by Meg Cabot
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Max Friedlander
Her name was Heidi. She was a showgirl. She had feathers in her hair, and a dress cut down there.
Okay, not really. But her name was Heidi, and she was a showgirl. And apparently I was determined to make her the first Mrs. John Trent.
You wouldn’t understand, of course, having never done anything even slightly disreputable in all of your thirty-five years, but try, Jason, to put yourself in my shoes:
It was spring break. I was twenty-two. I was in love.
I’d had way too many margaritas.
Max dragged me out of the wedding chapel, sent Heidi home, took away my keys so I couldn’t follow her, sobered me up, and put me to bed.
I still think of her sometimes. She had red hair, and was slightly bucktoothed. She was adorable.
But not worth THIS.
John
P.S.: Congratulate Haley and Brittany for me. Are you going out to the Vineyard this weekend? I could meet you all there.
Depending on whatever this favor of Max’s turns out to be.
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: Max Friedlander
Ah. It is all become clear now. I know how you are when it comes to redheads.
So just what IS the favor he wants you to do him in return?
Jason
P.S.: No, we’re going to the place in the Hamptons. You’re welcome to join us.
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: S.O.S.
I don’t even want to ask. What is it that you want me to do for you, Max?
And please, I’m begging you, nothing illegal in New York, or any other state.
John
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: S.O.S.
Look, it’ll be a piece of cake: All I want you to do is be me. Just for a week or two.
Well, okay, maybe a month.
Simple, right? Here’s the 411:
My aunt—you know, the filthy stinking rich one who always kind of reminded me of your grandma, Mimi, or whatever the hell her name is. The one who was so mean about our apartment? The neighborhood wasn’t that bad.
Anyway, my aunt apparently suffered a senior moment and let a psychopath into her place, who conked her on the head and fled, and now she’s in the vegetable crisper at Beth Israel.
There is a chance—albeit a small one—according to her doctors, that she might come out of it.
So you understand that it simply won’t do to have her waking up and finding out that her beloved Maxie didn’t fly to her side as soon as he heard about her accident. Auntie Helen’s will is arranged 80/20—80 percent of the $12 million my aunt is worth goes to me upon her demise, and 20 percent goes to various charitable organizations she sponsors. We wouldn’t want there to be any sort of untimely shift in those percentiles, now would we, on account of Maxie turning out to have been playing house with a supermodel during this alarming tragedy?
Of course we wouldn’t. Which is where you, my friend, come in:
You’re going to tell this neighbor of hers that you’re me.
That’s it. Just be me, so Ms. Melissa Fuller reports back to Auntie Helen—if she ever comes around, which is extremely doubt-ful—that, yes, her beloved nephew, Maxie, did show up as soon as he heard about her little accident.
Oh, yeah, and you might have to walk the dog a few times. Just to shut the neighbor up.
And, of course, if the old biddy shows the slightest sign of rejoining the conscious, you call me. Got it? And I’ll rush right back.
But since I figure the chance of an eighty-year-old woman springing back from this kind of thing is pretty much nil, I won’t be expecting to hear from you.
You know I wouldn’t ask you to do this if we weren’t talking Vivica here. Okay? VIVICA. The girl is supposedly very well versed in yoga.
YOGA, Trent.
You do this for me, and your slate’s clean, dude. Whadduya say?
Max
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: S.O.S.
Let me see if I’ve got this straight:
Your aunt was the victim of a brutal assault, and you don’t even care enough to postpone your vacation?
That is cold, Friedlander. Really cold.
Essentially, what you want me to do is impersonate you. Is that it?
I think I’d rather be married to the showgirl.
John
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: S.O.S.
You crime reporters are all alike.
Why do you have to make it sound so underhanded? I told you, Helen’s in a coma. She’s never even going to know about it. If she croaks, you tell me, I come back to arrange the funeral. If she comes out of it, you tell me, I come back to help her convalesce.
But as long as she’s unconscious, she’s never going to know the difference. So why postpone anything?
Besides, we’re talking Vivica here.
You see how easy things can be if you don’t overanalyze them? You were always like this. I remember those multiple-choice tests we’d get in Bio, you were always, “It can’t be A—that’s too obvious. They must be trying to trick us,” and so you’d choose D, when the answer was CLEARLY A.
