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

suspected of harboring antismoking sentiments. He felt strongly that freedom to smoke was a constitutionally protected right. As he lit up his first unfiltered Camel, I could see him scanning the nearby nonsmoking tables for potential fascists. But since this was the boonies, not Berkeley, no one seemed to mind the noxious fumes wafting their way.
    “Isn’t this nice?” said Mom. We all agreed it was. The sun was setting on the opposite shore, painting the sky and water with pinks, blues, and fluorescentoranges. Powerboats zipped by, the people on board laughing and holding aloft cans of beer.
    Jerry ordered three margaritas and a root beer from our waitress—a 50-year-old country housewife in Biff’s regulation miniskirt and push-up bra. (Marketing question: do grandmotherly boobs swelling above low-cut bodices sell fish dinners? From the size of the diamond glinting on Biff’s pinkie I guess they do.) The waitress looked at Sheeni and didn’t even ask for an I.D.! So I slurped my soft drink while the three “adults” sipped their cocktails. Sheeni did offer me a taste of hers. It was intoxicatingly delicious. So far, I have enjoyed every alcoholic beverage I’ve sampled. Perhaps this means I shall grow up to be an oversexed alcoholic writer.
    We studied the menu. Nouvelle cuisine it was not. Anything that was not deep-fried in molten grease was tossed—raw and bleeding—onto the grill. Mom decided on scallops, Sheeni requested sea bass, and the men ordered steaks.
    Everyone except the child had a second cocktail and soon the conversation grew loud and boisterous. Sheeni told amusing stories about life in Ukiah and Mom related painfully embarrassing anecdotes about my childhood. From early toilet-training mishaps to my brief but mortifying kindergarten crush on Miss Romper Room, Mom trotted out them all with total recall—egged on by an inebriated truck driver and The Woman I Love. Gamely I smiled and tried to think of it as a celebrity roast.
    I was made even more uncomfortable when Sheeni took a Camel from Jerry. It pained me to think of those carcinogenic tars sullying her perfect pink lungs. It saddened me even more to contemplate her Parisian future amidst hordes of nicotine-stained, debauched Frogs. At least I will be there to defend her honor and insist we sit in the nonsmoking sections at artsy Left Bank cafes.
    For dessert we all decided on the specialty of the house: chocolate cheesecake. It was nice, but a bit on the heavy side. Only the men finished their huge, 3,000-calorie slabs. Jerry also cleaned up Sheeni’s and Mom’s. But, of course, he has a gut to keep in tone.
    By then I was practically comatose, but the other three perked right up when the band started to play. This was a C&W quartet: Ginny and the Country Caballeros. Ginny was fat, 50, and flat (musically only). She sang and played the guitar. Backing her up were three skinny, middle-aged guys who looked like they could have constituted the day shift at the local Shell station. They commanded fiddle, drums, and accordion.
    To my horror, couples at tables around us started getting up and drifting toward the dance floor. Like most 14-year-old white youths, I have a morbidfear of being compelled to dance in public. I prayed Sheeni shared my sentiment. Alas, she did not. First Mom and Jerry got up. Then Sheeni took my hand and led me toward the dreaded Platform of Public Humiliation.
    Except for the extremely pleasant sensation of Sheeni’s firm breasts against my chest, the experience was a nightmare. When it comes to dancing, I have no talent, no training, and no rhythm. I was also cold sober (unlike my partner), and was acutely aware that my rival in love had doubtless already proven his Terpsichorean mastery. It did not improve my concentration to imagine them clinched cheek to cheek (and, even worse, chest to chest), gliding gracefully across some Ukiahan ballroom.
    So we danced. Sheeni danced like gay prewar Paris. I danced like the