Revoltingly Young (21 page)

It’s now after 11 p.m. and I’m bedded down for the night in some bushes next to the Civic Auditorium a few blocks from the ocean. Rather scary and not that comfortable, but it seems fairly deserted around here. Still pretty warm, so I don’t think I’ll freeze to death. It’s worrisome being on my own, but at least I don’t have to listen to Lance Wescott’s fat mouth any more. I’m thinking of changing my name. Perhaps I should just bite the bullet and go with Twisp.

Noel Twisp.

I could live with that.

TUESDAY, August 16 – Sorry to have skipped a day, but yesterday was hectic in the extreme. Anyway, Veeva doesn’t understand why I bother to write a blog, since it isn’t actually posted on the Web. I told her that noting what I do and feel every day makes my life seem slightly more worth living. She seemed to accept that and said maybe in 20 years her children will be desperate to read it. Hard to imagine Veeva as a mom. The good news is she’s had her period, so those condoms in Vegas were doing their job. The bad news is I am no longer recording our intimate activities (should they occur) in case this laptop falls into the wrong hands.

I was planning on sleeping in doorways along Venice Beach and panhandling tourists for spare change, but darling Veeva has come to my rescue (at least temporarily). She has secreted me in her granny’s old house in Bel Air about a half-mile from her own posh pad. Mrs. Rita Krusinowski (her grandmother) now lives near Phoenix, but has retained her old home for when the Arizona summer heat proves too oppressive. It was 116 degrees there yesterday, but Rita would rather swelter in the desert (says Veeva) than face her daughter and her grandchildren in L.A. She allegedly prefers the company of her Chihuahua dogs and a one-armed chef/chauffeur/handyman/companion named Dogo.

The house isn’t entirely deserted though. I’m sharing these once palatial premises with Señora Garonne, the elderly mother of the Saunders’ housekeeper Benecia. Although she does not quite have all of her marbles, she is employed as a caretaker by Mrs. Krusinowski. I’m not sure what care she takes, since the place is looking a bit decrepit–and that’s saying something from a guy used to life in a squalid trailer. Señora Garonne is under the impression that I am Veeva’s brother James (still salted away at camp). Every time we pass in a hallway she exclaims at how Nipsie has grown. I cornered Veeva on this point, and she admitted that her brother (the elder of the two) is only 11. Years ago he acquired the nickname “Nipsie,” but Veeva felt the topic was too tiresome to go into further.

Bel Air is nice (the view from up here is to die for), but it’s a bit far off the beaten track for a kid with no car. I found a dusty old ten-speed in the garage though, and I’m using it for transportation. Veeva thinks it might have belonged to Dogo. I wanted to move into his old quarters above the garage, but that door is locked and no one seems to have the key. So I took the farthest bedroom from Señora Garonne, and Veeva and I may or may not have gotten reacquainted there several times so far with the door securely closed.

Of course, Veeva had to let Benecia in on my presence, since she frequently looks in on her mom and brings her groceries, but she’s agreed to stay mum. Señora Garonne is a much better cook than my grandmother, though she gets confused sometimes and does things like thicken the chicken soup with powdered sugar. Her English used to be pretty good, but Veeva says that her adopted language is now dribbling out with her marbles. We get along OK with a combination of English and my schoolyard Spanish. I’m learning to answer to the name Nipsie. I’m also trying to be helpful so her daughter will view my presence here favorably. I don’t know if Benecia suspects Veeva’s interest in me is more than casual. I hope not. According to Benecia, my brother Nick once hid out up here when the cops were after him. I guess it’s a Twisp family tradition.

Speaking of cops, there’s been no news of Carlyle being captured at the border. Detective Moroni probably thinks I made that story up, and is now even more committed to nailing my bloodied scalp to his wall.

Life would be OK if I didn’t have to worry about that and obsess about Uma the rest of the time. Why am I so stuck on that chick? The guy who said ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’ was completely full of shit.

WEDNESDAY, August 17 – Grandma’s 77
^th
birthday. Sorry to have missed it. I didn’t dare send her a card or call her either. I hope she’s OK, and if Lance is still there, he takes her out someplace nice for dinner. She should have an easier time of it now without me there to run up her expenses.

