Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (6 page)

“What are you going to do, Carlotta?”

I lowered my voice. “What can I do? It’s out of my hands. Don’t worry, Frank. We’re safe.”

“But, Carlotta, the last guy they nailed for cooking up a virus got five years in the federal pen.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, closing my locker. “Most parents deserve
a little jail time—for neglect and emotional abuse—but five years is pretty extreme, even for my dad.”

“Are you going to confess?”

“Don’t be delusional, Frank. You know me better than that.”

12:50 p.m. As Vijay was absent from school, Sheeni (now wearing yellow ribbons on both arms) consented to join Carlotta for lunch. I could tell My Love had seen the news reports and was determined to get to the bottom of things.

“I never realized Nick’s father was such an expert on computers,” she observed, munching the middle of her sandwich in her endearingly infantile way.

“Sheeni, for being a sophisticated person of the world, you eat a sandwich like a three-year-old.”

My Love chose to ignore this remark. “One might even describe the Twisps as a one-family crime wave. Soon another member of the clan may find himself behind bars—for criminal peeping.”

“It was all an accident,” I whispered. “There was a bug in my program.”

“I might have known Nick was behind all this. It’s obvious the fellow has unresolved Oedipal issues.”

“Nick was not trying to send his father to prison.”

Sheeni gazed at me, applied her sensual lips to the soft underbelly of her sandwich, bit down, and masticated with arresting grace. Her luminous azure eyes bored into the very center of my being.

Carlotta began to sweat. OK, maybe she’s right. Perhaps my subconscious has been plotting a terrible revenge. A tough break for Dad, but what an insight to share with my future analyst.

4:35 p.m. The rest of the school day was uneventful except for girls’ gym, where Carlotta again performed her slave overseer duties and nude ablutions monitoring. Alert to locker-room treachery, she positioned herself by the exit door to the gym—one
hand poised on the doorknob, emergency whistle clamped firmly between her teeth. I was admiring the classical proportions of Lana Baldwin’s naked torso when a half-dozen towel-swathed girls, led by Barb Hoffmaster, made a feint toward the showers, then suddenly whirled and bolted toward me.

“Get her!” they screamed, their towels flying and breasts flopping.

“FLEEEEEEEE!” screeched Carlotta’s whistle, as I dashed into the gym just ahead of the thundering herd. “FLEEEEEEEE!”

Miss Arbulash looked up from where she was discussing treadmill belt alignment woes with Janitor Bob and two of his low-IQ student assistants. The fellows dropped their wrenches and stared open-mouthed.

“What’s going on here?” Miss Arbulash demanded.

Carlotta’s pursuers skidded to a stop, squealed in surprise, clutched at themselves, turned, and scuttled back into the locker room.

They never laid a glove on me.

And an outraged Miss Arbulash gave them all a week’s detention for attempted hazing of her valued assistant.

Later, on the walk home from school, Carlotta informed her pal Fuzzy that he had a date on Friday night with Lana Baldwin.

“Lana Baldwin!” he exclaimed, incredulous. “She’s the mousiest chick in our class. And she talks weird.”

“She can’t help it. She’s from West Virginia.”

“How come she eats lunch with all the fat girls?”

“Well, she’s buddies with Sonya Klummplatz. But don’t hold that against her. And don’t kid yourself, guy, she’s hot.”

“Really?”

“I’m talking illegal Chinese firecracker—from the neck down, of course. And she’s very nice. She doesn’t know you from Adam, but she’s agreed to the date on my recommendation. So be nice to her.”

“Wow, Lana Baldwin. I hear she’s not too bright. Even Sonya says that.”

“Frank, do you want to discuss astrophysics or get laid?”

“’Nough said, Carlotta.’ Nough said.”

7:05 p.m. My father made the national news! Carlotta, Mrs. Ferguson, and Dwayne were glued to the tube as Dad was shown being dragged in front of a federal judge in San Francisco to hear the many and diverse charges against him. Bail for the alleged Geezer hacker has been set at a whopping $2 million dollars.

“I hope when … the man gets … through forkin’ … that pile over,” commented my maid, “he still has … the $179 he … owes me … in back pay.”

“Looks like your former employer may be cooling it in the slammer for quite a while,” noted Carlotta uneasily.

“I always knew Nick’s pop was lots worse than mine,” said Dwayne. “That Nick had no cause to be so stuck up.”

