Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp by C. D. Payne

a letter from Martha.”
    “I don’t get letters from Martha,” I said. “And you know it!”
    “Well, when you do, sweetheart,” said Sheeni, turning in at her gate and handing me the leash, “bring them by and we’ll make confetti of our love letters together.” She leaned across the gate and kissed me. “See you at 6:30, lover. Bye-bye, Albert!” Clutching the offensive envelope, she disappeared into the multi-story trailer. Whimpering, Albert tugged at the leash to follow.
    I turned away angrily and pulled him along. Albert skidded behind me like a small ugly dog trying to water-ski on asphalt. Finally, I picked up the reluctant canine and carried him home.
    Mom, still looking flushed from an afternoon of truck-driver wrestling, was standing in bra and slip in the tiny bathroom, putting on her face. From what I could observe, the small bottles of goop multiplied exponentially for each year past 35.
    “Oh, there you are,” she said. “Better get ready. And what are you doing with that dog?”
    “Sheeni asked me to watch him while she dressed,” I lied. “Where’s Jerry?”
    With great concentration, Mom painted on an artificial eyebrow. “He’s taking a shower. Do you need one?”
    I had a vision of the ever-lurking naked porcine minister. “No, I got clean in the lake,” I said. I closed the meager privacy curtain that separated my room from the front of the trailer and pulled down my still-clammy trunks. My damp, sandy member had shriveled to the size of a small, unshelled peanut. Hard to believe this was the same robust organ a feminine hand had been fondling underwater only hours before. Knowing my privacy was transient, I dressed quickly. Albert lay on the linoleum and watched me sullenly.
    When I finished and pushed back the curtain, Mom was still applying layers to her face. She gave me a quick once-over.
    “Oh, you look nice, Nick.” She always says this. I could have 47 draining boils on my face (and probably will someday), and as long as my pants were pressed, Mom would say I “looked nice.”
    “Thanks, Mom. You do too,” I lied. I decided to do some preliminary dog adoption spadework. “I found out what kind of dog Albert is,” I said casually.
    “Oh. What kind?” Mom was brushing on a top-coat sealer that looked like shellac.
    “The man in the pet store in town says he’s a purebred Spanish Tonzello.” Albert looked up skeptically.
    “Tonzello? Never heard of it.”
    “Sheeni hadn’t either. So we went to the library and looked it up. Turns out that’s Spain’s famous sports dog.”
    This piqued Mom’s interest. She put down her paintbrush. “What kind of sports?”
    “Well, they have this competition. Called a Tonzello-athalon. Each team consists of one athlete and one dog. It’s sort of a combination of running, acrobatics, and precision gymnastics. Quite a spectacle to watch, according to the encyclopedia.”
    “Do they play it here?” Mom asked.
    “Not too much,” I said. “But Spain is always petitioning to have it made an Olympic sport. If they ever did, it’d be real easy to make the U.S. team, because there are so few Tonzellos in the country.”
    “The Olympics. My goodness!” Thoughtfully, Mom buffed her varnish. I hoped she was contemplating life as the mother of an Olympic gold medalist.
    I picked up the young Tonzello and gave him an affectionate squeeze. “Ihear they’re real easy to train too.” Albert squirmed in my arms, nipped at my hand, and dribbled on my shirt. I hastily put him down.
    At that moment, the door opened and Jerry entered. Pink and damp, he was dressed in an off-the-shoulder bathrobe that showed off his lush back hair.
    “Hi, Nick,” said Jerry, toweling his hair. “You get a piece off your cupcake yet?”
    “Jerry, that’s not funny,” said Mom, walking toward the bedroom. Jerry hungrily eyed her bra and slip.
    “I was just kiddin’, Estelle,” he said, following her. They shut the door. I heard Mom say, “Not