Two weeks since Uma split from my life. I try not to wonder how she’s getting on with Scott Chandler. I must put Winnemucca behind me. That part of my life is over.

Veeva reports her father is due back from Vegas tonight. No word yet how anyone is making out with Reina. I guess I’m rooting for my brother. Connie Saunders is totally pissed at Veeva for blabbing about Reina’s arrival in the U.S., as if she was supposed to know of her father’s interest in that babe. Connie even accused her daughter of trying to break up her marriage. The irony is that according to what Veeva has been able to piece together over the years, it was her mom who intrigued to throw her own father at Paul Saunder’s then girlfriend so Connie could make a play for him. She succeeded, the Krusinowskis got divorced, then her father croaked from a heart attack, leaving a big chunk of his fortune to Paul’s old girlfriend. (Something Connie is still burned up about.) Well, Veeva recently called this woman (named Lacey) and found out it was all true. Where things really gets kinky is that before Lacey hooked up with Paul, she was living with my own father. It was Nick who brought them together! Veeva thinks her mother’s scheming was lower than low, although she’s willing to concede that if Connie hadn’t made the play, Veeva wouldn’t be around today to sneer at it. I’m thankful my own genesis hadn’t hinged on such a convoluted set of circumstances. My parents just got loaded and went at it for old time’s sake.

I’m beginning to see that mothers and daughters can be extremely competitive. For example, Veeva feels that her mother resents her because she has developed very nice breasts, while her mother’s own impressive rack is entirely fake. Why this creates friction in a family I don’t really comprehend. Shouldn’t mothers be proud of their daughters’ attributes? Not that my alleged fathers have ever demonstrated any pride in my accomplishments, meager as they may be.

7:14 p.m. Veeva just called me with the news of the day. I was kind of hoping to see her, but I suppose she has her own exciting life to lead. She finally got through to Tyler, who’s been switching off his cell phone because his coach says all those calls from girls were interfering with his concentration on football. He’s the quarterback of his team and has to stay alert. Tyler reports the cops released him pretty fast when they realized an all-city athlete wouldn’t lie about the whereabouts of a despicable gangbanger like Carlyle. As if a guy is trustworthy just because he has muscles, wears a jockstrap, and knows which end of a football to hold.

Tyler further reported that Awanee is in a panic and has turned her entire house upside down trying to find a valuable ring that I supposedly gave her. So I had to explain that story to Veeva without making it sound like I ever had a romantic interest in the girl. Not easy and I don’t think Veeva found my prevarications particularly credible.

The big news is the uproar that has been created by the disappearance of Noel Twisp (formerly Wescott). Apparently, I’ve been missed. In fact, my mother is threatening to sic her lawyer on Grandma for gross child neglect. My disappearance has been reported to the cops, and all friends and relatives have been alerted to be on the lookout for me. Damn, I may be seeing my photo on milk cartons soon. Jesus, thousands of kids leave home every day. How come they’re making such a fuss about me? Are they that desperate to see my puny ass behind bars?

Veeva stayed clammed about me until we can be sure that Tyler is to be trusted. Of course, my continued disappearance also gives her an excuse to check in frequently with that guy. Should we be going at it, I wonder if she’s daydreaming about Tyler while I’m imagining it is Uma who may or may not be reclining in my arms.

THURSDAY, August 18 – Today is the day of my scheduled hearing in juvenile court. I guess that makes me an official fugitive from justice–like Dr. Richard Kimball and Carlyle Bogy. You’d think media interest in that uptight hijacker would be fading by now, but no such luck. Today’s
Los Angeles Times
had a big in-depth feature story about white youths who want to be black. Turns out Jamal and Toby have a lot of company out there in the ’burbs of L.A. Now my on-the-lam gang brother is a big cultural hero to those dudes. One of the kids featured in the article was shown wearing a t-shirt that read “Bogy on Carlyle!” under the graphic of a hearse sprayed with a big UPT symbol. Looked very professionally done. And why aren’t we being paid royalties for such use?