(For that remark Carlotta slipped the crusty spareribs pan back into the oven to blacken for an additional 45 minutes.)

In a totally superfluous and prejudicial aside, the reporter concluded her segment by noting that the FBI also was searching for the suspect’s teenage son Nick, wanted on a host of unrelated charges. They even flashed a photo of me that was almost as unflattering as Dad’s.

9:52 p.m. No studying tonight; I’m too much on edge to worry about the hydrogen atom.

Apurva was even more excited than usual when she telephoned collect for her nightly check-in chat.

“Carlotta, we saw my father on television!” she exclaimed.

Welcome to the club, girl.

“Really! Your father?”

“Yes, he was being interviewed about my old friend Nick’s father. Did you know he was behind the disruptive computer mischief that allowed me to escape?”

“Well, I know he’s been charged. So what did your father say?”

“He said Mr. Twisp was quite the master criminal and computer whiz.”

“But I’d heard the guy didn’t know the first thing about computers.”

“Oh, no. Father was quite insistent on that point. He was very well spoken. I’m happy to see my disappearance is not causing him to neglect his work duties.”

Damn. Mr. Joshi is proving to be even more of a deceitful slimeball than his son. It really is time to put some skinheads on my payroll.

Then Apurva asked Carlotta to referee a small premarital dispute. It seems Trent has requested that she wear a sari tomorrow for their wedding, but as a modern American bride Apurva would prefer to get hitched in a dress.

“What should I do, Carlotta?” she inquired.

“I think you should compromise: you wear the dress and Trent can wear the sari.”

Much laughter in Dixie. “Oh, Carlotta, you’re so amusing,” chuckled Apurva. “It’s almost like something my old friend Nick would say.”

Time to get serious. “I think you should wear a sari, Apurva.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Trent could marry millions of girls in dresses. But you should go with what makes you special.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. All right, Carlotta, I’ll be a traditional bride. I’ll wear my best sari and all my gold jewelry.”

Gold jewelry! Hey, why haven’t those undisclosed assets been made available for pawning?

THURSDAY, March 4 — Wedding day at last. Or is it? The ringing telephone blasted me awake in the middle of the night.

“My marriage!” wailed Apurva. “It’s off!”

Rats and damnation. I rolled over and sat up.

“What’s the matter, Apurva?” demanded Carlotta.

“That Trent Preston! He’s a monster!”

Why me, God? I looked at the clock. 5:37 a.m.

“OK, Apurva, calm down. Give me some facts here. What’s going on?”

“It happened at breakfast. Trent was looking at me peculiarly. I thought perhaps I had some grits on my face. Then he said he couldn’t marry me.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know,” she wept. “He, he said he doesn’t know me.”

Damn. Leave it to Trent to start his wedding day with an existential crisis.

“OK, Apurva. Let me speak to Trent.”

“He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He’s, he’s walking somewhere. I can’t marry him anyway. He doesn’t love me!”

“OK, now don’t make any rash decisions. Stay where you are. When Trent comes back, make him stay there too. I’m on my way.”

“You’re, you’re coming here?”

“As fast as I can. Everything will be OK.”

“Everything is horrible! I wish I were dead!”

“Just sit tight, Apurva. Leave everything to me.”

Imagining it was Trent Preston’s head, I pummeled Granny DeFalco’s old goose-down pillow. I should never have let that wishy-washy poet out of my sight!

8:45 a.m. On the road to San Francisco airport. I’m booked on a 9:20 flight to Memphis if Bruno Modjaleski can whip his father’s big Chrysler through backed-up rush-hour traffic with sufficient terrifying recklessness to get me to the airport on time.

“I told you we should have taken my chopper,” said Bruno, powering up the freeway shoulder at 80 miles per hour and dodging concrete abutments with just inches to spare.

“I am not riding 150 miles on your motorcycle in the middle of winter,” replied Carlotta, her short but eventful life passing repeatedly before her eyes as she braced again and again for impact.

Giant truck dead ahead!

“I can’t look!” I screamed, covering my eyes.

Violent lurch as Bruno swerved. “Relax, babe. God, you’re worse than Candy.”

In case you’re out of the Redwood High gossip loop, Bruno recently dumped parakeet-loving Mertice Palmquist to get back together with head cheerleader (and former love) Candy Pringle. He accepted Carlotta’s offer of $100 in cash for a fast trip to S.F. because gorgeous and popular Candy is not what anyone could term a cheap date.

