Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (28 page)

Even for Sheeni she seemed remarkably well informed. Did my phone contain some undisclosed eavesdropping function?

“Call me back in a couple of hours,” I said. “I can’t talk now.” Click. “These cellular phones are such a nuisance,” I chuckled, returning it to my pants.

“Apurva wants one, but I think they’re dangerous,” said Trent. “The antenna generates a strong output right next to your ear. You can get a brain tumor!”

“Yes, but usually it’s just a small attractive one you can work into your hairdo,” I joked. “Have you thought of any names for your baby?”

“We are having a slight disagreement about that,” said Apurva.
“I think our son should have an American name, but Trent favors an Indian name. What do you think, Rick?”

“Well, you could compromise and give him an American-Indian name. How about Geronimo? You could call him Gerry for short.”

My phone vibrated again. God knows what kind of tumor I’m getting from the signal down there. This call I took in the privacy of Carlotta’s old bathroom.

“Sheeni, can’t this wait one goddam hour!” I hissed.

“I suppose it can, Rick. I just thought you’d like to know our trip is off.”

“Off? But why?”

“My mother intercepted my passport at the post office. My perfidious friend Vijay snitched on my escape plans.”

“That’s terrible, Sheeni,” I said, feigning distress. “But we still have the U.S. and all its territories to run away in.”

“I don’t think so, Rick, not now. That’s not all my mother intercepted. She also got my latest bank statement. She called my father and had him fly back from Palm Springs. They’re making me sign over my money to them.”

I gasped as an electric thunderbolt short-circuited my nervous system.

SHEENI’S PARENTS HAVE THEIR FILTHY HANDS ON MY MONEY!

TUESDAY, April 20 — I didn’t stay for dessert last night. I excused myself as soon as possible and wandered home in despair. I had a terrible night. It didn’t help that the “painless wart remover” I got at Flampert’s and administered to my privates started hurting like hell. It felt like my living testicles were being dissolved in strong acid. Big alarming sore down there this morning. Now my genes are even more insistent that Sheeni have our baby. It could be my one and only shot at a gifted child.

I taped up my bleeding part, but it was excruciating torture to walk, sit, or stand. I felt like staying home, but I forced myself to go to school in order to confer with My Love. No sign of her by her locker or outside her homeroom. I asked Coach Hodgland to be excused from gym, but he said I’d need a note from Nurse Filmore. No way I was going to have that woman poking around down there. I endured 40 minutes of relentless ball agony, then some towel-snappers in the shower spotted my sore and started chanting, “VD! VD! Rickie’s got an infected wee-wee! Hee-hee, VD, he’s gonna loose his pee-pee!” Real mature, guys. And these cretins are juniors?

I bailed midway through lunch when I concluded Sheeni was not on campus. I re-bandaged my now-swollen part, and spent the rest of the day flat on my back in bed. No calls from anyone. Life once again had reached a nadir. Things suck royally, but I’m not going to say they can’t get any worse. I learned my lesson on that score.

WEDNESDAY, April 21 — My nut case is a little better. The swelling went down some overnight, and it stopped bleeding. Now I have a big gross scab. It still hurts to walk though. I went to school, but decided to cut gym without consulting Coach Hodgland. I was easing down into a booth at the Beaver Lodge cafe with my scone and latte when My Love walked in the door. Surprisingly happy to see me, she planted a juicy passionate one right on my needy lips. She ordered her usual virgin latte, then rejoined me in the booth. We kissed again and I clutched her warm hand under the table.

“You’re not mad about Sonya?” I asked.

“Of course, I am, Rick. But I’m also a realist. French men are notoriously uncommitted to monogamy. This moral ambiguity is the foundation of French Literature. But remember, promiscuity is a double-edged sword.”

“Uh, I’ll keep that in mind, Sheeni. How’s it going with your parents?”

“Terrible, Rick. But I’ve got it all planned out. We’re running away together tomorrow night—assuming you can tear yourself away from Sonya and Apurva.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be ready to go.”

“Good, Rick.” She lowered her voice. “I found out what my father did with my passport. You’ve got to help me get it out of his office safe.”

“Sheeni, why don’t you make your father turn over the passport by threatening to inform on him to your mother about his affair?”