As long as Auntie Helen—and her lawyers—doesn’t know any better, why not let me enjoy my well-earned little vacation? Placate this neighbor of hers. That’s all I’m asking. Just take over the dog-walking duties.
I think it’s a very small price to pay, considering that I kept you from making the worst mistake of your entire life. You think old Mimsy would still be inviting you up to those soirees on the Vineyard if you had a Vegas showgirl for a wife?
I think not.
I think you owe your buddy Maxie, but good.
Max
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Max Friedlander
He wants me to pretend to be him and walk his comatose aunt’s dog while he’s off partying with a supermodel.
I guess it could be worse. A lot worse.
So why do I have such a bad feeling about it?
John
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: Max Friedlander
You’re right. It could be worse. Are you going to do it?
Jason
P.S.: Stacy says to tell you she’s got the perfect girl for you: Haley’s dressage instructor. Twenty-nine, size 4, blond, blue-eyed, the works. What do you say?
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Max Friedlander
Why not?
I mean, walking an old lady’s dog…how bad can that be?
John
P.S.: You know I can’t stand dressage. There’s something unnatural about making a horse dance.
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: Max Friedlander
The horses don’t dance in dressage, you moron. They step.
And have you ever considered that you and Heidi might have been perfectly suited for one another? I mean, with the kind of luck you’ve been having with women lately, Heidi could very well have been your last chance at real happiness.
Just think, if you’d followed your heart, instea
d of Max friedlander’s head, you could be the one providing Mim with a grand-kid in December, instead of me.
Jason
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Max Friedlander
Have I mentioned lately how much I hate you?
John
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: S.O.S.
Okay, I’ll do it.
John
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: Operation Paco
All right. I’ll let the neighbor know to expect you (I mean, me) tonight for the big key pickup. She’s got my aunt’s spare. It has not apparently occurred to her to wonder why Aunt Helen never gave me a key to her place. (That fire in her last apartment was not my fault. There was something wrong with the wiring.)
Remember, you’re supposed to be me, so try to act like you care about the old lady’s hematoma, or whatever it is.
And listen, as long as you’re being me, could you try to dress with a little…what’s the word I’m looking for here? Oh, I know. STYLE. I know for guys like you who are born into money, the instinct is to downplay the trillions you’re worth.
And that’s cool with me. I mean, I can understand this whole thing you’re doing, getting a real job instead of the cushy family one your big brother offered.
And I’m totally fine with it. If you want to pretend like you’re only making forty-five grand a year, that’s just great.
But while you’re being me, could you PLEASE not dress like a grad student? I am begging you: No Grateful Dead T-shirts. And those deck shoes you always wear? Would something in a tassel kill you?
And for the love of God, invest in a leather jacket. Please. I know it will mean touching some of those precious millions in that trust fund your grandfather left you, but, really, something NOT from the Gap would be good.
That’s all. That’s all I ask. Just try to look good when you’re imitating me. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.
Max
P.S.: The neighbor left a number, but I lost it. Her e-mail’s melissa.fuller@thenyjournal.
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: S.O.S.
Christ, Friedlander, she works for the New York JOURNAL???
You didn’t say that. You didn’t say anything about your aunt’s neighbor working for the New York Journal.
Don’t you get it, Max? She might KNOW me. I’m a journalist. Yeah, we work for rival papers, but for God’s sake, the field’s pretty small. What if she opens the door and it turns out we’ve been to the same conferences—or crime scenes?
Your cover will be blown.
Or do you not care?
John
P.S.: And how am I supposed to e-mail her? She’s going to know I’m not you when she reads my address.
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: Operation Paco
Of course I care. And don’t worry, I already checked her out. She does the gossip page.
I doubt you’ve been running into any gossip columnists at the crime scenes you’ve been covering lately.
Max
P.S.: Apply for a second e-mail account.
P.P.S.: Quit bugging me. Vivica and I are trying to watch the sunset.
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: I’m not happy
Gossip? She’s a gossip columnist, Max? She’s going to know I’m not you for SURE.
John
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: I’m not happy
Max? MAX??? WHERE ARE YOU?
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Max Friedlander
Oh, my God, Nadine! I heard from him!
He’s on assignment in Ethiopia, photographing little starving kids for the Save the Children fund! And I’ve just asked him to leave to come home and take care of his aunt’s dog!
