by Meg Cabot
NOW, DON’T FORGET!!!
Tony
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: Operation Paco
You wore tassels, right? On your shoes? When you went to see her tonight?
Just tell me you wore tassels.
Max
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: How’d it go?
Just wondering how your little performance went this evening.
And Stacy wants to know if you’re still coming for dinner on Sunday like we planned.
Jason
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: HI!!!
HI!!! THIS IS VIVICA, MAX’S FRIEND, WRITING TO YOU ON E-MAIL! MAX IS IN THE HOT TUB BUT HE ASKED ME TO ASK YOU HOW IT WENT WITH THAT WEIRD LADY WHO HAS THE DOG PROBLEM. DID SHE BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE MAX???
IT IS WEIRD TO BE WRITING TO YOU SEEING AS HOW I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU. WHAT IS THE WEATHER LIKE IN NEW YORK? HERE IT IS EIGHTY AND BEAUTIFUL.
WE SAW SOME PERFORMING CATS TODAY. IT WAS CRAZY!!! WHO KNEW CATS COULD DO THAT???
OH, MAX SAYS TO ASK YOU TO CALL HIM HERE AT THE HOTEL AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS MESSAGE. THE NUMBER IS 305-555-6576. ASK FOR THE SOPRADILLA COTTAGE. SOPRADILLA IS A FLOWER. IT GROWS ALL OVER KEY WEST. KEY WEST IS ONLY NINETY MILES FROM CUBA, WHERE I ONCE DID A SWIMSUIT SHOOT.
UH-OH, I HAVE TO GO, MAX IS HERE.
VIVICA
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: What was he’s like?
Okay, the stats:
I would say six foot one or two. Big shoulders. I mean really big. Dark hair, but not too dark. Hazel eyes. You know the kind. Sometimes green. Sometimes brown. Sometimes searing into my soul….
Just kidding.
As for the rest:
I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to explain. He wasn’t what I was expecting, that’s for sure. I mean, from what I’d heard, about the modeling shoots and everything, I was expecting a real smooth operator, you know?
But what kind of smooth operator goes around in a Grateful Dead T-shirt? And he had on jeans. And deck shoes with no socks.
I expected Gucci loafers at least.
And he was so modest—I mean, for a guy who entered a nude picture of himself into the Biennial. I think Dolly must be exaggerating about that. Maybe he wasn’t really nude. Maybe he was wearing one of those flesh-colored body stockings they wear, you know, in the movies.
And he didn’t want to talk about his trip to Ethiopia at all! When I mentioned the work he was doing for the Save the Children fund, he actually seemed embarrassed and tried to change the subject.
I tell you, Nadine, he doesn’t seem at all the way Dolly described him.
Even Mrs. Friedlander didn’t do him justice. She’s always talked about him as if she thought he was a little irresponsible, but I’m telling you, Nadine, he didn’t seem that way to me. He asked all sorts of things about what happened—I mean about the break-in, and all. Although I guess it wasn’t really a break-in, since the door wasn’t even locked….
Anyway, it was really touching how much he seemed to care about his aunt. He asked me to show him where I found her, and how she was lying, and if anything was missing….
It was almost as if he’d had some experience dealing with violent crime…. I don’t know. Maybe there were some catfights at the Victoria’s Secret shoot???!
Another odd thing: He seemed kind of surprised at how big Paco is. I mean, considering that I know Mrs. Friedlander had Max over for dinner at least a few months ago, and Paco’s five years old, so it’s not like he could have grown any. When I mentioned how last week Paco practically wrenched my shoulder out of its socket, Max said he didn’t see how a frail old lady could walk such a big dog on a regular basis.
Isn’t that funny? I guess only a nephew would think of Mrs. Friedlander as frail. She’s always seemed like a tough old bird to me. I mean, considering that last year she hiked all over Yosemite….
Anyway, Nadine, I’m so glad you made me get in touch with him! Because he said he didn’t feel right about me walking Paco with my hurt shoulder and all, and that he was going to move in next door, to take care of the animals and sort of keep an eye on things.
Can you believe that? A man who actually takes care of his responsibilities? I am still in shock.
I have to go—someone’s at the door. Oh, God, it’s the cops!
Gotta go—
Mel
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: What was he like?
