Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (3 page)

“Miss Pomdreck, if you permit me to speak frankly, I am in a position to make such a contribution.”

“Really, Carlotta?” she said, observing with interest as I rummaged through my purse for my checkbook. “And what sort of modest figure were you thinking of?”

I clicked open my pen. “I was thinking of $5,000.”

Stunned, Miss Pomdreck sat back in her chair.

“Think how much good you could do, Miss Pomdreck. It would warm my heart to help in this small way. And such a sum would entail no financial hardship on my part.”

“Yes, Carlotta, I’ve heard it bandied about that you’d come into some money. Well, I really don’t know what to say!”

“Say yes,” I smiled, starting to write out the check. I paused. “Of course, there is one thing. I shall have to be excused from gym.”

Miss Pomdreck studied the row of numbers on my check. “I’ll explain things to Miss Arbulash. I’m sure she’ll understand, Carlotta.”

“Good,” I said, signing the check with a flourish. “You’ve been wonderfully understanding, Miss Pomdreck. I knew I could count on you.”

Miss Pomdreck slipped the check into her purse. “We’ll keep this a private matter between us, Carlotta.”

“Of course, Miss Pomdreck. You can rely on me.”

Well, I dodged another close call. I don’t know what I would have done if Miss Pomdreck had proved resistant to bribery. I might have been forced to drop out of school, thus terminating my formal education (such as it is) at age 14. What a blow to my literary ambitions—not to mention the world of letters.

FRIDAY, February 26 — Carlotta spent most of her clothing technology class this morning buzzing from table to table trying to stir up some romantic interest in Fuzzy DeFalco. The only person willing to pursue the topic was star-pupil (and teacher’s pet) Gary Orion, busy embroidering the hem of his velvet bolero pants.

“Fuzzy DeFalco,” he said, trying to place the name. “Isn’t he that boy with the shag-carpeted body? What is he—Italian?”

“He claims to be,” sniffed Sonya Klummplatz. “He took Carlotta to the Christmas dance, and now she’s trying to unload him on somebody else. It’s because she knows Trent Preston’s girlfriend is leaving the country.”

“I am not interested in Trent,” Carlotta retorted.

“Yeah, I hear you’re stuck on mystery person S.S.,” commented Gary.

Time to change the subject. “Say, Gary, are you planning on wearing those pants to school?” inquired Carlotta.

“No way, girl. They’re going in my hope chest—for when I move to San Francisco with mystery person T.P.”

“Dream on, guy!” sneered Sonya.

4:30 p.m. ANOTHER STUPEFYING DISASTER! Carlotta got the bad news from Miss Pomdreck, who stopped me in the hall as I was following terminally despondent Trent Preston into eighth-period art class.

“Oh, there you are, Carlotta,” called my guidance counselor. “I’ve worked out a nice compromise with Miss Arbulash.”

“Compromise?” I asked uneasily.

“Yes, you are officially excused from gym class. She only requests that you assist her that period with a few unstrenuous administrative and locker-room duties.”

“Locker room?” I mumbled, stunned. “The girls’ locker room?”

“Of course, Carlotta. You start on Monday.”

“But, but …”

“Now, no arguments, miss. It was all I could do to get her to agree to this arrangement.” She leaned closer and confided, “The woman can be quite headstrong.”

Later, on the walk home from school, Fuzzy couldn’t believe I wasn’t “totally thrilled” by my “awesome luck.”

“God, Carlotta, it’s like every guy’s ultimate dream—a free pass to the girls’ locker room. Five days a week for the entire semester!”

“Great! And what do I tell Sheeni? She’s in that gym class too.”

“Cool. You’ll get to see her naked.”

“I see her naked now, guy.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Well, now you can check out the other girls for me. Maybe sneak in a camera. This is better than ditching your parents and getting rich on Wart Watches. Hell, this is like winning the Super Bowl!”

He’s right, of course—if I can somehow finesse my way through all the land mines. Maybe Sheeni will be understanding. After all, it’s not like I’m deliberately trying to put myself in a situation where I can ogle 35 naked teenage girls.

SATURDAY, February 27 — Sheeni was not that understanding when we met for coffee and donuts at our favorite downtown spot. Prior to her abrupt departure, My One and Only Love declared that I was a “sick and ghoulish degenerate,” a “Peeping Tom of the lowest sort,” and a “repulsive deviate” exhibiting all the “textbook symptoms” of a “depraved and predatory sexual dementia.”

