The Boy Next Door

by Meg Cabot

  To: Vivica@sophisticates.com

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Max Friedlander

  Dear Vivica,

  In answer to your question, I am sorry to have to tell you that that story about Max wanting to marry you was completely made up by me.

  See, I was really angry with Max and his friend John for tricking me the way they did—making me think John was Max, and all. It really hurt my feelings, and I wanted to hurt them back, any way I could.

  The one thing I didn’t think about was that by writing that story I might also be hurting you. I am very sorry for that, and hope you will forgive me.

  If it would make you feel better, when I get back to work—I am currently taking a brief hiatus—I am composing a retraction.

  Sincerely,

  Mel Fuller

  P.S.: If it is any comfort at all to you, I know how you feel: I thought I was going to marry his friend—you know, the one who was pretending to be Max. But of course it didn’t work out. You can’t have a relationship that is based on lies.

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Vivica@sophisticates.com

  Subject: Max Friedlander

  DEAR MEL,

  WELL, I THOUGHT THAT MIGHT BE THE CASE. THAT THE STORY ABOUT MAX WANTING TO MARRY ME BEING MADE UP, I MEAN. I LIKE YOUR IDEA ABOUT RUNNING ANOTHER STORY ABOUT HIM. COULD YOU SAY THAT WHEN HE SLEEPS, HE SNORES LOUDER THAN ANY HUMAN BEING ON THE PLANET? BECAUSE THAT IS DEFINITELY TRUE.

  I AGREE WITH YOU ABOUT HOW YOU CAN’T HAVE A RELATIONSHIP THAT IS BASED ON LIES. MAX TOLD ME HE LOVED ME, AND IT TURNED OUT THAT WAS ALL LIES. I REALLY, REALLY LOVED HIM, BUT HE SLEPT WITH THE MAID ANYWAY. AND ALL BECAUSE OF SOME STUPID DRIFTWOOD DOLPHINS.

  YOU SOUND PRETTY NICE, FOR A REPORTER. WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE LUNCH ONE DAY WHILE YOU ARE ON HIATUS? I FOUND A NEW RESTAURANT I REALLY, REALLY LIKE. IT IS CALLED APPLEBEE’S AND THEY HAVE EXCELLENT CHILI NACHOS, ALMOST AS GOOD AS AT MY OTHER FAVORITE RESTAURANT, FRIDAY’S. DO YOU WANT TO GO WITH ME SOMETIME? IT IS OKAY IF YOU SAY NO BECAUSE LOTS OF GIRLS DON’T LIKE ME ON ACCOUNT OF MY BEING A MODEL. LIKE MY GRAMMA SAYS, HONEY, IF YOU AIN’T A HUNDRED-DOLLAR BILL, NOT EVERYONE IS GOING TO LIKE YOU.

  LET ME KNOW.

  LOVE,

  VIVICA

  To: Vivica@sophisticates.com

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Lunch

  Dear Vivica,

  I would be honored to go to lunch with you any time you want. You just let me know what day is good for you.

  Mel

  P.S.: I will definitely try to work the snoring thing into my next column.

  To: John Trent

  From: Stacy Trent

  Subject: Why is it that

  I leave you alone for a couple of days while I have a baby, and the next thing I know

  a) you’ve split up with your girlfriend, who I thought you were going to marry,

  b) you’ve moved back to your old place in Brooklyn, and

  c) you’re suddenly the most sought after bachelor in all of North America.

  How on earth did you manage to make such a mess out of everything? And what can I do to help put the pieces back together?

  Stacy

  P. S.: The twins are brokenhearted. They were counting on being flower girls.

  P.P. S.: Thanks for the bracelet. And the baseball rattle is precious.

  To: Stacy Trent

  From: John Trent

  Subject: I blew it

  And I’m man enough to admit it.

  I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do to put the pieces together again. She won’t even speak to me. I’ve tried everything, from flowers to begging. Nothing has worked. She’s furious.

  It’s over.

  And I can’t help thinking it’s probably all for the best. I mean, I’ll admit what I did was wrong, but it wasn’t as if I set out from the beginning with the intention of tricking her. Well, okay, I did, but it wasn’t as if when I did I had any idea I was going to fall in love with her.

  The fact is, I was trying to help a friend. Admittedly, he’s an idiot, but I did owe him one.

  If she can’t understand that, then it’s probably better that we part ways. I can’t spend my life with someone who doesn’t understand that friends have to do things for one another that may not be pleasant or even ethical, but that are necessary, in order to preserve the friendsh…

  Oh, forget it. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’m delirious with grief and heartbreak. I wish someone would just shoot me and put me out of my misery. I want her back. I want her back. I want her back.

  That’s all there is to say.

  John

  To: Jason Trent

  From: Stacy Trent

  Subject: My God

  I’ve never seen your brother this way. He’s got it bad. We’ve got to do something!