“I already tried that, Rick. He got very offended and said I was imagining things. He admitted that he saw Mrs. Krusinowski in Palm Springs, but claimed it was only to advise her on her marital difficulties.”

“What a liar!”

“Well, he is a trained lawyer, Rick. And I have no evidence against him. We’ve got to get my passport.”

“Why do you need a passport, darling, if we don’t have the money to go to France?”

“Well, I’m not entirely destitute. And I thought we could use some of your motorcycle accident settlement money to get there, then we could both get jobs or live with your father’s family. Rick, I’m desperate. I’ll do anything you say.”

“Anything?” I asked, thinking it over. Desperation in loved ones is often a very useful quality.

“Well, virtually.”

“OK, Sheeni, I’ll help you get your passport—on one condition.”

“What, Rick?”

“That you agree to marry me.”

“Marry you! Rick, you never impressed me as the marrying kind.”

“Those are my terms, Sheeni.”

She kissed me. “Of course I’ll marry you, darling. Do you imagine I’d actually let you enter France without insisting you marry me first?”

“Really, Sheeni?” I asked, stunned. “Why’s that?”

“Because it’s the only hope I have of keeping my darling away from two million screaming French girls.”

At that moment, a desperate-looking Vijay Joshi limped into the cafe. “Sheeni!” he called, spotting us. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I’ve got to talk to you!”

“Let’s go, Rick,” said My Love, standing up and cutting him dead. “The atmosphere in here has become quite intolerable.”

The odious knave tried to block our way, obliging me to trod once again on his injured foot.

6:05 p.m. Sheeni wanted to go back to my place to celebrate our engagement, but my intimate injuries obliged me to decline. Even if my balls weren’t painfully disabled, I knew I’d have trouble explaining that all-too-apparent (even in the dark) scab. My Love would suspect I’d picked up something contagious from Sonya and make me wear a condom for the next 150 years. What a drag to be officially engaged and celibate to boot. It was almost like we’d found religion or stepped back into the 1950s.

Sheeni returned to school to recruit Trent for her plan. I hope she’s right about that poet’s trustworthiness. I went to Flampert’s and found an Easter Bunny mask on closeout. I’d prefer something more intimidating, but that was all they had. I also picked up some strong nylon rope and budget pigskin gloves for fingerprint prevention. I’m trying to concentrate on the incidentals and not think about what I’m supposed to do tomorrow night. I just
hope these upcoming events don’t put a permanent crimp in my relationship with my future father-in-law.

10:15 p.m. Sheeni just phoned from the laundry room. Trent is set for tomorrow night. He’s going to tell Apurva he has to work late at the cement plant. To secure his cooperation Sheeni had to promise him that she wouldn’t get an abortion.

“And do you intend to keep that promise?” I asked hopefully.

“Certainly not, Rick. Promises made under duress don’t count.”

“But haven’t you promised under duress to marry me?” I pointed out. “How can I believe you’ll keep your word?”

“Because you’re making a very big sacrifice by helping me, Rick. I couldn’t go back on my promise after you did something that selfless and brave. Besides, I want to marry you.”

“Do you love me, Sheeni?”

“Of course, Rick darling. Do you love me?”

“Yes, I do. With all my heart.”

Connie wouldn’t approve of such a confession, but I feel honesty is important in a relationship.

THURSDAY, April 22 — Sheeni and I agreed we’d both skip school today to get ready for our escape. I found a backpack at a thrift shop to replace the one I’d lost to the L.A. cops. I went to my bank and sucked all the cash out of my safe-deposit box. The thousand bucks in my bank account I left as a reserve in case I need to write a check for some reason. Then I went around to more banks to change the $20s and $50s into $100s, so it would all fit in my money belt. People have started married life on much less, I suppose, but my imposing wad of hundreds is a big comedown from my former fortune.

2:15 p.m. Sheeni just checked in to coordinate the details of operation Flight to Marriage. She has packed her grip and hidden
it in their old coal cellar. I am to leave for her father’s downtown office (four blocks south) at 7:00 p.m. sharp. At 7:10 Sheeni is to sneak out of the house and make her way to my apartment, which I will leave unlocked. At 7:30 Trent will pull up and park in the alley behind the donut shop. If all goes well, we should reach Willits with plenty of time to catch the 9:30 bus to Grants Pass (with connections to Portland).