That doesn’t seem very charitable—especially considering that Carlotta had sprung for the donuts.

11:25 p.m. When I returned to my lonely rented bungalow, Carlotta received her second unpleasant shock of the morning. There on my sinuous sofa, surrounded by her hastily packed luggage, in an advanced state of emotional distress, daubing her immense dark eyes with a silken handkerchief, sat Vijay’s beautiful 16-year-old sister.

“Apurva!” Carlotta exclaimed.

“Good morning, Carlotta,” she replied, wiping her nose. “Your maid kindly let me in. I am not going back to India. I’ve run away from home.”

“But how did you get away from your father?”

“There was a crisis at his office. A fortuitous virus is attacking all their computers.”

The door to the kitchen swung open, and Mrs. Ferguson
shuffled in with two cups of tea and a plate of her famous glue-your-lips-together sticky pecan rolls. She set the tray down on the coffee table, smiled consolingly at Apurva, and turned to me. “I cleaned … the house … Miz Carlotta … And washed … your sheets… Lordy! … I don’t know what … you do … in that bed!”

Carlotta stifled a blush. “Uh, thank you, Mrs. Ferguson. You can take the rest of the day off—with pay.”

“Why thanks … Miz Carlotta… And good luck to you … Miz Apurva … Don’t let … those bastards … push you around.”

“I shan’t,” smiled Apurva, sipping her tea.

When Mrs. Ferguson had departed, Carlotta got down to brass tacks.

“Apurva!” I exclaimed, “what are you going to do?”

“Well, naturally I’ve been thinking it over. My situation appears to be one of extreme desperation. Carlotta, have you ever read The Diary of Anne Frank?”

“Uh, no, but I think I saw the movie. Why?”

“I’ve been reading it this week. A most inspiring book. I hope my mother remembers to return it to the library. Taking the brave Miss Frank as my model, I thought perhaps I could reside in your attic. You could supply me with simple meals and perhaps a book or two now and then. I could repay your kindness when I get a job or my sensational diary is published.” Apurva looked at me expectantly and sipped her tea. “Are you thinking it over, Carlotta?”

I wasn’t thinking it over. My lips were stuck together. I raised my napkin to my face and discreetly worked things free. “Apurva, I have no attic. The roof’s too shallow.”

“Oh … Then how about your cellar?”

“No cellar either. This is California. We just have crawl spaces.”

“Oh dear. That is inconvenient. Well, what if I were to stay out
of sight during the day—perhaps in a closet—and then we could cuddle together at night? I’ve noticed your bed is large enough for two. In India girlfriends often pass the night together in this sisterly way.”

François was intrigued, but Nick knew he could never begin to explain such an arrangement to Sheeni. Nor, considering the hair trigger on my erectile response, was the proposed cuddling likely to remain “sisterly” for long.

“I’m afraid not, Apurva. We Americans are much too sensitive to the homoerotic implications of such accommodations. No, what you’ve got to do is marry Trent Preston.”

Apurva nearly dropped her teacup. While my flustered guest was regaining her composure, Carlotta excused herself to answer the telephone in the bedroom. It was My Love, breathless with excitement.

“Carlotta, Vijay just called me in a fit. His sister has disappeared!”

“Er, what sister is that?”

“Apurva, of course. Is she there with you?”

“Certainly not. I barely know the girl. She’s probably with Trent.”

“Everyone’s looking for Trent. Vijay’s parents have notified the police.”

The police! Just the element of society that fugitive Nick Twisp was trying to avoid.

“Carlotta, did you really pay $5,000 to try to get out of gym class?” My Love asked.

“Of course I did, Sheeni. I’ll show you the damn canceled check when I get it back from the bank.”

“Carlotta, I’ve been thinking about your situation. I may have a solution if you are in fact not a voyeuristic pervert.”

“What?”

“Have you ever been in the girls’ locker room?”

“No, Monday will be my first visit. And I’m not going to blind myself, if that’s your idea.”

“Carlotta, that locker room is pretty funky. If you were to tell Miss Arbulash that you’re highly sensitive to mold and mildew, she’ll probably agree to let you stay in the gym. Just promise not to look at me. I’d feel you were spying.”

“OK. I’ll look at Sonya Klummplatz instead. I’ve always wanted to see her in gym shorts.”

“Carlotta, you are seriously deranged. Shall I come over tonight? We could play Scrabble.”

“Sheeni, every time we play Scrabble it’s a horrible slaugter.”

