Every Boy's Got One

by Meg Cabot

  “The wedding?” Mark looked down at me like I was crazy. “No way. Why would I do that?”

  “Well, because—”

  And then, before I could stop myself, it all came tumbling out. The truth. About his friend Cal.

  I know it wasn’t very nice of me. To tattle, I mean. Especially to a groom about his best man. Especially just thirty-six hours before the wedding.

  But still. Cal totally deserves it. Who does he think he is, anyway, with his phenylethylamine and his thinking he can sabotage my best friend’s wedding by planting doubts in her—or worse, her husband-tobe’s—head?

  Mark listened to everything I had to say (I talked really sotto voce , so Cal, still down on the terrazza, wouldn’t overhear) and, when I was done, he did the weirdest thing.

  He threw back his head, and laughed.

  Yes! Actually laughed! Like it was the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard!

  Frankly, I don’t see what was so funny. I mean, if I had been about to get married, and I found out one of my friends was planning on using whatever influence she had over me to talk me out of it—

  Well, that’s just ridiculous, because if I were set on marrying someone, no one would be able to talk me out of it.

  Which is exactly what Mark said to me.

  Mark: “Janie, Cal’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had. But no one is going to talk me out of marrying Holly. Particularly not someone whose own marriage was such a spectacular disaster.”

  This information dried my tears right up.

  And I know it was really wrong of me, but I totally couldn’t help going, “You knew Valerie, Cal’s ex?”

  Mark: “Knew her? Yeah, I knew her. About as well as he did, anyway. And for about as long. I was there the night they met.”

  Me: (extremely interested in this) “Really? And was she really beautiful? She was a model, right?”

  Mark just shrugged. I have to admit, he didn’t look so hot. But maybe it was the light from the harsh Italian bulb inside a pinky shade.

  Mark: “She was all right. Not my type. Tall and blonde and skinny. You know. Typical model.”

  Me: (nodding sympathetically) “And very, very dumb, right?”

  Mark: “Well, not so dumb that she didn’t know she’d latched onto a guy flush with his first-ever paycheck. And the whole modeling thing wasn’t going as well as she’d have liked. Contrary to what she was apparently led to believe by the Barbizon School or wherever she trained, modeling is quite hard. You have to get up early. And she didn’t like that.”

  Wow! Mark really hated Cal’s wife! He hardly EVER says anything bad about anyone, seeing as how he’s, you know, nice and all.

  “So…” I still wasn’t sure it was safe to leave Mark alone with his friend. “If Cal DOES try to talk you out of marrying Holly…”

  “He’s not going to try any such thing,” Mark said. But at my skeptically raised eyebrows, he added, “Fine, well, he can try, but it won’t work. I can’t believe you, of all people, would even think such a thing is possible, Janie. I love Holly, and no one’s going to talk me out of marrying her. Not Cal. Not my mother. Not even Holly’s mother. Nothing is going to stand in the way of our doing it. NOTHING.”

  Sadly, the conclusion of this very inspiring speech was somewhat anti-climactic, since about the time he uttered the words ‘Holly’s mother,’ Mark got kind of green around the gills, and went, “Um. Excuse me. I don’t feel so hot all of a sudden” and ducked into the bathroom, from which some explosive sounds soon emanated.

  So I wished him well and left him for my own room, happy in the knowledge that, should Cal try anything, Mark, at least, would stay strong.

  As for Holly… well, we’ll have to see. I THINK she knows she’s doing the right thing.

  I’ll work on her some more in the car tomorrow.

  Now to let Cal Langdon know he won’t be able to talk Mark out of it….

  Travel Diary of Jane Harris

  Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

  Jane Harris

  Oh my God, you’ll never guess what I just caught Cal Langdon doing!!!! Mr. Hardened News Journalist was down on the terrazza, holding out a plate of Zio Matteo’s tuna to all of these scrawny stray cats that had come slinking over to the villa from the stables.

  He jumped like I’d shot him when I said his name, and the cats all ran, but I saw them.

  Oh, I saw them, all right.