Okay, the cops are gone. I explained about my mother and her obsession with the transvestite killer. They didn’t even get that mad.
Anyway, Nadine, do you want to know something else? About Max Friedlander, I mean. If you can stand it….
From where I’m sitting, at my desk at home, I can see into his apartment—I mean, Mrs. Friedlander’s apartment. Right into the spare bedroom. Mrs. Friedlander always kept the mini-blinds in that room down, but Max opened them right up (to look at the city lights, I guess—we do have that nice view here on the fifteenth floor) and I can see him lying on the bed, typing something on his laptop. Tweedledum is on the bed beside him, as is Paco, of course (no sign of Mr. Peepers, but then, he’s shy).
I know it’s wrong to look, but, Nadine, they look so nice and happy in there!
And I guess it doesn’t hurt that Max really has very nice forearms….
Oh, God. I had better go to bed. I think I’m getting slap-happy.
Love,
Mel
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: How’d it go?
She’s a redhead.
Help.
John
To: Mel Fuller
From: Dolly Vargas
Subject: Max Friedlander
Darling, did I overhear you correctly when I ran into you and Nadine at Starbucks this morning? Did you say Max Friedlander actually moved in next door to you?
And that you were actually spying on him?
And that you saw him naked???
I seem to have gotten some water in my ears last weekend at Stephen’s, so I just want to make sure I heard you right before I call every single person I know and tell them.
XXXOOO
Dolly
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Dolly
Mel—
Would you stop obsessing? Who is she going to tell? Dolly doesn’t know that many people here at the office.
And the ones she does know all hate her and wouldn’t believe her anyway.
Trust me.
Nad
To: Mel Fuller
From: Aaron Spender
Subject: You
Mel, did I hear this from Dolly correctly? Did a naked man move in next door to you? What happened to the old lady? Did she end up dying? I hadn’t heard. I’m very sorry for your loss, if that’s the case. I know the two of you were fairly close, for Manhattan neighbors.
But I don’t think it’s appropriate for a man to parade around nude in front of his neighbors. You really ought to complain to the co-op board about this, Melissa. I know you are only renting, and that you don’t like to make waves because you have such a good deal on the place, but this kind of thing could be perceived as a sexual assault. Really, it could.
Meli
ssa, I was wondering if you’d given any thought to what I said in the elevator the other day. I really meant it. I think it’s time.
I remember that day when we went walking through Central Park during your lunch hour. It seems so long ago, but it was only last spring. You purchased a hot dog from an outdoor vendor, and I urged you not to, because of that story I did on carcinogens in street-cart food.
I’ll never forget the way your blue eyes flashed at me as you said, “Aaron, in order to die, you have to live a little first.”
Melissa, I’ve decided: I want to live. And the person I want to live with, more than anyone else in the world, is you. I believe I am ready to make a commitment.
Oh, Melissa, please won’t you let that commitment be with you? Aaron
Aaron Spender
Senior Correspondent
New York Journal
To: Mel Fuller
From: George Sanchez
Subject: Tardiness
So, Dolly tells me you finally got in touch with the dog guy. That would explain why you were on time this morning for the first time in twenty-seven days.
Congratulations, kid. I’m proud of you.
Now if you’d just start handing in your copy on time I won’t have to fire you. But I guess I shouldn’t count on that happening, since I hear this new neighbor of yours looks pretty good in the buff.
George
To: Dolly Vargas
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Max Friedlander
Dolly, I swear to God, if you tell one more person that I saw Max Friedlander naked I will personally come over there and put a stake through your heart, which I hear is the only way to stop someone like you.
He was not NAKED, okay? He was fully clothed. FULLY CLOTHED AT ALL TIMES.
Well, except for his forearms. But that’s all I saw, I swear it.
So, stop telling people otherwise!!!
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Dolly Vargas
Subject: Max Friedlander
Darling, have I struck a nerve or something? I’ve never seen you use all caps quite so strenuously. Max must have really made an impression on you for you to be so heated up.
But then, he has that effect on women. He can’t help it. Pheromones, you know. The man is lousy with them.
Well, must go. Peter Hargrave is taking me to lunch. Yes, that’s right: Peter Hargrave, the editor in chief. Who knows, when I get back from lunch, I just might have a nice fat promotion.
But don’t worry, I won’t forget the little people.
