. Connie took me out for dinner at a restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard that was so exclusive it had no sign, an unlisted phone number, and you had to sneak into it from the loading dock of an appliance store. Needless to say, it was jammed with L.A.’s Celebrity Elite, but Connie managed to secure us a nice table in a prime corner. If that wasn’t Tom Cruise dining at the table next to ours, it was his studio stand-in.

“Nick, do try to look older,” she said, after our snotty waiter refused to bring her the wine list. “I feel like I’m dining with a child star.” Both eyes were dark and her accent was back.

“I haven’t shaved for four days,” I pointed out. “I think I’m starting to look like Don Johnson.”

“More like Donna Johnson,” she replied, scanning the menu.

I let her order for both of us; the menu prices had momentarily paralyzed my vocal cords. When I recovered, I recounted this morning’s hot-tub run-in with her father.

“Don’t worry about Daddy, Nick. He always feels a need to intimidate any male who ventures onto on his property. It’s an alpha dog territorial thing. You’re lucky he didn’t piss on your leg.”

“But how did he know we were in the hot tub together? You can’t see it from your house.”

“Oh, he probably looked at the videos.”

“What videos?”

“There are security cameras concealed all over the grounds, Nick.
Daddy likes to review the tapes. I think he’s hoping to spot Lacey in the hot tub. But she always wears a bathing suit—the prude.”

“You don’t mind your father looking at you naked?”

“Why should I, Nick? He used to change my diapers.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Still, I wouldn’t want my mother ogling me in the buff—especially if I had recently undergone successful augmentation surgery. After I scarfed down my appetizer—two tiny, oddly fragrant pancakes—my companion informed me that they contained the ground-up thoraxes of a giant Yucatan beetle. Yuck, and no wine to wash it down with either. I chugged some of my pricey Swiss sparkling water.

After ascertaining that my entrée was indeed salmon, I asked Connie if she thought her dad was really interested in Lacey.

“I certainly hope so, Nick. Why else do you think I invited those two to come live in the pool cabana?”

“I thought it was so you could heave yourself at Paul.”

“Only partly. My larger task is to dislodge Lacey from his ridiculously small bed. And who better to appeal to Lacey’s maternal materialism than my wealthy father?”

I was stunned. “Connie, you mean to say you’d break up your parents’ marriage to win Paul?”

“Certainly, Nick. Let’s face it: My father has reached that age when successful men turn into slobbering bimbo bait. He’s exhibiting all the symptoms. OK, if he’s destined to make a fool of himself with a younger woman, it might as well be with Lacey. Then, voila, I grab Paulo on the rebound.”

“But what about your mother?”

“My mother is a big girl, Nick. She can take care of herself. Believe me, you would not want to meet her lawyers in a dark alley.”

•    •    •

MONDAY, March 15 — The Ides of March (whatever that means) and My Love’s fifteenth birthday. Just think, this is the second year of her life in which she has had the pleasure of knowing me. Ours is now a passion with history and depth. If she comes to her senses and we get married this year, she’ll be a spry and shapely 65 when we celebrate our Golden Wedding anniversary. By then science will have tinkered around with human genes so we won’t be wrinkled and decrepit. I may be making love to Sheeni at the age of 200! Every 50 years we’ll have to invite our prestigious friends over for a really big anniversary bash.

To celebrate this momentous day, I decided to defy Connie’s alpha-dog dad and share a hot tub again with his nubile daughter. Sheeni, I wish it was your own naked body beside me in the bubbling foam.

“You’re still not thinking of me as a sister,” commented Connie, observing my underwater promontories. Both eyes were sparkling blue; her accent was taking the morning off.

“It’s just that I’ve never seen a blue-eyed Asian before.”

“Damn, I forgot my contacts again. I’m always doing that. It drives the Chinese guys wild at the CIA.”

Connie is not a spy. She’s a sometime student at the California Institute of the Arts. Not to worry. The fellow student she pays to take detailed lecture notes and write her term papers never misses a class.

“Did I tell you I was thinking of becoming a Negro?” I asked.

“No, Nick, you didn’t,” she replied, glancing down. “And I’m not sure you’re equipped for the job.”

I decided to overlook that slur against my manhood.

“I’ve been discussing it with Paul and Lacey. It looks like it’s my only option if I want to go back and be with Sheeni.”

“She has a thing for black guys?”

“No, but I can’t go back as a woman again. And I can’t think
of any other disguise that would fool people. Lacey’s offered to dye my hair and give me a permanent. Paul says I can darken my skin by soaking in a bath of walnut husks.”

“Nick, there’s more to being black than being brown.”

“I know, Connie, but I did grow up in Oakland. I can sound black. I spent years listening to rap.”

“When did you ever listen to rap?”

“Constantly. It was always being blasted out of passing cars.”

“I thought so. It’s a good thing you met me, Nick. So I can save you from your own stupidity.”

“What’s wrong with that idea?”

“Just this: Black people are always getting stopped by the police. They’re a magnet for cops. You’d be locked up within a week.”

Damn, she’s right.

