The Boy Next Door

by Meg Cabot

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Why on earth did he go?

  And I can’t tell you why I went. When she asked me about it, it was in front of my office building, where she seemed to appear as if from nowhere. I was so shocked to see her—so scared someone was going to call me by my name—that I think I froze, even though it was about 80 degrees outside. The sun was shining, and there was noise and confusion everywhere, and suddenly, she was just there, with her hair shining all around her head like a halo, and her big blue eyes blinking up at me. I think I would have said yes if she’d asked me to eat glass out of the palm of her hand.

  And then there was nothing I could do about it. I mean, I had already said yes. I couldn’t cancel on her.

  So I ran around in a panic, trying to figure out if Max knew anybody at the Journal.

  Then I went and I met them and they were suspicious, but for Mel they pretended not to be, since she is clearly someone they adore. By the end of the evening, we were all the best of friends.

  But only because the one woman who actually knows Max didn’t show up.

  I didn’t find that out, of course, until I got there, and Mel said, “Oh, Dolly Vargas—you know Dolly—she couldn’t make it, on account of how she’s got ballet tickets tonight. But she says hi.”

  See? See how close I came? It’s only a matter of time.

  So what do I do? If I tell her, she’ll hate me, and I’ll never see her again. If I don’t tell her, eventually she’ll find out, and then she’ll hate me, and I’ll never see her again.

  After her friends had left, Mel proposed we walk a bit before catching a cab back to our building. We walked along Tenth Street, which, if you’ll remember from before you and Jason fled for the suburbs, is a shady residential street, filled with old brownstones, the front windows of which are always lit up at night, so you can see the people inside, reading or watching television or doing whatever it is people do in their homes after dark.

  And as we walked, she took my hand, and we just strolled along like that, and as we strolled, I was struck by this horrible realization: that never in my life had I walked along the street holding a girl’s hand and felt like I did then…which was happy.

  And that’s because every other time a girl has grabbed my hand, it’s been to drag me toward a store window so she could point to something she wanted me to buy her. Every other time.

  I know it sounds horrible, like I’m feeling sorry for myself, or whatever, but I’m not. I’m just telling you the truth.

  That’s actually the horrible part, Stace. That it’s true.

  And now I’m supposed to tell her? Tell her who I am?

  I don’t think I can.

  Could you?

  John

  To: Jason Trent

  From: Stacy Trent

  Subject: John

  There’s nothing wrong with your brother, silly. He’s in love, that’s all.

  Stacy

  P.S.: We’re out of Cheerios. Can you pick up a box on the way home tonight?

  To: Stacy Trent

  From: Jason Trent

  Subject: My brother

  John? In love? With whom? The redhead?

  BUT SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HIS REAL NAME!!!

  And this is all right with you???

  Has everyone in this family gone completely mental?

  Jason

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Tell me again

  Come on. Just one more time.

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: No

  I will not.

  Nad

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Come on

  Tell me. You know you want to. You OWE it to me.

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: God, you are a weirdo,

  and you are really starting to annoy me. But all right, I’ll tell you. But this is the last time.

  Okay. Here we go.

  You are right. Max Friedlander is very nice. We were all wrong about him. I apologize. I owe you a Frappuccino.

  Satisfied?

  Nad

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: A grande,

  with skim milk. Don’t forget.

  Mel

  P.S.: Don’t you just love the way the skin at the corners of his eyes all crinkles up when he smiles? Like a young Robert Redford?

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Now you’re just

  making me sick.

  Seriously, was I like this when I first started seeing Tony? Because if I was, I don’t understand why none of you shot me. Because this is nauseating. It really is. You’ve got to stop.

  Nad

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Aaron Spender

  Subject: Max Friedlander

  Yes, I know. I heard everyone talking about it by the water cooler. Apparently, Fresche was quite the place to be the other night.

  Don’t worry—I’m not upset that I wasn’t invited. I quite understand why you mightn’t have wanted me there.

  And you needn’t worry that I am writing to you now with the intention of trying to win you back. I realize—at last—that you have found someone else.

  I am just writing to say how glad I am for you. Your happiness is all I have ever wished for.

  And if you love him, well, then that’s all I need to hear. Because for you to love someone, Melissa, I know he would have to be a truly worthy, truly noble individual. A man who shows you the kind of respect you deserve. A man who won’t ever let you down.

  I just want you to know, Melissa, that I would have done just about anything in the world to have been that man for you. I really mean that. If it hadn’t been for Barbara….

  But now is not the time or place for what-would-have-beens.