What kind of a horrible bitch must I seem to him? Oh, God, I knew I shouldn’t have tried to contact him.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Max Friedlander
What’s more important to him, a bunch of starving kids he doesn’t know or his aunt’s dog?
I don’t mean to sound cold, but starving children or not, the man has to take some responsibility.
Besides, his aunt is in a coma, Mel. I mean, if your only living relative is in a coma, you come home, for God’s sake, starving kids or no.
When’s he getting here, anyway? Are you going to be able to make the pool party? Because Tony’s threatening to break off the engagement if I don’t go.
Nad :-/
To: Mel Fuller
From: Dolly Vargas
Subject: Max Friedlander
Darling, I could hear you shrieking all the way in the art department. I thought at the very least the cast of Friends was breaking up.
But now I find out it’s only because Max Friedlander e-mailed you.
But what’s this I hear about him doing it from in Ethiopia? Max Friedlander would NEVER go to Ethiopia. My God, it’s so…dusty there.
You must be confusing him with someone else.
Now, listen, about Aaron: I am bound and determined to make him into something I wouldn’t be ashamed to introduce to Stephen. So do you think he’ll resist strongly to my steering him over toward Barney’s? He’s simply got to have some linen pants, don’t you think? He’ll look so devastatingly F. Scott Fitzgerald in linen.
Can you say something, darling, next time you pass him on your way to the copier? Something completely cutting, like “nice khakis,” ought to put him exactly where I want him.
XXXOOO
Dolly
To: Don and Beverly Fuller
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Debbie Phillips
Hi, Mom. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. Things here have been pretty busy, like I mentioned to you over the phone. I’m still walking Mrs. Friedlander’s dog, but tonight her nephew is supposed to come by, and hopefully we’ll work something out.
Which is good because I’ve been getting into trouble at work for being late every day. I don’t know why people in Human Resources have such an axe to grind against us everyday working stiffs. It’s like they think they’re special or something, because they control what goes into our performance files.
Anyway, other than the stuff with Mrs. Friedlander (don’t worry, Mom, this building is very safe. Besides, you know my apartment is rent-controlled—it’s not like I can just move. And I always lock my door, and I never open it to strangers—besides, Ralph, the doorman, would never let a stranger up without buzzing me first), things have been going okay. I’m still stuck on Page Ten—I can’t convince Mr. Sanchez, my boss, that I really could do hard reporting, if he’d let me.
Let’s see, what else? Oh, I broke up with that guy I told you about. It wasn’t going anywhere. Well, at least, I didn’t see it going where he saw it going. Besides, it turns out he was cheating on me with Barbara Bellerieve. Well, I guess he wasn’t really cheating since he and I never really did anything anyway—don’t let Daddy read this, all right?
Oh, there’s the buzzer. Mrs. Fried
lander’s nephew is here. I have to go.
Love,
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Don and Beverly Fuller
Subject: Strange men
Melissa! You call me as soon as that man is gone! How could you let a man you’ve never met before into your apartment? He could be that serial killer I saw on the Inside Edition! The one who puts on his victims’ clothes and strolls around in them after he’s done hacking their bodies into pieces!
If you don’t call Daddy and me within one hour, I’m telephoning the police. I mean it, Melissa.
Mommy
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Max Friedlander
So??? What was he like???
Nad
To: Mel Fuller
From: Tony Salerno
Subject: Well???
DON’T TELL NADINE I WROTE THIS.
But listen, Mel, you have GOT to get this guy to take over the dog-walking thing for you. Because if you don’t, and you can’t come to this engagement party at my uncle Giovanni’s, Nadine’s going to have a nervous breakdown. I swear to God. Don’t ask me why, but she’s got this thing with her weight, and she needs, like, your moral support or something every time she has to get into a bathing suit.
As her maid of honor, it is your duty to appear with her at this party on Saturday. So get this dude to walk the dog that day, okay?
If he gives you a hard time, let me know. I’ll take care of him. People think guys who cook can’t be tough, but that’s not true. I’ll do to the guy’s face what I did to tonight’s special, which happened to be veal piccata—pounded flat and swimming in the lightest white wine sauce you ever tried. I’ll give you the recipe if you want later.