4:38 p.m. I know we’ve been indoctrinated to look down on high-school dropouts, but their academics-free lifestyle may be getting a bum rap. Instead of cramming my brain with arcane facts about the hydrogen atom, I spent another pleasant day driving around and cleaning pools with Paul. We shared a joint in the Hollywood Hills with a sun-loving starlet wedged into a bikini that looked like it had been made-over from a Barbie doll costume. She confided that she had spent well over $8,000 on high-visibility electrolysis—another occupation to consider if I don’t make it as an alcoholic fiction writer.

I’m now an officially licensed 18-year-old! I am now of legal age to drive a car, vote, join the Marines, or marry the woman of my choice. What a relief to skip those middle adolescent years—a painful and confusing time, I’m told, for so many teens. Mr. Castillo did a beautiful job validating the existence and citizenship of Nick S. Dillinger. The hologram on my driver’s license is flawless. I love flipping open my wallet to gaze upon my new ID. It even has the little pink sticker in the corner advising authorities
they may harvest my organs should I perish in a car wreck or (more likely) in a hail of police bullets. I feel like I’ve finally put my sordid origins behind me, having at last achieved a new, more suitable identity. I almost didn’t recognize that upbeat feeling when I pocketed my new documentation. Hey, it’s called positive self-esteem!

6:25 p.m. Amazing news, diary! I just checked in with my sister Joanie. Mario hasn’t ratted on me to the FBI! Apparently he’s concerned that my arrest might invalidate their design copyrights on the Wart Watch and Footborghinis (still in prototype stage). Kimberly’s seen the light too. (More proof that money talks.) All this stress on my nervous system was for nothing! Joanie got the good news last Friday and left the details with Dr. Dingy to relay to me in case I called. But somehow my reprieve must have slipped her asshole boyfriend’s mind. If she ever decides to marry that turkey (assuming he divorces his present wife), she better not expect me at the wedding.

The bad news is I have to go back to being Carlotta. And just when I thought I had donned my last unflattering brassiere. Long years of leg shaving and boner stifling may loom ahead. Too bad I tossed all her stuff out the bus window. But it may be time for a Carlotta Ulansky image makeover. Connie has offered to take me shopping tomorrow on Rodeo Drive.

8:10 p.m. Something has gone horribly awry. I just dialed My Love to wish her happy birthday and tell her the good news. When Sheeni’s 5,000-year-old mother answered the phone, I switched to Carlotta’s bubbliest voice.

“Hi, Mrs. Saunders. Sorry I missed church yesterday. Is Sheeni home?”

“Liar!” she screamed. “Voice of Satan! God will strike you dead, Nick Twisp!” Click.

The biggest earthquake yet just rumbled through my scrotum: a brutal 9.7 on the Richter scale.

•    •    •

TUESDAY, March 16 — After a miserable night, I awoke feeling like a hair ball in the hot-tub drain. It doesn’t add up. Where did I go wrong? Too on edge to eat anything. I’ve strapped on my money belt and loaded up my backpack. I am now ready for instant flight to God knows where.

10:45 a.m. I couldn’t take the suspense any longer. I dialed Redwood High in Ukiah and asked to speak to freshman honor student Sheeni Saunders. The secretary said Sheeni couldn’t come to the phone because she had just been taken down to the Ukiah police station. More violent internal organ convulsing. I composed myself and asked to speak to Frank DeFalco instead.

“Who is this?” demanded the secretary, suddenly suspicious.

“Polonius DeFalco,” I replied calmly. “I wish to inform my nephew of a tragic death in the family.”

The secretary hurried off to hunt for Fuzzy. After a nearly interminable wait, my pal came on the line.

“Uncle Polly?”

“Frank, it’s me, Nick. Your uncle Polly croaked, remember?”

“Yeah, I figured it was you. Thanks a pantsful, dickhead.”

“Frank, what’s the matter?”

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter. The whole school knows I took a chick to the Christmas dance. How am I supposed to explain that to Lana? And guess what? Bruno Modjaleski is looking to pound your ass. I told you to back off on making out with that guy. And all the girls in Lana’s gym class are totally out for your blood. They had to bring in counselors for some of them. And Elbowgash is screaming for your scalp.”

“Frank, how did the cops find out about me?”

“How should I know? They raided your house early this morning. Trent and Apurva had to show them their marriage license.
Boy, were those two spooked. I think Trent wants to pound your puny ass too.”

“Have the cops talked to you?”

“Not yet, but everyone knows I was tight with Carlotta. If they drag me downtown, dude, I’m spilling my guts.”

“Frank, you don’t have to tell them anything.”

“That’s what you think. My parents are going to kill me.”

“Frank, if you say anything, I’ll have no choice but to squeal about Lana’s dad being a grower. Don’t think your girlfriend won’t know where I got the information.”

“You’re scum, Nick. You’re total slime.”

“I’m your best friend, Frank. We have to stick together. Don’t worry, I’ll make it all up to you.”

“How?”

“Financially, Frank. Remember, I’m loaded. If you see Sheeni, tell her to call me right away.”

“OK, Nick,” he sighed. “See you in jail. Maybe they’ll stick us in the same cell. Right before they give you the chair!”

Fuzzy had better keep his furry lips zipped. If he blabs to the cops that I’m responsible for the Geezer virus, Dad may be on the hook for several hundred million dollars in computer damages. And I’ll be looking at another five years in federal prison.