The Boy Next Door (24 page)
Authors: Meg Cabot
To: Mel Fuller
From: George Sanchez
Subject: Would anyone care to tell me
what all that screaming was about a little while ago? And why aren’t any of you at your desks? I swear to God, if you’re all in the ladies’ room again, I am going in there and dragging you out. I don’t care. YOU CAN’T ALL HAVE TO GO AT THE SAME TIME. This isn’t cheerleader camp. What do you think I am, stupid?
Can’t any of you comprehend the fact that there is a time for gabbing and a time for working, and that when there’s a paper to put to bed, that means it’s time for WORKING???
GET BACK TO YOUR DESKS AND STAY THERE! George
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Mel, just call
him. Just call and ask him. I’m sure it’s just some kind of sick joke from an ex-girlfriend or something. You can straighten it all out with one phone call.
Just call him. There’s probably a very rational explanation for all of this.
Nad
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: No
You don’t understand. I just went through the e-mails I’ve gotten over the past few months, because I thought the return address to this one looked familiar, but I knew it wasn’t John’s, because his is [email protected]. And look. Look what I found. His first letter ever to me. Check out the return address:
>To: Mel Fuller
>From: Max Friedlander
>Subject: My aunt
>
>Dear Ms. Fuller,
>
>I am shocked. Deeply shocked and appalled to hear what has happened to my Aunt Helen. She is, as I’m sure you know, my only living relative. I cannot thank you enough for the efforts you’ve gone to in order to contact me and let me know about this tragedy.
>
>Although I am currently on assignment in Africa—perhaps you’ve heard of the drought here in Ethiopia? I am doing a photo shoot for the Save the Children fund—I will begin making preparations to return to New York at once. If my aunt should wake before I get there, please assure her that I am on my way.
>
>And thank you again, Ms. Fuller. Everything they say about cold and unfeeling New Yorkers is obviously untrue in your case. God bless you.
>
>Sincerely,
>
>Maxwell Friedlander
It’s the same return address as that one I just got from this Vivica. And read it. It doesn’t even SOUND like John. John didn’t write this. Nadine, I think this Vivica person might be telling the truth!
Oh, my God, what do I do? I can’t just call him. What am I going to say?
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: What are you going to say?
I can’t believe you are asking me this. You’re going to say, “Hey, buster, what the hell is going on here? If you think I’m going to Vermont with you after this, you’ve got another think coming, let me tell you. Now who the hell is Vivica?”
God, Mel, you are not a wuss, so why are you acting like this? CALL HIM!!!
Nad
To: Mel Fuller
From: Dolly Vargas
Subject: Darling
I know how upset you must be, and I just want to assure you that I am behind you 150 percent. Men can be such children, can’t they?
And because I feel so deeply for you in your hour of need, I have done a little calling around, and finally managed to track down Max Friedlander’s agent.
Sweetie, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Sebastian says Max has been in Key West the past few months with the supermodel Vivica!
I of course said, “But Sebastian, darling, that’s impossible, Max has been here walking his aunt’s dog and courting my little friend Melissa,” to which Sebastian, who is just a sweetheart, replied, “Dolly, honey, this isn’t the nineties anymore, put down the crack pipe. I’m getting calls from Max three times a day demanding to know when I’m going to find him work since Vivica is draining him dry.”
So there you go. Whoever this John of yours is, he can’t be Max Friedlander.
Oh, how I wish I’d been there that night you brought him to Fresche for our inspection. I could have told you straightaway he wasn’t Max.
I blame myself.
Is the Xanax I slipped you in the ladies’ working yet?
XXXOOO
Dolly
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: You are a dead man
What is wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you messing around with my aunt’s next-door neighbor? The reporter from the
Journal
? And doing it UNDER MY NAME???
Are you mental? I told you to walk Aunt Helen’s dog. That’s all. Just walk the stupid dog.
So why am I getting phone calls from my agent saying that that Dolly Vargas broad, the one I know from the
Journal
, has been calling around asking a bunch of questions about me? Specifically, how can I be in New York, going out with her friend Melissa, when I’m supposed to be in Key West, doing Vivica?
This is bad, dude. Really bad. I am in a bad place here, and you are just making things worse. Vivica caught me messing around with the maid—which was so totally not my fault: The woman wouldn’t keep her hands off me—and now she’s gone.
Which is admittedly something of a relief, so far as my finances are concerned. But there is no telling what she’s going to do when she gets back to New York. Blow my cover, most likely.
This is bad. Really bad. Why couldn’t you have just done what I asked you, and nothing more? Now if my aunt wakes up, she’s going to know I didn’t fly back up there to take care of her stupid pets.
This is uncool, dude. Way uncool.
Max
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Help
I think I am in big trouble.
John
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: What do you mean
help? Help what? How can you be in big trouble? I thought you’d left for Vermont. Why are you still here?
Stacy says to write her. Her brain is atrophying from too much daytime television.
Jason
To: Mel Fuller
From: [email protected]
Subject: I know
you’re home, I can see that your bedroom light is on. So why won’t you answer the door? Or your phone?
Mel, I know something is wrong, and I think I know what it is, but unless you talk to me, how can I make it right?
Because I can, I can make it right, if you would just give me the chance. Please, please, please open the door.
John
To: Tony Salerno
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Well, it happened
Just like I knew it would. I KNEW this guy was too good to be true. And that whole John thing. I told you it was weird to have a nickname like John, didn’t I?