  Just know that I am thinking of you, and am pleased to see you looking so radiant with happiness. You deserve it, more than anyone else I have ever known.

  Aaron

  To: Aaron Spender

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Max Friedlander

  Thanks, Aaron. That was a very sweet message, and it meant a lot to me.

  Mel

  P.S.: I’m sorry to have to bring this up, but I know it was you who took the Xena Warrior Princess action figure off the top of my computer. The new fax guy saw you do it, Aaron.

  I want her back. I don’t want to know what you did with her. I just want her back. Okay?

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Dolly Vargas

  Subject: Your new beau

  It is so like you, darling, to show off your shiny new bauble on the one night I couldn’t make it to the unveiling. It isn’t fair. When is he going to come by and take you to lunch or something, so I can say hello? It’s been so long, I can hardly remember what he looks like. Maybe I should just pop over to the Whitney for a little refresher.

  XXXOOO

  Dolly

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Nude photo

&nb
sp; OH, MY GOD!!!

  I forgot all about that self-portrait of Max Friedlander that is supposedly hanging in the Whitney!

  The one of him nude!!!

  WHAT DO I DO??? I mean, I can’t go LOOK at it, can I? That is so sleazy!

  Mel

  P.S.: Just thinking about it is giving me a headache.

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Oh, please

  Of course you can go look at it. Which is sleazier, you looking at it, or him taking it and letting them hang it up for everyone in the world to see?

  But whatever. Get your purse and follow me. We’ll forgo spinning for a bit of culture, courtesy of the Whitney Museum of American Art.

  Nad

  P.S.: Your headache is from the Frappuccino. They do that to me, too.

  To: Stacy Trent

  From: John Trent

  Subject: I need your

  recipe for crab-stuffed flounder. I have decided that since every time I try to take her out, it is a complete disaster, I will simply cook a meal for her instead, in the privacy of my own home.

  Or Max Friedlander’s aunt’s home, as the case may be.

  Who knows, maybe I’ll even work up the nerve to tell her the truth about me.

  Probably not, though.

  Also, how do you make those little bread thingies with the tomatoes on top?

  John

  To: John Trent

  From: Stacy Trent

  Subject: My bread thingies

  I can only assume you mean bruschetta. You toast baguette rounds, then rub the toasted slices with garlic. Then you cut up a bunch of tomatoes and you…

  Oh, for God’s sake, John, just call Zabar’s and order it, like a normal person. Then you pretend you made it yourself. You think I can cook? Ha! My roast chicken? Kenny Rogers. My crab-stuffed flounder? Jefferson Market. My hand-cut fries? Frozen from a bag!

  Now you know. Don’t tell Jason. It will spoil the magic.

  Stacy

  To: Dolly Vargas

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Max Friedlander

  Dear Dolly,

  Laugh all you want. I don’t happen to think it’s amusing.

  I cannot say I think his parents were particularly responsible, either, giving a five-year-old a camera and then letting him play with it in the bathtub. He could have been electrocuted, or something.

  Besides, that photo doesn’t even look anything like him.

  Mel

  P.S.: I blame YOU for the fact that I am clearly getting a cold. You caused me all that anxiety and made me susceptible to this stupid flu bug that is going around.

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Dolly Vargas

  Subject: Oh, pooh

  You know how much I love to tease you. You’re like the little mentally retarded sister I never had.

  Just kidding, darling, just kidding.

  Besides, instead of railing against me, you should feel sorry for me. I’m hopelessly in love with your Aaron, and he’ll hardly give me the time of day. He just sits in his little cubicle and looks at the screen saver he’s had made from a photo of the two of you. It’s so pathetic, it almost makes me want to cry.

  Except that ever since I had my lids done, I’ve been physically incapable of tears.

  By the way, what’s with that skirt you have on? It makes you look poochy.

  XXXOOO

  Dolly

  P.S.: Could you stop coughing so loud? It’s aggravating my hangover.

  To: George Sanchez

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: My health

  Dear George,

  I am writing this from home to let you know I will not be in today due to the fact that I have woken up with a sore throat, fever, and runny nose.

  I left the pages on your desk last night, and there’s plenty for Ronnie to use for tomorrow. Tell her it’s all in the green file folder on my desk.

  If you have any questions, you know where to find me.

  Mel

  P.S.: PLEASE tell Amy Jenkins down in Human Resources that the reason I haven’t logged on today is because I’m out sick! She counted my last sick day as a tardy and it went in my permanent personnel file!