  Between the being-afraid-of-snakes thing, and now a soft spot for cats, I guess Mr. No Heart might just have one after all.

  Still, I didn’t let on that I knew. About his heart, I mean. Instead, I told him—because I couldn’t help myself—that I’d spoken to Mark, and that he (Cal) was living in a fantasy world if he thought he could talk him (Mark) out of marrying Holly on Wednesday.

  To my surprise, Cal just totally ignored that. Instead— while staring at my Christian Louboutins, as usual—he asked me instead if I knew Indian women sometimes decorate their feet with henna.

  ????????????

  There is something seriously wrong with this guy.

  Me: “Um, no. But I do know if they show their ankles in public, they can be punished by having their feet cut off. Why don’t you write a book about how unfair that is, instead of what’s going to happen to the Saudis when the oil runs out?”

  Cal: (finally looking away from my feet) “Do you think women’s lives there are going to get easier when their country is essentially shut off from contact with the outside world, due to their no longer having a product we want to exploit? Or do you think they’ll get harder?”

  Me: “Harder, obviously. But what can I do about it? Use fewer water bottles?”

  Cal: “Yes, overconsumption of petroleum-based products is a leading cause of global warming.”

  Seriously, I can’t believe he ever got any woman to marry him. I mean, with a line like that. Even a model.

  Hey, maybe that’s why he only dates foreigners now. Because they can’t tell what’s coming out of his mouth.

  Me: “Well, then maybe we’d better just use it all up and get it over with so we run out already and can go back to how things were before.”

  Cal: “You mean before they started bottling spring water and selling it for a buck fifty a pop and pretending it’s better for you than tap?”

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Me: “I don’t know. You’re the one who wrote a book about it. Why do you keep looking at my feet, anyway?”

  Cal: “Why do you keep looking at my crotch?”

  I SWEAR TO GOD!!! THAT IS WHAT HE ASKED ME!!!!

  Then THANK GOD Peter showed up from out of nowhere and went, “Jane Harris, I am hearing your woice and knew you vere avake. Now will you be drawing me the sketches of Vundercat you promised for my Veb site?” and handed me a sketch pad and some markers.

  So I said, “Of course, Peter,” in my most gracious voice— even though I was FREAKING OUT about the crotch thing— and drew him about fifty Wondercat sketches, while Cal sat there scowling in the candlelight and going, “Peter, shouldn’t you be in bed by now? Don’t you have school in the morning?”

  But of course Peter explained that he goes to Internet school and doesn’t have to log on by any particular time.

  And all I could think was, what if Peter hadn’t shown up right then? I mean, Cal and I had basically been in each other’s face over that whole petroleum thing. Close enough that, you know, it occurred to me— just kind of randomly—that if we didn’t hate each other so much, we might have started, I don’t know.

  Kissing or something.

  I KNOW! I don’t even LIKE him. He’s a totally pompous know-it-all—a modelizer!

  But still, he does kind of…exude something. I don’t know what it is. I mean, I was having a pretty good time hating his guts right up until I saw him with those cats. CATS!!!! HE LIKES CATS!!!!

  And he so clearly didn’t WANT to be caught feeding them. He looked so GUILTY when he saw me.

  A
nd then, when we got close there, during our little argument…

  BAM. There it was. I couldn’t stop noticing how handsome he looked in the candlelight, with those too blue eyes and his messy Brad Pitt-y hair and his shirt open a little at the neck so I saw a tiny bit of that chest he’d had out on display earlier by the pool and—

  WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME??? I ALREADY HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!!!!!!!!

  Well, okay, not really.

  But I have one if I want one. All I have to do is go to British Columbia, and WHAM, there he is, the boyfriend. A boyfriend who BELIEVES in love. A boyfriend who would NEVER say love is a mere chemical reaction in the brain caused by surges of phenylethylamine (um, especially since Malcolm doesn’t know any words that big).

  SO WHY AM I EVEN THINKING ABOUT CAL LANGDON IN THAT WAY????

