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

in the hot sunshine.
    “Sorry I jumped the gun on asking your mother about Albert,” Sheeni said. “There won’t be any problem keeping him, will there?”
    “Nothing insurmountable,” I replied. “Of course, a big request like thisrequires careful strategic planning. You can’t just waltz in and pop the question. That invites the Big No. And once you get parental ego invested in a ‘no,’ then you have to contrive some convoluted face-saving way for them to say ‘yes.’”
    “Well at least, Nickie, you don’t have to deal with constant interference from God. Be thankful for that.”
    “I am!”
    We passed Mrs. Clarkelson, who was out on her tiny patio folding newspapers into tsetse-fly swatters for the missionaries in Africa. I stuck a finger in my nose.
    “Sheeni, why are you holding that boy’s hand?” the old lady demanded.
    “I’m taking him to the lake, Mrs. Clarkelson,” replied Sheeni brightly. “It’s for his hydrotherapy.”
    “Oh, I see. Well, I suppose that’s all right then.”
    I held out my finger. “Want a booger?” I grunted. “I’ve got lots.”
    Mrs. Clarkelson shuddered. “No, thank you, young man. That’s filthy and nasty.”
    “Be nice, Nickie,” Sheeni scolded, “or I won’t buy you a popsicle.”
    I started to slobber and pule, continuing until we were out of sight of Mrs. Clarkelson.
    “You do that marvelously well,” said Sheeni.
    “Thank you, my dear,” I said. “I hope to study with Stanislavsky someday.”
    “That will take some doing,” replied Sheeni. “He’s been dead for 50 years.”
    Loving Sheeni, I decided, is at times like being romantically involved with the Encyclopaedia Britannica.
    We walked through town. The motel-lined streets were busier now that the weekend was approaching. A slow parade of overheating motor homes, campers, and big pickups towing speedboats inched toward the blue water. Three rednecks leaned out their windows to whistle at Sheeni, and two fat women called out rude comments about the ugliness of our dog. Sheeni and Albert pretended not to notice.
    Large signs at the beach proclaimed “No Dogs Allowed,” but Sheeni blithely ignored them. We spread our towels in the hot sand and worked on our tans. Albert quickly went to sleep in the shade under Sheeni’s overturned straw basket—snoring noisily through his pushed-in snout. I oiled up my date and got a T.E. you could spot three miles offshore.
    “Maybe, honey, you should have your pituitary checked,” Sheeni said. “I’ve never seen anyone with such overactive hormones.”
    I assured her the treatment I required was a simple in-home procedure that could be performed without medical supervision.
    “Soon,” said Sheeni. “Be patient, Nickie. I’ll figure out some way to come down to see Albert and you.”
    “God, I hope so!”
    The rest of the afternoon (the last with Sheeni until who knows when) passed in a warm haze. I remember the smells of suntan lotion and hot dogs, the heat of the sun on my back, the inch-by-inch shock of cold water, the taste of lake water on sweet lips, the touch of a hand slipping into my trunks under murky green water, the mystery of a soft cleft felt only for an instant through thin wet spandex.
    When, tired and sunbaked, we got back to Sheeni’s trailer, she paused to remove the mail. One letter, I could see, was addressed to her in a bold masculine hand.
    “Shall I tear that up for you, honey?” I asked.
    “Why no, darling. That wouldn’t be quite fair to the sender, would it?”
    “I am not interested in fairness toward that person,” I replied.
    “Why not?” she demanded.
    Because he has kissed you and fondled you and God knows what else with you! “Because I am not,” I said. “I hope you will respect my feelings on this matter.”
    “I don’t see what your feelings have to do with destroying U.S. mail,” said Sheeni obdurately. “Vandalism under any pretext is inexcusable. Besides, I have never asked you to tear up