Well, I was right. I’m not happy that I was right, but I was right. His nickname isn’t John. That’s his REAL name. That’s all we know so far, except for the fact that we know what his name ISN’T: It ISN’T Max Friedlander. Apparently, the real Max Friedlander paid this guy to POSE as him or something, so that he (the real Max) could hang out in Key West with Vivica, the supermodel, instead of flying back to New York to walk his aunt’s dog.
Poor Mel. Poor, poor Mel.
Why did I have to be right? I’d pay money not to have been right. I’d give up my new size 12 figure to have been wrong. Seriously.
Nad :-(
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Tony Salerno
Subject: Let me see
if I have this straight:
This guy Mel’s been seeing was just pretending to be Max Friedlander—a guy who you never liked, because you’d heard bad things about him—and now all of a sudden it turns out he’s NOT Max Friedlander. Only instead of being relieved, because he isn’t the dog you originally thought him, you’re mad because he lied.
I don’t get you women. I really don’t. I mean, I’ll admit the guy exercised some poor judgment, but at least he never put ice on anyone’s nipples.
Tony
To: Tony Salerno
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Don’t you get it?
He lied. He lied to her. How is she supposed to believe anything he said to her, when he never even told her his real name?
What is wrong with you? Whose side are you on?
Nad
From: Tony Salerno
Subject: You really blew it
Dude, remember how you gave me your e-mail address and told me to send you that recipe for my rigatoni bolognese so you could surprise Mel with it?
Well, I don’t think you’re going to be needing it. Because from what I’m hearing, you are in the doghouse, but good.
So what’s the deal? Max Friedlander paid you to tell Mel you were him or something? Because that is what the girls are saying.
I do not know what is up with you, but you had better start sandbagging, because you are in for some heavy artillery fire. Either that, or get out of there, dude. Seriously. Save yourself, because it’s all going to start coming down.
Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.
Tony
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: No, YOU are the dead man
What are you trying to do to me? Are you CRAZY? How did Mel find out about all this?
John
To: John Trent
From: Stacy Trent
Subject: WHAT’S HAPPENING???
Why isn’t anyone telling me anything? Jason says something is wrong. What is it? Aren’t you supposed to be in Vermont?
Damn these cramps….
Stacy
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: Quit your whining
You owed me one, remember?
Anyway, it isn’t my fault. It was Vivica. She did it. She apparently e-mailed your girl. I can see the message in my outbox. Want to see it? Here is it, and I must say, it’s a brilliant testament to the inadequacies of our public school system:
She goes on, ad nauseam, in this vein, but I thought I’d spare you.
You can’t honestly tell me you’re upset about this.
I’m
the one whose ass is grass here. If that bitch of an aunt of mine wakes up and hears about this I am dead meat. Every cent she has will go straight to the ASPCA when she croaks. You can bet I won’t see a penny of it.
Not that it matters. It’s time I took care of this once and for all, the way I should have from the beginning.
So who knows? You might be seeing me sooner than you think.
And as for that threat about me being a dead man, I have one word for you:
Alimony. I saved you from years and years of it, buddy. So don’t you forget it.
Max
To: Stacy Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Things aren’t going
too well right now, in answer to your question. Mel found out about the whole posing-as-Max-Friedlander thing before I had the chance to tell her myself, and let’s just say she’s not too happy about it. In fact, she isn’t speaking to me.
I could really use some advice right now, but no one is answering the phone at your place.
John
To: Mel Fuller
From: [email protected]
Subject: The truth
All right. You won’t answer the door. You won’t pick up the phone. I KNOW you’re there. If this is the only way I’m going to be able to get through to you, then so be it.
Mel, I screwed up. Okay? I really, really screwed up, and I know it. I should have just told you the truth from the beginning, but I didn’t. I can’t tell you how many times I almost did just that—told you the truth, I mean. A thousand times. A million.
But every time I started to, I knew—I just knew—you were going to react this way, and I didn’t want to spoil what we have together, because, Mel, what we have is so great. Are you really going to throw it away because I made one stupid—okay, massively idiotic—mistake?
It isn’t as if I purposefully set out with the intention of deceiving you. Well, that’s not exactly true. I did, but when I did it, it wasn’t as if I knew you. I mean, I get this e-mail from Max, and all he wants is this one thing—to trick his aunt’s neighbors into thinking he was taking care of her business while she was in the hospital—and I thought, why not? I did owe the guy. I figured it was a virtually painless way to pay him back for a favor he did me a long time ago.
You don’t know Max Friedlander—the real Max Friedlander—but believe me, he’s not somebody you want holding something over your head—like a favor you owe him—because he’s likely to call you on it when you least expect it, and generally in a not-very-pleasant manner.
How was I supposed to know that while pretending to be Max Friedlander, I was going to meet the girl of my dreams? I know I should have told you from the start, but I didn’t, and then before I knew it I was in love with you, and I couldn’t tell you
because I didn’t want to lose you. I swear I was going to tell you this weekend.
Mel, this is ridiculous. I know what I did was wrong, but I never meant it to hurt you. I mean, you
must
know that. You know
me
, regardless of what my name is. So you must know I would never purposefully hurt you.
Now open your door and let me in so I can apologize in person. Mel, I promise I can make this all right again, if you’d just let me.
John