  It can’t just be the cat thing. It must be all this fresh air. It DOES things to a girl. As soon as I get back to the city and breathe in good old New York exhaust fumes, I’ll be all right again.

  I hope.

  In the meantime, I’ve just got to STAY AWAY from him and his pheromones or whatever it is that makes me keep thinking about what it would be like to sleep with Cal Langdon.

  Tomorrow I’ll make sure to wear my Adidas, too. No guy looks at your feet when you’re in your Adidas.

  God, how am I supposed to get to sleep NOW?

  PDA of Cal Langdon

  PDA of Cal Langdon

  I have GOT to stay away from prosecco. It makes me do the most damnable things, things I’d never do were I in my right mind… feed perfectly fine tuna to a lot of stray cats, for example. Or admire the way the moonlight brings out the highlights in a certain cartoonist’s hair…

  Who drank all the scotch?

  ___________________________________________

  e-mails

  To: Jane Harris

  Fr: Darrin Caputo

  Re: Your mother

  ARE YOU SERIOUS???? HOLLY AND MARK ARE ELOPING???? In Castelfidardo?

  Well, that’s kind of a weird place to do it (have you seen the whang on that naked accordionist statue in the town square? That dude is HUNG), but I couldn’t be happier for them. OF COURSE we’ll do something to throw Mom off the scent. I don’t know what, exactly…. Bobby’s going to think something up,he’s better at this kind of thing than I am.

  Oh my God, that is just the BEST NEWS. NO ONE deserves a romantic wedding in Italy more than my sister Holly. Give her a big kiss from me, and don’t worry, I won’t tell a SOUL!!!!

  Love,

  D

  ___________________________________________

  To: Jane Harris

  Fr: Claire Harris

  Re: Holly’s mother

  Really, Jane, you don’t have to SHOUT at me. That’s what they call it when you write an email in capital letters, you know. SHOUTING. And it’s very rude.

  I didn’t mean to say anything to Marie. Obviously. It just slipped out. You should be a little more understanding, you know. I’m under a lot of stress these days over at the Salvation Army, where I’ve been volunteering. The past three Saturdays in the row I’ve signed up to work in the thrift shop, and each and every time they’ve put me in the back, ironing the donated baby clothes! I know I’m very good with an iron, but can’t they at least once let me work the cash register? Or help the poor people find the right clothes for their body type?

  But no. “Oh, look, here comes Claire. Get out the ironing board.”

  I am seriously considering quitting and going over to Good Will. Marcy Clark told me they don’t make anybody iron ANYTHING over there.

  Plus your dad touched a mango yesterday, and you know how allergic he is. I WARNED him there was a mango in the fruit bowl. I was going to use it in the fruit salad I’m bringing to the gourmet potluck at Helen Fogarty’s this weekend.

  But Dad had to go and cut it up, thinking it was a papaya, and now he’s got hives all over his hands and arms. I’ve been putting calamine lotion on them, but I think we’re going to have to take another trip over to the Promptcare for some prednisone….

  So don’t be so snappy with me, young lady. I have a lot going on.

  I don’t know what Marie’s problem is, anyway. At least her daughter’s got a man who wants to marry her. All MY daughter has is a development deal with the Cartoon Network. And while Daddy and I are very proud of you, sweetie, you can’t exactly honeymoon with a development deal, now, can you? Or gaze into a development deal’s sweet angelic eyes while you’re changing its diaper.

  So cut your mother some slack.

  Love,

  Mom

  Travel Diary of Jane Harris

  Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

  Jane Harris

  Okay. Okay. Everything is going to be all right. I can figure this out. I can totally figure this out—

  No, I can’t. This is a disaster. A total and complete disaster.

  What am I going to do????

  ___________________________________________

  e-mails

  To: Listserv

  Fr: Peter Schumacher

  Re: JANE HARRIS

  Good morning fellow lovers of Wundercat! There is BIG NEWS today about JANE HARRIS! Her friends who will be getting the marriage both eat the bad oysters last night, and this morning are sick as dogs! YES! They cannot get up out of the beds!