  Stacy

  P. S.: We’re out of milk.

  To: Stacy Trent

  From: Jason Trent

  Subject: My God

  Stay out of John’s personal affairs. If it hadn’t been for you egging him on, none of this would have happened.

  I mean it, Stacy. DO NOT GET INVOLVED. You’ve done quite enough.

  Jason

  P. S.: Send Gretchen out for milk. What are we paying a nanny $1,000 a week for, if not to pick up a quart of milk now and then?

  To: Genevieve Randolph Trent

  From: Stacy Trent

  Subject: John

  Mim—

  I just spoke with John. He is so down, I could hardly believe it. We’ve got to do something about it, you and I.

  Jason won’t help, of course. He thinks we should stay out of it. But I’m telling you, John is just going to spend the rest of his life alone and unhappy unless we take charge of this thing. You know men can’t be left to their own devices where romance is concerned. They just foul everything up.

  What do you say? Are you with me?

  Stacy

  To: Stacy Trent

  From: Genevieve Randolph Trent

  Subject: John

  Dearest Stacy,

  Loath as I am to admit that one of my two favorite grandsons is an incompetent ass when it comes to personal relationships, I cannot help but feel that you are right. John desperately needs our help.

  What do you suggest that we do? Please telephone me tonight so that we can discuss our options. I will be home between six and eight o’clock.

  Mim

  P. S.: Who is this poor Barney, and why do you hate him so?

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: The weirdest thing

  just happened. I was sitting at my computer playing an innocent game of Tetris—I’ve gotten really good since being suspended—when I noticed something going on next door—you know, in Mrs. Friedlander’s apartment.

  Through the window into her guest room—the one John used to sleep in, and where I used to see him getting undressed every night…but let’s not get into that—I saw Max Friedlander jumping up and down and waving his arms, and screaming at someone.

  When I got out my binoculars (don’t worry, I turned the lights out first) I saw he was yelling at one of his aunt’s cats. Tweedledum, to be exact.

  This seemed excessively strange to me, so I put down the binoculars and went out into the hall and banged on the door. My excuse was that I could hear him screaming through the wall, which wasn’t true of course, but he didn’t know that.

  He answered the door looking all sweaty and upset. What Vivica sees in this guy I can
not imagine. He is so completely not like John, you couldn’t believe it. First of all, he wears a gold necklace. Not that I have anything against guys who wear jewelry, but, excuse me, he wears his shirt unbuttoned practically to his navel so you’ll be sure to notice his. Necklace, I mean.

  Plus he has that I-haven’t-shaved-in-days thing. I mean, John used to get that, too, but I knew he actually had shaved; with Max, I sort of doubt his fingers have touched a razor—or soap—in weeks.

  Anyway, he was very rude, as usual, demanding to know what I wanted, and when I explained that it was his hysterical screaming had brought me running, he started cursing, and saying that Tweedledum was driving him crazy with his going outside the litter box.

  I was understandably confused by this, since Tweedledum has never gone outside the box, as far as I knew. Then Max said the cat was going around drinking out of everything he could find, include Max’s bedside water glass (imagine someone as foul as him having a bedside water glass) and the toilet.

  That’s when I knew something was wrong. At home in Lansing, whenever an animal starts drinking that much and peeing everywhere, it means they have probably developed diabetes. I told Max we needed to get Tweedledum to the vet right away.

  And do you know what he said?

  “Not me, sister. I got places to be and people to do.”

  Seriously. That is what he said.

  So I said, “Fine, I’ll take him myself,” and I bundled Tweedledum up and took him. Oh, Nadine, you should have seen Paco’s expression when he saw me leaving! You’ve never seen such a sad old dog. He misses John, too, you could totally tell. Even Mr. Peepers came out and tried to follow me into the hallway, so he could escape Max Friedlander’s oppressive presence.

  So I took Tweedledum to the animal hospital, and two hundred dollars later (out of my own pocket, thank you very much; you know I’ll never see that money again), it turns out the poor cat is diabetic, and he has to have two insulin shots a day, and be brought back to the vet once a week for tests until his diabetes is regulated and stabilized.

  Do you think MAX is trustworthy enough to handle this kind of responsibility? Of course not. He’s going to kill this poor cat. Right now I have Tweedledum here with me, but he isn’t really my cat. I know Mrs. Friedlander would want him to have the best care possible, but he isn’t going to get that if he stays with Max.

  I don’t know what to do. Should I just tell him the cat died, and keep him here with me in secret? I wish I could smuggle all of them out of there. Paco and Mr. Peepers, I mean. Max is the worst animal caretaker I have ever seen. John may have been a liar, but at least he genuinely cared about Mrs. Friedlander’s pets. Max doesn’t care. You can just tell.

  I would give anything to have things back the way they were before I knew John wasn’t really Max Friedlander. He was a much better Max than the real Max.

