The Boy Next Door (10 page)
Authors: Meg Cabot
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Wait a minute….
why
didn’t
he make a pass at me? Oh, my God! I really must be hideous after all!
Mel
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: The redhead has something to do with this, doesn’t she?
Well, of
course
.
John
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: So sue me
Okay. First of all, you are not hideous. Where do you get these things?
Secondly, I am willing to admit when I am wrong, and so I will admit it: I was wrong about the guy.
At least so far.
I do think it’s a little weird that he wants you to call him John. I mean, what kind of nickname is
that
? I’ll tell you what kind: It’s a name, not a nickname.
But whatever. You’re right. You’re not a baby. You can make your own decisions. You want to sit and listen to the blues and eat peanuts and talk about weather disasters with him? You go right ahead. I will not try to stop you. It really isn’t any of my business.
Nad
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: All right….
what’s wrong with you? Since when is anything I do
not
your business? In the five years you and I have known one another, you have poked your nose into every single detail of my life—as I have poked mine into yours. So what’s this “It really isn’t any of my business” crap?
Is there something going on that you’re not telling me about? You and Tony have made up, right? I mean, after that fight you had over what he said at Uncle Giovanni’s. Right?
Right?
Nadine, you and Tony can’t break up. You are the only couple I know who actually seem happy together.
Except of course for James and Barbra.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Yes, Tony and I…
made up. It’s nothing to do with him. At least not directly. It’s just that—and I really don’t mean this to sound self-pitying or whiny or anything—but the thing is, Mel, I’m just so…
FAT!!
I am so fat, and I can’t lose any weight, and I’m tired of eating rice cakes, and Tony keeps on bringing home all the leftover bread from the restaurant and making French toast every morning….
I mean, I love Tony, I really do, but the idea of getting up in front of all of his family with my butt the size that it is just makes me want to heave. I am serious.
If only we could elope….
Nad :-(
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: No!
You can’t elope! What am I going to do with that stupid eggplant-colored bridesmaid dress you made me buy if you elope?
Okay, this is it, Nadine. You are forcing me to do this. But I want you to remember, it’s for your own good.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Do what?
Mel, what are you doing? You are making me very nervous. I hate when you get like this.
And I thought you liked the bridesmaid dresses I picked out.
Mel???
MEL???
Nad
To: Amy Jenkins
cc: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Weight loss programs
Dear Ms. Jenkins,
Since you people down in the Human Resources Division are so eager to help us beleaguered correspondents up here in the news-room, I was wondering if you could let us know if the
New York
Journal
offers its employees discounted membership rates at any of the nearby local gyms.
Please let me know as soon as possible.
Thank you.
Melissa Fuller
Page Ten Correspondent
New York Journal
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Have you completely lost your mind?
WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING???
I can’t join a gym! I’m depressed, not suicidal!
I’m going to kill you….
Nad
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Talk about a disaster
Hey, did you check out the Weather Channel this morning? Major tropical depressions down in the Bahamas. I think we’re looking at an upgrade to tropical storm any day now.
Keep your fingers crossed.
Mel
P.S: Next time you’re going up to see your aunt, let me know, and I’ll come with you. I heard people in comas can recognize voices, so maybe I could try talking to her. You know, since I used to see her practically every day, and all.
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: Me
Hi! How’s it going? Long time no heard from, huh? Just thought I’d check in. How’s my aunt? The old bag croak yet?
Just kidding. I know how sensitive you are about all that, so I won’t wax humorous on that subject of old ladies meeting their Maker.
Besides, I love the old harpy. I really do.
Well, things here in Key West are going swimmingly. And I do mean that literally. Viv and I found a nude beach the other day, and all I can say is, John, if you haven’t gone skinny-dipping with a bowlegged supermodel, then, son, you haven’t lived.
While she’s in town having her bikini area waxed (for those occasions when we are required to garb ourselves, such as around the hotel pool) I thought I’d see how things were going with you, pal. You know, you really came through for me in a jam, and I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate it.
In fact, I appreciate it so much I am going to offer you some advice. Advice on women, actually, since I know how you are
about them. You know, you shouldn’t be so standoffish. You really aren’t a bad-looking guy. And now that you are, I trust, dressing with a little more class, thanks to my tutelage, I assume you are getting a little more action. It is time, I think, to move on to Max Friedlander’s Panoptic Guide to Women.
There are seven types of women. Got that? Seven. No more. No less. That’s it. They are as follows:
- avian
- bovine
- canine
- caprine
- equine
- feline
- porcine
Now, you might get your combinations of certain traits. For instance, you might have a very porcine young lady—hedonistic, gluttonous, etc.—who is also a bit avian—empty-headed, a bit giddy, maybe. I would say the perfect combination would be a girl like Vivica: feline—sexy and independent—while at the same time equine—haughty, yet poetic.
What you don’t want is canine—overly dependent—or bovine—speaks for itself. And I’d stay away from caprines—fond of game-playing, and all that.
Well, that’s all for today. I hope you’ve enjoyed your lesson—and that it made sense. I’m drunk off my ass right now, you know.
Max
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: You
Please don’t write to me anymore.