“Oh, all right. We can practice our irregular French verbs and go to bed early.”

“Uh, I can’t. Not tonight. I, uh, promised I’d go over to Fuzzy’s. He’s still a mess about breaking up with Heather.”

“All right. Then I’ll just have to help Vijay hunt for his sister. Good-bye!” Click.

In a space of five minutes two attractive chicks offer to sleep with me and I have to decline both proposals. Damn!

12:35 p.m. Trent Preston is seated beside Apurva on my sofa with his jacket draped over his head. No, he’s not shy. The idiot is trying not to break his promise never to see or speak to Apurva again. Negotiations were now entering a delicate phase.

“Carlotta, can you tell Apurva that I love her with all my heart, but I’ve never thought of getting married in high school?”

Apurva squeezed his hand. “I understand, darling. You’d be throwing your life away marrying me. We’re both much too young.”

“Trent, you’re not seeing the big picture here,” said Carlotta. “If you don’t marry Apurva, she’ll have to return to India and marry some stranger. Do you want that?”

“I’d hate it, but arranged marriages are part of their cultural tradition.”

“Forget cultural traditions,” I replied, exasperated. “Forget
throwing your life away. If you love each other, why not get married? It’s not that big of a deal!”

“It’s a very big deal,” insisted Trent.

“I agree,” said Apurva. “Darling, can you breathe in there?”

“Carlotta, can you assure Apurva that I’m fine?”

“Listen,” I said. “Half the marriages in this country end in divorce. So it’s not like you’re making a lifetime commitment here. OK, if down the road things don’t work out, what of it? In the meantime, you’ve enjoyed some quality companionship and great sex.”

“But what would we live on?” asked Trent. “I’d have to quit school and get a job.”

“You wouldn’t have to quit school,” Carlotta replied. “I need a chauffeur. You could come work part-time for me.”

“But you don’t have a car,” Apurva pointed out.

“I don’t have a car because I don’t have a chauffeur. OK, so I’ll buy a car.”

“You could rent mine,” suggested Trent. “I have a late-model Acura.”

Note to myself: In my next life emulate Trent and select parents with money.

“But where would we stay?” asked Apurva.

“You could live with me,” I said, thinking out loud. “I’ve been contemplating getting a nicer place—maybe a larger house with a separate apartment for you young marrieds. Apurva, can you cook?”

“Of course, Carlotta. All properly-brought-up Indian girls can cook. But I would not wish to deprive Mrs. Ferguson of her position.”

“Don’t worry about that, Apurva. She’ll be leaving me soon anyway when her husband gets out of jail. You could do the cooking and still go to school.”

“I wouldn’t have the funds to continue at my Catholic school,”
she said, thinking out loud. “And I don’t think the nuns would wish to teach a married student.”

“You could transfer to Redwood High,” Carlotta pointed out. “You could sit next to your husband in class and cheer for him at swim meets.”

They both liked that idea, I could tell.

“And your dog Jean-Paul could live with us and Albert. Think how much fun those two dogs could have playing together.”

Albert looked at me and curled his lip.

Apurva smiled at my loathsome dog. “It is true that I would miss my darling Jean-Paul if I were married to some unknown and possibly cruel person in India.”

“But where could we get married?” asked Trent. “You have to be 18 to get married without your parents’ permission.”

“That is true,” conceded Carlotta, “in 49 of the 50 states.”

In my more love-sick and desperate moments I had researched this topic thoroughly.

“And what is the exception?” asked Apurva.

“The very place where I propose to send you—there to marry and honeymoon at my expense. I’m speaking, of course, of the enlightened state of Mississippi.”

Alas, not even in that compassionate and progressive state can 14-year-olds marry on their own. Sheeni and I will just have to stifle our matrimonial desires.

2:30 p.m. On the road to the Bay Area in Trent’s posh Acura. Our driver at last was persuaded to come out from beneath his jacket, break his vow, and propose marriage to Apurva. She accepted with alacrity. While I made an emergency run to the ATM, Trent took the precaution of smearing mud on his license plates. We are now traveling south on secondary roads so as to elude the cops. So far so good. Apurva’s riding shotgun next to her hubby-to-be. Carlotta’s in the back seat studying the Hammond Road Atlas.

“OK, here’s the plan,” I announced. “You fly into New Orleans and take the bus to Biloxi. That’s on the gulf and probably scenic, as long as you face toward the water. They should have fairly balmy weather this time of year. Be sure to sample the shrimp gumbo.”