  P.P.S.: Can you make sure my Xena Warrior Princess action figure is back on my computer monitor? Somebody took it, but he’s supposed to put it back. Just let me know whether or not he has.

  Thanks,

  Mel

  To: Don and Beverly Fuller

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: My last will and testament

  Hi. I’m writing to let you know that I have a terrible cold and that I’m probably going to die. If I do, I want you to know that I’m leaving you and Daddy all the money in my 401K. Please use it to make sure Kenny and Richie go to college. I know they probably won’t want to go to college, seeing as how they both plan on playing for the NBA when they grow up, but just in case professional sports doesn’t pan out, they should be able to get at least a semester or two out of my $24,324.57.

  Please give all my clothes to Crystal Hope, Jer’s new wife. She looks like she could use them.

  I don’t know what you should do with my Madame Alexander doll collection. Maybe Robbie and Kelly will have a girl next, and you can give them to her.

  My only other worldly possessions are my books. Would you please see that in the event of my demise they all go to my next-door neighbor’s nephew, John? Actually, his real name is Max. You would like him, Mom. All the people from my office met him, and they like him. He is very funny and sweet.

  And no, Mom, we are not sleeping together.

  Don’t ask me why not, though. I mean, don’t let Daddy read this, but I’m starting to wonder if there’s something the matter with me. Besides the fact that I have this cold, I mean. Because John and I only made out this one time, and since then nothing, nada, zippo.

  Maybe I’m a really bad kisser. That’s probably it. That’s probably why every guy I’ve gone out with from Jer on has ended up dumping me. I’m a lousy kisser. I’m short, I have an impossibly small bladder, I have red hair, and I’m a bad kisser.

  Let’s just face facts: When I was born, Mom, did the doctor ever mention the words genetic mutation? Did he ever mention…oh, I don’t know. The term biological sport?

  Because that’s what I think I am. Oh, I know: Robbie turned out all right. I guess he doesn’t lack the kissing chromosome I evidently do. Either that or Kelly’s just a bad kisser, too, and couldn’t tell the difference.

  I don’t suppose—AHHH! Someone’s at the door!

  It’s John! And I look horrible! Mom, I gotta go….

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Don and Beverly Fuller

  Subject: Your silly last e-mail

  Melissa Ann Marie Fuller!

  What on earth was that last e-mail from you all about? You have a little cold, dear. You aren’t dying. Your dolls are staying exactly where they are, in their display case in your bedroom, along with your 4-H medals and Duane County High School diploma.

  And what’s this about a boy not thinking you’re a good kisser? Well, if that’s what he thinks, then you tell him he can just go jump in a lake. I’m sure you are a very good kisser.

  Don’t you worry, Melissa, there are lots of fish in the sea. You just throw that one back. Your ship will come in. You are much prettier than all those girls I see on the television, especially that one who had sex with that president. You can do better than this boy who thinks you are a bad kisser, and that other one,
who had sex with Barbara Bellerieve. You know, I hear she has capped teeth!

  So you just tell that boy to bug off, and then you snuggle up in bed and watch The View and drink plenty of fluids and especially chicken noodle soup. You’ll be better in no time.

  And even though I shouldn’t tell you this—I wanted it to be a surprise—I am sending you a little something that should cheer you right up. All right, it’s a batch of snickerdoodles, your favorite cookies.

  So you turn that frown upside down, young lady!

  Love,

  Mommy

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Thank you

  Thank you, thank you, thank you!

  John told me that he called and that you told him I was home sick. So you know what he did next? Really, I don’t want to make you nauseated, but I’m dying to tell someone, so I’ve selected you as my victim:

  He went to the Second Avenue Deli and got me chicken soup!

  Really! A whole big thing of it! And then he stopped by with the soup, orange juice, a video, and ice cream (plain vanilla, but then I don’t think he knows any better. You’re right, you do have to train them sometimes).

  And even though I must have looked totally awful (I had on my cow print pajamas and fuzzy bunny slippers, and you should have seen my hair, hoo boy), when I asked him if he wanted to stay and watch the movie with me (Rear Window—I know what you’re thinking, Nadine, but I am sure he has absolutely no idea that I have been spying on him. Besides, I have always politely averted my gaze when it came to watching him undress. Well, except that once, but that was just to settle that all-important boxers-or-briefs question), he said yes!

  So I turned the television around on its little cart so we could watch it from the couch, but he said I should be in bed (which it was pretty clear I’d abandoned in order to answer the door—I hadn’t bothered making it or anything, and you should see the ocean of wadded-up Kleenex all around it) and then he made me get back in it, and turned the television around again so it faced the bed.