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: You

  You have completely lost your mind. Mel, GROW UP. This isn’t some little orphan you’ve adopted. It’s a CAT. It’s your neighbor’s cat. Give it back to Max and stop obsessing. He is a grown man. He can handle a diabetic cat.

  Nad

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: You’re right

  So why do I feel so guilty?

  I went over to Max’s just now and I pounded on the door and I told him about Tweedledum. I brought the cat with me, along with all of his medical supplies, and I showed Max what he has to do…you know, how to fill the syringe and how to give the cat his shots.

  Max looked pretty dumbfounded. He was all, “You mean cats can get diabetes, too, just like people?” I don’t think he really understood a word I said. In fact, I know he didn’t, because when I told him to fill the syringe himself, he filled it all the way up to the number 2, instead of 2 units, which is the correct dosage.

  I started to explain to him why this was so dangerous, and how Sunny von Bülow has been in a coma ever since Claus slipped her a needle filled with too much insulin, but I don’t think he heard anything but that last part, since he became very interested in that, and wanted to know how much insulin would send someone into a coma or even kill him. As if I would know that. I told him to watch ER like a normal person and he’d probably find out eventually.

  He’s going to kill that cat. I’m telling you right now, he’s going to kill him. And if he does, I will never forgive myself.

  God, I wish Mrs. Friedlander would wake up, kick Max out, and go back to planning trips to Nepal and her aquacize class. Wouldn’t it be great if all of this turned out to be some weird dream she was having while she was asleep? Like if it turned out everything that has happened in the past few months since I found her unconscious never happened, and everything could just go back to normal?

  That would be so great. Then I wouldn’t have to feel this way anymore.

  Mel

  To: jerrylives@freemail.com

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Mel

  Dear John,

  I got your e-mail address from Tony. I hope you don’t mind.

  I don’t normally get involved in Mel’s personal affairs if I can help it, but I am making an exception in this case. I really can’t restrain myself any longer.

  WHAT WERE YOU THINKING??? You and that stupid Max Friedlander. What could you have been thinking, trying to pull off something so incredibly asinine?

  Now you’ve broken my best friend’s heart, something for which I am sure I will never forgive you. But even worse, you have left her to the mercy of the real Max Friedlander, whom I am convinced has got to be the biggest idiot who ever walked the face of the planet.

  How could you? HOW COULD YOU???

  That’s all I have to know. I hope you’re satisfied. You have ruined the life of one of the sweetest girls who ever lived.

  I hope you’re proud of yourself.

  Nadine Wilcock

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Mel

  What do you mean she’s at the mercy of Max Friedlander? What’s Max doing to her???

  John

  To: John Trent

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Max

  Jeez, calm down, will you? Max isn’t doing anything to Mel. He’s just being…well, Max, near as I can tell (I mean, it’s not as if I know him). One of the cats turns out to be diabetic and Max is not being real cooperative about taking care of him, is all. And you know Mel.

  Listen, will you think about what I said? If you care about Mel at all, there’s got to be some way you can make all this up to her. Can’t you think of SOMETHING?

  Nad

  To: Max Friedlander

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Diabetic cats

  Hey. I hear those pesky pets of your aunt’s are proving to be more trouble than you expected. Want me to give you a hand with them? If you gave me permission, being Mrs. Friedlander’s next of kin and all, I could move back in. You could have my place. What do you say?

  John

  To: John Trent

  From: Max Friedlander

  Subject: Diabetic cats

  What would I want to move into your place for? Don’t you live way the hell in Brooklyn? I hate the subway.

  Plus, if I remember correctly, you don’t even have cable. Aren’t you doing that whole bohemian writer thing? You know, milk crates and a futon and all?

  Thanks, but no thanks.

  Max

  To: Max Friedlander >

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Diabetic cats

  Okay, how about this? I’ll pay to put you up somewhere—anywhere you want—if you’ll let me move back in.

  I’m serious. The Plaza, if you want. Think of all the supermodels you could impress….

  John

  To: John Trent

  From: Max Friedlander

  Subject: Diabetic cats

  You are pathetic, man. You’ve really got it bad for this girl, don’t you? It must be the red hair.I certainly can’t see it. If you ask me, she’s a nosy bitch. Worse, she’s one of those weird cat women who think animals have feelings and all of that.

  God, I hate that crap.

  Anyway, nice try with the hotel offer and all, but if things go the way I’m expecting them to, I’ll be living in my own place not too long from now. So, thanks, but I’ll pass.

  Max

  P. S.: You really are pathetic, you know. I could hook you up with girls way better looking than the one in 15B. Seriously. Just let me know.

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Max

  Well, I tried to see if I could get back into 15A. It didn’t work. Sounds like Max has some kind of grand scheme in the works. It doesn’t seem like he’ll be in Mel’s hair for much longer, if that’s any comfort to you.

  John

  To: Tony Salerno

  From: Nadine Wilcock