  And this is bad because they are supposed to get the form from the Consulate of the US today, so they can have the marriage tomorrow!

  But when I drove by the villa this morning on my motorino, to bring JANE HARRIS fresh brotchen, she is very upset, and says, “Ask your grandmother what can be done.” So I get my grandmother, and she comes to the villa and says that nothing can be done from eating the bad oyster, they will have to wait until it has passed through.

  Which, if it does not do soon, there will be no marriage tomorrow!

  So this is BAD NEWS for JANE HARRIS.

  I will keep you informed as news continues! This is Peter Schumacher, #1 Fan Of Wundercat!

  Wundercat Lives—4eva!

  Peter

  Travel Diary of Jane Harris

  Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

  Jane Harris

  Oysters. They just HAD to have the oysters.

  I warned them. They can’t say I didn’t warn them. Who eats raw shellfish in a foreign country, I ask you? Who? This isn’t Japan. Italy is not known for its raw seafood. What were they THINKING?

  Poor Mark. I guess that’s what I heard him throwing up last night. And he’s STILL throwing it up. He can barely move from the bed.

  And Holly… my God, when I knocked on their bedroom door to see why they weren’t up yet for our drive to Rome, and Holly answered, she looked like… well, the undead. She hasn’t looked this bad since that Fourth of July we invented the drink with the watermelon balls and vodka (Rockets’ Red Glare).

  “I don’t think there’s going to be any wedding,” she said. And then had to run to the bathroom.

  What could I do but follow her? It’s not like I haven’t held her hair for her while she barfed plenty of times before—Rockets’ Red Glare in particular.

  “Holly,” I said, as gently as I could, when she’d sunk back down onto the bathroom tiles in exhaustion. “You guys HAVE to make it to Rome today. You know tomorrow’s the only day the mayor said he could fit your wedding into the schedule.”

  Which turned out not to be the right thing to say, since Holly promptly started to cry.

  “I know!” she wailed. “But what can we do? We wouldn’t last five minutes in the car. We’d have to pull over every thirty seconds to throw up. Oh, God, Janie. It’s over. We’re not getting married. Not now, anyway. Not in Italy. And the way everything seems to be going against us… maybe not ever. Maybe my mother is right. Maybe HIS mother is right. Ma
ybe we should just forget it. Maybe it’s just not meant to be.”

  I know! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Not meant to be? Holly, I know you don’t feel well, but are you NUTS? You can’t just forget it. You guys HAVE to get married. And you have to get married here, in Italy.”

  She just looked at me through miserable, swollen eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I already told Darrin!” was what I ALMOST said. I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to have told anyone, though, and at the last possible second changed it to, “Because it’s what you’ve always wanted to do. You’ve been planning this forever. And Mark wants it, too, I know it. More than anything. You can’t just give up because of a little food poisoning!”

  To which she responded by barfing some more.

  I got her back to bed, somehow. Then I found Peter outside with more of those breakfast rolls, and asked him to get his grandmother. Frau Schumacher came over, looking very concerned, and went in to see the stricken couple. Her expression, when she came out of the room again, was grave.

  “No good,” she said to me. “Zey vill not make the drive to Roma and back today. Tomorrow, yes. But not today.”

  “But it HAS to be today,” I cried. “There’s no other time! The mayor said Wednesday was the only day… and we leave Friday anyway.”

  But I know Frau Schumacher is right. She’s downstairs making some hot broth for Mark and Holly to choke down—it doesn’t matter if the lights go out right now, since it’s daytime. A beautiful day, as a matter of fact. The sun is beaming down, and the pool is sparkling, and the breeze is causing the palm fronds to sway gently….

  Damn it! Why did they eat those oysters?

  And why does this country have to be so BACKWARD??? If a person wants to get married here, and has all the right forms from back in the US, why CAN’T she??? Why do they have to send her all over creation for MORE forms??? Is it some kind of test to see how dedicated they are to the idea of being married? I mean, it’s just a FORM,anybody can get a form—