I will walk your aunt’s dog and feed your aunt’s cats. I will pretend to be you.
But don’t write to me anymore. Reading your pathetic ram-blings on a subject that you will clearly never, ever come to understand is simply more than I can take at this point in my life.
John
From: Jason Trent
Subject: The redhead
Hi, John, it’s me, Stacy. Jason refuses to ask, so I will:
How’s it going? I mean, with that girl, and pretending to be Max Friedlander, and all of that?
Let me know!
Love,
Stacy
P.S.: We missed you at the dedication. You should have been there. Your grandmother was very hurt, as were the girls. They’ve really been bugging me about whether or not you’re ever coming to visit us again.
Are you?
To: Jason Trent
From: [email protected]
Subject: How it’s going?
How is it going? You ask how it’s going, Stacy?
Well, I’ll tell you: It’s going awful, thanks.
That’s right. Awful. Everything is terrible.
Everything shouldn’t be terrible, of course. Everything should be wonderful. I’ve met this
completely
terrific girl. I mean
completely
terrific, Stace: She likes tornadoes and the blues, beer, and anything to do with serial killers. She eats up celebrity gossip with as much enthusiasm as she attacks a plate of moo shu pork, wears shoes with heels that are way too high and looks fabulous in them—but manages to look just as fabulous in Keds and a pair of sweatpants.
And she’s
nice
. I mean, really, truly, genuinely kind. In a city where no one knows his neighbors, she not only knows hers, but actually
cares
about them. And she lives in
Manhattan
. Manhattan, where people routinely step over the homeless in an effort to get into their favorite restaurants. As far as Mel seems to be concerned, she never left Lansing, Illinois, population 13,000. Broadway might as well be Main Street.
And get this: We went out the other night, and she wouldn’t let me pay for her. Yes, you read that correctly:
She wouldn’t let me pay for her
. You should have seen her face when she realized I had already bought the tickets for the movie: You’d have thought I’d killed a puppy or something. No woman I have ever gone out with (and, contrary to what my brother might have told you, there have not been all that many) has ever paid for her own movie ticket—or anything else, for that matter, when she was out with me.
Not that I ever minded paying. It’s just that none of them ever even
offered
.
And, yeah, okay, they all knew they were out with John Trent, of the Park Avenue Trents. How much am I worth today? Have you been keeping an eye on the NASDAQ?
But they never even
offered
.
Are you getting this so far, Stace? After all the Heathers and Courtneys and Meghans (My God, remember Meghan? And the disastrous Texas dip?) and all those Ashleys, I’ve finally met a Mel, who wouldn’t know an IPO from an IOU, a woman who might potentially be more interested in me than in my investment portfolio….
And I can’t even tell her my real name.
No, she thinks I’m Max Friedlander.
Max Friedlander, whose brain, I’m beginning to be convinced, atrophied at around the age of sixteen. Max Friedlander, who has categorized a panoply of female character traits that I am convinced he derived from Saturday morning Hanna-Barbera cartoons.
I know what you’re going to say. I know exactly what you’re going to say, Stace.
And the answer is no, I can’t. Maybe if I’d never lied to her about it in the first place. Maybe if right from the first moment I met her I’d said, “Listen, I am not Max. Max couldn’t make it. He feels really bad about what happened to his aunt, so he sent me in his place.”
But I didn’t, all right? I blew it. I blew it from the very beginning.
And now it’s too late to tell her the truth, because anything else I ever try to tell her, she’ll think I’m lying about that, too. Maybe she won’t admit it. But in the back of her mind, it will always be there. “Maybe he’s lying about this, too.”
Don’t try to tell me she won’t, either, Stace.
And now she wants to go with me to visit Max’s aunt. Can you believe that? The comatose aunt! She says she’s read that people in comas can sometimes hear what’s going on around them, even recognize voices.
Well, Aunt Helen sure as hell won’t recognize my voice, will she?
So there you have it. My hellish life, in a nutshell. Got any advice? Any sage words of womanly wisdom to throw my way?
No, I didn’t think so. I am perfectly aware of the fact that I’ve dug this grave myself. I guess I have no choice but to lie down in it.
Cadaverously yours,
John
To: Mel Fuller
From: Dolly Vargas
Subject: Max Friedlander
Darling, I couldn’t help overhearing your little conversation with Nadine near the fax machine—is it true the two of you have joined a gym and are starting spinning classes?
Well, bully for you both! I say more power to you. Let me know if they have bleachers or an observation booth or something where I can go and sit and cheer you on (and if they provide refreshments, preferably of the alcoholic variety, which is the only way you’ll ever get
me
in a gym, by God).
Anyway, about that other thing I heard you mention. Do you want to know why he didn’t make a pass at you? Max Friedlander, I mean. If you think about it, it all makes sense….I mean, the stories we’ve heard about his ruthless
womanizing
despite his fear of commitment, his obsession with getting just the right shot of whatever particular subject he is photographing, his constant need for approval, his refusal to settle down in one place, and now this freakish name-change thing?
Really, it all might boil down to one little thing:
He’s gay.
It’s perfectly obvious, darling. That’s why he didn’t make a pass at you.
XXXOOO
Dolly