Veeva took me out to lunch in Beverly Hills. She’s been complaining bitterly about my wardrobe, but what’s a guy to do? How many teen runaways have the funds to dress like fashion models? She says she wants to introduce me to her friends, but I can sense she doesn’t want them to think she’s going out with some geeky rube from the sticks. As it was, the stuffy restaurant had to lend me a jacket and tie to go with my ragged cutoffs and scuffed running shoes.

Over gourmet but vegetarian lunches we discussed the latest developments in Vegas. My brother is blowing the joint. According to Veeva’s dad, Reina thinks Las Vegas is an amusing place to spend a weekend, but not sustainable of daily human existence. No way is she planting her refined Continental sensibilities in that desert inferno. So Nick is following her back to Europe. He’s terminating his engagement at the Normandie casino and will attempt to lease his house.

“
You mean he’s moving to Prague!” I exclaimed.

“
No, the plan right now is for all four of them to live together in Paris. If everything works out, Nick might adopt her children–assuming he learns Czech, they learn English, or everyone settles on French.”

“
Wow, my brother’s moving to the same country as your aunt Sheeni. I wonder if he’ll look her up?”

“
Yeah, I’d love to be an eyewitness to that reunion.”

“
Your dad flamed out, huh?”

“
Sounds like it. I’ve never seen him looking so miserable. He hasn’t said so, but I think Reina may be the only woman he ever loved.”

“
Why didn’t they hook up back then?”

“
Well, when they first met, she was 17 and he was 25. That’s a pretty big age difference. Plus, my mother was waging total war to get him to marry her. Now he’s 40 and Reina’s 32–a very appropriate age mix for marriage.”

I suppose, though I’ve yet to see a seven-year-old that appealed to me.

“
So, Veeva, is your mother still pissed?”

“
She may be, but she’s being completely loving toward him now. It’s all rather sickening. Parents seem completely oblivious that they are acting out these soap operas in front of their children. Do they imagine we are completely blind?”

“
You’d rather your father just stuck it out with your mom?”

“
Not at all, Noel. My father deserves to be happy. I realize now that it is my task to make sure that happens–if not with Reina, than with someone equally suitable.”

“
Your mother will kill you!”

“
We’re destined to clash, Noel. It’s inevitable. In some way I think we’ve both always known that.”

After lunch Veeva did a little light shopping while I marveled at the prices. In one swanky shop I couldn’t even buy a handkerchief with my entire net worth (which is dropping alarmingly; I
must
get a job). Then we taxied back to my place, where we engaged in some mutually rewarding activities in my room. Good thing I cleaned out all those small packaged items in Grandma’s medicine cabinet before departing.

Later Veeva showed me this interesting area in a remote section of the grounds. It’s an overgrown ravine that looks like something out of a Tarzan movie. It had once been her grandfather’s pride and joy: a tropically landscaped black-bottom pool. After he died, the water was drained, but too many kids were sneaking in to skateboard in its concrete void. So Mrs. Krusinowski had the pool filled in with dirt. You can still make out its location from the boulders that outlined part of its rim. Even spookier was the former cabana, which had been built into the hillside like a cave. It had been professionally decorated in wild leopard-skin prints, but now it was a dank and dripping crypt like something out of a horror movie. Movable cave walls once could motor back at the touch of a button to reveal sweeping city views, but now all the machinery had long since rusted stuck. Veeva says if she inherits the house someday, she plans to restore everything to its original condition. Seems rather expensively ambitious. Why not just enjoy the ruins and give the money to me instead?

Veeva nixed my plan to rustle up some grass-mowing jobs in the neighborhood using the dusty power mower I spotted in the garage. She says everyone hires real gardeners. It seems you have to be fully professional to get work in this town. You can’t just push a mower over someone’s yard. You have to know about fertilizers, herbicides, natural pest control, exotic plant care, irrigation systems, Fung Shui principles–the works. If you so much as scalped a hummock, you could wind up getting sued for thousands. People take their landscaping very seriously in a city where image is everything. Meanwhile, my bankroll is down to $53 and change. Panhandling for spare change looms ahead.