Youth in Revolt by C.D. Payne

Author:C.D. Payne [Payne, C. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-71580-7
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Published: 2009-11-03T00:00:00+00:00

MONDAY, October 29 — Bruno Modjaleski pleaded guilty. For his crimes he was fined $2,000 and sentenced to one year in the county jail. Then the criminal-coddling, soft-on-crime liberal judge reduced the fine to $1,000 and suspended the jail sentence, provided Bruno perform 500 hours of community service. He has volunteered to serve as coach in the local peewee football league, thus assuring another generation of gridiron mediocrity in the valley.

Although they didn’t come out and say so, Vijay and Fuzzy seemed relieved that Bruno was spared the state penitentiary. “He got what he deserved,” commented Fuzzy. “Standing up Candy Pringle is a serious offense.”

While I was altering reality through mycelial ingestion last weekend, Vijay had been dutifully applying himself to my essay. The completed work was a masterpiece of obsequious teen Indomania. Reading it, I could almost imagine myself strolling beside the Bay of Bengal with my guru—a scholar I imagined to be 16, female, and comely in the extreme. Perhaps Apurva has a pretty cousin who might consent to serve as my mentor.

“I made an appointment after school to get your photos for the passport application,” announced Vijay.

“Why do I need a passport if I’m not actually going?” I asked.

“In case the scholarship committee requests your passport number,” he explained. “Besides, you’ll need a passport to visit Sheeni and me in Paris next summer.”

“You’re going to France too?” I asked, shocked.

“Yes, my parents have consented at last,” said Vijay. “It was quite a struggle. I had to promise on my honor I would not be seduced by any French girls.”

“How did you find out about the summer program?” I asked.

“Sheeni mentioned it the last time we talked.”

“You talk to Sheeni?” This was unsettling news.

“Occasionally, on the phone,” said Vijay, smiling innocuously. “It is a way of practicing my French. She’s making remarkable progress, you know.”

It’s not her progress I’m worried about.

“The last time I called,” remarked Vijay, “Sheeni said Taggarty had awarded me an A. I thought, Nick, you said she gave me a B.”

“Perhaps Taggarty altered it upon reflection,” I said. “Or perhaps a run of disappointing performances by subsequent lovers raised the curve. Women often change their minds.”

“I hope so,” said Vijay.

What did he mean by that?

At work, I told Mr. Preston, in answer to his inquiry, that the last I’d heard from Dad he was in Eugene and his research was proving most productive. I told this flagrant lie under orders from you know who. Mr. Preston was so pleased, he graciously permitted me to leave work early.

I rushed over to the photo studio, located on the same downtown commercial block as Heady Triumphs, Ukiah’s most outré hair salon (workplace of Lacey). After Vijay and I had our photos snapped (he felt his exceptional score merited an up-to-date mug shot for Taggarty’s Wall of Fame), we stopped in to see my former stepmistress. She greeted us warmly, but looked worried.

“Paulie’s parents are the pits, Nick,” she complained. “His mother looks like she was run over

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