10:32 a.m. Carlotta risked life and limb to reach the airport on time, only to discover that all flights had been postponed because of unsettled weather back east. Even worse, Bruno insisted on extracting another slobberingly intimate kiss as a bonus for getting Carlotta there in one piece. I really don’t see how Candy stands it.

While chewing through an overpriced airport breakfast, I noticed that a wall-mounted TV in a bar across the corridor was carrying another news report on my father. Then they showed that same unflattering photo of me. Such high-profile media exposure is not helpful to a fugitive from the law. Realizing I had no choice, I abandoned my eggs, found a pay phone, and dialed Ukiah.

“Good morning, Mr. Joshi. This is Nick Twisp.”

“Nick Twisp! You dare to call me, you young scoundrel? I shall alert the FBI!”

“Mr. Joshi, you know my father had nothing to do with that virus.”

“It was traced to his computer.”

“My father has zero computer knowledge. You know that.”

“I shall testify otherwise. He deserves to go to prison. And you as well!”

“Mr. Joshi, I know where your daughter is.”

“Where? If you have any decency at all, you must tell me!”

“OK, I’ll tell you where she is—as soon as I hear that my father has been released and all charges against him dropped.”

“Why should I trust you? How can I be certain you know where she is?”

“Right before Apurva left home she was reading The Diary of Anne Frank. She hopes your wife returned it to the library.”

He gasped. I hung up.

Sure, it might spring Dad from jail. Big deal. But what happens when Vijay blabs to Sheeni that Nick Twisp is involved in Apurva and Trent’s disappearance?

2:45 p.m. Flying through wintry turbulence. When you buy an airline ticket at the last minute, you not only get to pay full fare, they sadistically assign you to a middle seat. Presently Carlotta is squeezed between two businessmen, who from their size and girth might be traveling donut salesmen. The bulkier of the two is wearing a Wart Watch. My business partners (Kimberly and Mario) and I appreciate the business, but don’t adults realize they look ridiculous wearing a novelty product professionally marketed to disaffected teenagers?

With each bounce and jolt, meaty elbows tenderize my well-bruised flesh. So much for trying to type on my laptop. In case the plane ices up and carries us all to a fiery death, let me note a few final words: Sheeni darling, I did it all for you. See you in heaven (I hope they don’t speak French). Love always, Nick.

P.S. I sneaked a closer look at the man’s Wart Watch. It’s a goddam knock-off!

6:30 p.m. Blizzards in Mississippi? Apparently so. I hope the
boll weevils have their parkas on. Memphis was snowed-in, so our flight was diverted to Jackson. Miraculously, the plane did not crash, though I almost wish it had just to see the look of terror on my fat seatmates’ faces. Now the airline is busing us north to Tennessee in whiteout conditions on an ice-slicked Interstate. I slipped $50 to the driver to drop me off in Oxford, should we make it that far in the unrelenting storm. Carlotta needless to say had packed for the tropics. At least it’s a torrid 95 degrees in this overheated bus. I’m trying to store up excess heat in case I actually have to step out into the frigid, driving snow.

9:10 p.m. Never have I been happier to see two silent, estranged, unmarried teens. The last four miles of the journey I made squeezed in beside the driver of one of the all-too-few snowplows in Mississippi. The good news is I have nearly regained sensation in my hands and my feet are beginning to thaw. The bad news is the motel is jammed with stranded travelers, so Carlotta will be bunking with her pals. Perhaps if Apurva ever comes out of the bathroom where she has locked herself, we can figure out the sleeping accommodations. I for one am exhausted!

FRIDAY, March 5 — I slept as a buffer between Apurva and Trent in the king-size bed. Of course, Carlotta had to retire in her robe, wig, bra, and full makeup. My roommates were similarly well-swaddled for enforced blizzard bundling. G-spot hunting was off the agenda, though several times during the night I found myself with a fairly spectacular T.E. from sudden Apurva proximity. If I’d never met Sheeni, I’m sure I’d be panting to marry Apurva myself right now. Maybe Trent should get his thyroid checked.

The snow finally stopped sometime during the night. When we awoke, I got my first real view of Oxford, Mississippi. The icy vista outside our window looked just like those postcards you see of wintry Vermont.

Inside, the atmosphere was even frostier. Carlotta invited
morose Trent to dine with her in the crowded motel coffee shop, while miserable Apurva drank her lonely cup of motel tea back in the room.