“Don’t be nervous, Rick,” said Sheeni, encouragingly.

I gulped. “You know, Sheeni, I know a fellow down in L.A. who could make you a first-rate counterfeit passport for only a few hundred dollars. And I’ll pay!”

“How long would it take, Rick?”

“Just a few days, once he receives your color photo and the cash.”

“I can’t wait that long, Rick. I’ve got to get out now. There have been some ominous phone calls and whispered conversations. I think my parents are up to something. God knows they’re capable of anything.”

9:30 p.m. I am lying low in my apartment with the lights out and the curtains drawn. The only illumination is my laptop screen. I am typing this in a desperate attempt to keep from going insane.

As planned, I left here at seven o’clock. First hitch: the door to Mr. Saunders’s office building was locked. I loitered by the entry for a few minutes hoping someone would come out. No such luck. So I walked around through the parking lot to the back of the building and tried the rear door. It opened. I scuttled up the back stairs to the second floor and located the door to suite 207. I slipped on my gloves and tried turning the handle. It appeared to be unlocked. So far so good.

I retreated across the hallway to a men’s room, where I removed my gloves to perform some emergency leakage due to extreme nervous agitation. I zipped up, put on my Easter Bunny
mask, and re-donned the gloves. I then took out Sheeni’s gun and switched off the safety. I spent several minutes more composing myself—thinking of married life with Sheeni and reminding François he was one tough hombre who didn’t shrink from a little gunplay. Finally, I took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked across the hallway.

Mr. Saunders looked up startled from his desk when I pushed open the inner door to his office and stepped silently into the room.

“Hands up!” I said in a quavering falsetto as I pointed the none-too-steady gun at his head.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he demanded, not raising his hands.

“Hands up or I’ll blast you!” snarled François.

That threat got some action. He raised his hands and eyed my weapon. “Where did you get that gun? Did you steal it from my house? My God, be careful with it! The trigger has a very light action. What is it you want?”

“Open the safe,” I snarled.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Don’t ask questions. Just open it.”

He didn’t move. “I know who you are. You needn’t try to disguise your voice. Do you actually imagine I’ll let you take my daughter away from me?”

“Open the safe!”

“My wife chooses to believe that Trent is the father of Sheeni’s baby, but you and I know otherwise, don’t we, Nick? Can’t you see it’s your own child we’re trying to protect?”

“Sheeni doesn’t want it. And I want her. If you don’t open the safe, I’m going to shoot you in the right knee. Then in the left knee. Then in your …”

“All right! I get the picture. The safe’s in that cabinet behind my desk. I’m going to get up now and walk over to it.”

“OK, but no sudden moves.”

Mr. Saunders took three steps back and kneeled beside what looked like a two-drawer oak filing cabinet. He unlocked the top drawer with a key, and the entire front panel swung open on concealed hinges, revealing a gray metal safe. He quickly dialed the combination, pushed down on the handle, swung open the heavy door, and reached inside. His hand came out holding a black automatic. I was already ducking behind his desk when the room exploded with gunshots. Something impacted my mask, knocking it back so I couldn’t see. I heard a cry of pain and a thud. My ears rang from the deafening noise and I smelled an acrid odor I guessed was gunpowder. No pain except a sharp stab in my sore testicles, pinched uncomfortably in my crouch. Or had I been shot? I tore off my mask and looked down. No sign of blood.

I listened intently. No sounds except normal traffic noise outside. Finally, I worked up the nerve to peer around the corner of the desk. Sheeni’s father was lying on the beige carpet, now staining red under his right shoulder. A frightening smear of purplish blood also was discoloring his torn white shirt. He was unconscious but appeared to be breathing. Red bubbles gurgled from his nostrils. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Had he shot himself? I looked down at my gun. My finger was still frozen on the trigger, now squeezed all the way back.

I struggled to remain calm. I flipped on the safety and placed the gun on his desk blotter. The mask with one ear shot off I returned to my Flampert’s shopping bag. I stepped over Sheeni’s fallen father and searched through the safe. I quickly found Sheeni’s passport and also a large white envelope stuffed with cash. Slipping both into my bag, I returned to the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. “Come quick!” I croaked, when the operator answered. “There’s been a shooting!”