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

now, Jerry. I just put on my makeup.” Then came the sounds of a scuffle followed by a slap. I was wondering if this county had 911, when things suddenly became ominously quiet.
    “You OK in there?” I called.
    After a pause, Mom answered, “We’re fine.”
    Disgusted by parental lust, I put on a record and turned it up loud. “Albert,” I said, “this is Frank Sinatra. You are going to be hearing a lot of him.”
    A half hour later, everyone except Albert was out on the patio waiting for my date. The Tonzello was locked in the trailer practicing his whimpering skills. Mom was wearing a flaming-red low-cut dress that looked like it had been mail-ordered from Hell, Carnal Sins Division. Jerry apparently had dressed to coordinate with his car: white linen suit, white shoes and belt, lime-green shirt, and yellow bow tie. I had on my usual dress-for-invisibility outfit: flannel trousers, beige shirt, conservative knit tie, and generic tweed jacket. I looked like a Young Americans for Freedom volunteer waiting for Dan Quayle’s motorcade to pass by.
    We looked up to see a beautiful woman approaching. Improbably, she spoke to us. “Hi, Nickie. Good evening, Mrs. Twisp. Jerry.”
    It was Sheeni. Makeup, pearl necklace, earrings, and chestnut hair artfully pinned up had added ten stunning years to her age. She looked like the world’s most beautiful graduate student. Her exquisite tan glowed like 24-karat gold against the deep blue of her gossamer dress. My heart thumped wildly. I was speechless.
    “Good evening, Sheeni,” said Mom. “You look nice.”
    Nice! Nice! How we violate our language!
    “You look beautiful,” said Sheeni, compounding the language debasement. “And that suit is terrific, Jerry.”
    “Thanks, dollface,” said Jerry.
    My paralysis continued. Sheeni looked at me quizzically. “Something wrong, Nickie?” she asked, taking my hand.
    “You. You… you’re beyond rapturous,” I stammered.
    Sheeni frowned. “No, Nickie. Rapture is a mental state. I don’t believe the adjective rapturous can be used to describe someone’s physical appearance. That usage is incorrect.”
    Jerry rescued me from this grammatical conundrum. “OK, let’s blow,” he said.
    We all piled into the big Lincoln—now equipped with a shiny chrome ball on the back bumper. Fastened under the steering wheel was a trailer brake mechanism. Every time Jerry stepped on the brake pedal, a lever on the mechanism pointed obscenely at his crotch.
    Mom insisted Jerry put up the top to preserve “the ladies’ hairdos.” He complied reluctantly, so we had a relatively breeze-free drive to the restaurant. I held Sheeni’s warm hand and tried to regain control over my tongue. I felt like Quasimodo on a double date with Esmeralda. Any minute I expected Trent and the king’s soldiers to stop the car and send me back to the bell tower for my presumption. Meanwhile, Esmeralda was giving off fabulous aromas.
    “Is, is that perfume?” I inquired.
    “Yes,” said Sheeni. “Like it? It’s Joy, my favorite. It was a gift from—” She stopped just in time.
    “Oh,” I said. “Well, I like it anyway.”
    Sheeni leaned over and kissed me. “I like you too.”
    I took advantage of the occasion to look down her dress—and caught Jerry leering at me in the rearview mirror. At that moment I felt like the world’s youngest dirty old man.
    Jerry pulled in and parked at a large lakeside restaurant called Biff’s Bosun’s Barge. Mounted on a tall steel pole at one end of the crowded parking lot was a World War II landing craft. Anchoring the other end of the lot was an immense plywood cutout of the Flag Raising at Iwo Jima. In between was the restaurant: a rambling, one-story wooden structure with vast expanses of blue-tinted glass facing the lake. Above the windows swam a school of blue neon fish.
    As usual, we were on the very fringe of the smoking section. Jerry always requested this location so he could blow smoke at anyone he