Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp by C. D. Payne Read Free Book Online Page A

my donut when I opened this morning’s newspaper. There above the fold on page one was a full-color, highly unflattering photo of my father—in handcuffs. He’s been arrested by the FBI!
    Working around the clock, federal computer experts had followed the trail of the Geezer virus back to a suspicious PC clone located amid “squalid conditions” in a “rundown” modular home on the outskirts of Ukiah. The creator of the most insidious virus in computing history has been found: alleged super-hacker George W. Twisp.
    Scanning the news article, I once again experienced that all-too-familiar scrotal rhumba. The story reported that because of the “sensitive nature” of Mr. Twisp’s employment, officials are speculating he may be an “eco-terrorist” sent by “radical elements” to “infiltrate and disrupt” the timber industry.
    My father, an environmentalist? The guy has never recycled a can in his life!
    9:30 a.m. A worried Fuzzy Defalco cornered Carlotta by her locker just before homeroom this morning.
    “Yes, Frank,” I assured him, “I’ve seen the newspaper.”
    “What are you going to do, Carlotta?”
    I lowered my voice. “What can I do? It’s out of my hands. Don’t worry, Frank. We’re safe.”
    “But, Carlotta, the last guy they nailed for cooking up a virus got five years in the federal pen.”
    “Yeah, I know,” I said, closing my locker. “Most parents deservea little jail time—for neglect and emotional abuse—but five years is pretty extreme, even for my dad.”
    “Are you going to confess?”
    “Don’t be delusional, Frank. You know me better than that.”
    12:50 p.m. As Vijay was absent from school, Sheeni (now wearing yellow ribbons on both arms) consented to join Carlotta for lunch. I could tell My Love had seen the news reports and was determined to get to the bottom of things.
    “I never realized Nick’s father was such an expert on computers,” she observed, munching the middle of her sandwich in her endearingly infantile way.
    “Sheeni, for being a sophisticated person of the world, you eat a sandwich like a three-year-old.”
    My Love chose to ignore this remark. “One might even describe the Twisps as a one-family crime wave. Soon another member of the clan may find himself behind bars—for criminal peeping.”
    “It was all an accident,” I whispered. “There was a bug in my program.”
    “I might have known Nick was behind all this. It’s obvious the fellow has unresolved Oedipal issues.”
    “Nick was not trying to send his father to prison.”
    Sheeni gazed at me, applied her sensual lips to the soft underbelly of her sandwich, bit down, and masticated with arresting grace. Her luminous azure eyes bored into the very center of my being.
    Carlotta began to sweat. OK, maybe she’s right. Perhaps my subconscious has been plotting a terrible revenge. A tough break for Dad, but what an insight to share with my future analyst.
    4:35 p.m. The rest of the school day was uneventful except for girls’ gym, where Carlotta again performed her slave overseer duties and nude ablutions monitoring. Alert to locker-room treachery, she positioned herself by the exit door to the gym—onehand poised on the doorknob, emergency whistle clamped firmly between her teeth. I was admiring the classical proportions of Lana Baldwin’s naked torso when a half-dozen towel-swathed girls, led by Barb Hoffmaster, made a feint toward the showers, then suddenly whirled and bolted toward me.
    “Get her!” they screamed, their towels flying and breasts flopping.
    “FLEEEEEEEE!” screeched Carlotta’s whistle, as I dashed into the gym just ahead of the thundering herd. “FLEEEEEEEE!”
    Miss Arbulash looked up from where she was discussing treadmill belt alignment woes with Janitor Bob and two of his low-IQ student assistants. The fellows dropped their wrenches and stared open-mouthed.
    “What’s going on here?” Miss Arbulash demanded.
    Carlotta’s pursuers skidded to a stop,