XXXOOO
Dolly
P.S.: What do you think of Aaron’s new pants? Aren’t they just the thing? Hugo Boss.
I know, I know. But it’s a start.
To: Tony Salerno
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Saturday
Hi! Just a quick note to tell you not to worry—I’ll be there Saturday.
Yes, the dog guy actually showed up!
See you then.
Proud to be your future wife’s maid of honor,
Mel
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: How’d it go?
She’s a redhead? That’s IT? You’re just going to leave me hanging here?
WHAT HAPPENED???
Jason
P.S.: Stacy wants to know, too.
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: How it went
Sorry. I got hung up on a story, and then I had to go back to friedlander’s aunt’s place to walk the dog. Max failed to mention that the misleadingly named Paco is a GREAT DANE. The dog weighs more than Mim.
So what do you want to know?
Did she believe I was Max Friedlander? I am sorry to say that she did.
Did I play the part of Max Friedlander to perfection? I guess I must have, or she wouldn’t have believed I was he.
Do I feel like a grade-A heel for doing it? Yes. Self-flagellation for me.
The worst part is…well, I already told you the worst part. She thinks I’m Max Friedlander. Max Friedlander, the ingrate who doesn’t even seem to care that someone coldcocked his eighty-year-old aunt.
Melissa cares, though.
That’s her name. The redhead. Melissa. People call her Mel. That’s what she told me. “People call me Mel.” She moved to the city right after college, which makes her about twenty-seven years old, since she’s lived here for five years. Originally, she’s from Lansing, Illinois. Have you ever heard of Lansing, Illinois? I’ve heard of Lansing, Michigan, but not Lansing, Illinois. She says it’s a small town where you can walk down Main Street and everyone goes, “Oh, hi, Mel.”
Just like that. “Oh, hi, Mel.”
On her bookshelves are, among a great many other books, copies of every single thing ever written by Stephen King. Melissa has a theory that for every century there’s a writer who sums up the popular culture of the time, and for the nineteenth century it was Dickens, and for the twentieth it was Stephen King.
She says it has yet to be determined who is going to be the voice of the twenty-first century.
You know what my ex, Heather (you remember Heather, don’t you, Jason? The one you and Stacy referred to as the mouth breather?), had on her bookshelves, Jason?
The complete works of Kierkegaard. She’d never read Kierkegaard, of course, but the book covers matched the color of her sofa cushions.
That’s what she saw me as. Heather, I mean. A six-foot-two checkbook that could pay off her decorating bill.
Remind me again why Mim was so upset when Heather and I broke it off?
Oh, and when I got there, she offered me beer. Melissa, not Heather.
Not seltzer. Not wine. Not Glenfiddich on the rocks, or a Cosmo. Beer. She said she had two kinds: Light and root. I had root. So did she.
She showed me where Max’s aunt keeps the dog and cat food. She told me where to buy more, in case I ran out. She told me what Paco’s favorite walks were. She showed me how to lure a cat named, and I kid you not, Mr. Peepers, out from underneath the bed.
She asked me about my work for the Save the Children fund. She asked me about my trip to Ethiopia. She asked me if I’d been to visit my aunt in the hospital, and if it had upset me very much, seeing her with all those tubes coming out of her. She patted me on the arm and told me not to worry, that if anyone could come out of a coma, it was my aunt Helen.
And I stood there and grinned like an idiot and pretended I was Max Friedlander.
Anyway, I’m moving in. To Helen Friedlander’s apartment. So, if you need to call me, the number’s 212-555-8972. Only don’t call. Loud ringing noises, I’ve discovered, upset Mr. Peepers.
Gotta go.
John
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: Who are you?
And what have you done with my brother?
He used to be a rational human being until he started pretending to be Max Friedlander and met this Melissa person.
ARE YOU INSANE??? You can’t move into that woman’s apartment. What is wrong with you? GET OUT NOW WHILE YOU STILL CAN.
Jason
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: I think it’s sweet
Hi, John. It’s Stacy. Jason let me read your last e-mail. I hope you don’t mind.
I also hope you don’t listen to him. I think what you are doing is very sweet, helping out that poor girl next door with the old lady’s pets. Jason is
trying to tell me that you aren’t doing it to be nice, and something about red hair, but I am not listening to him. He has a very sick mind. He told me just the other day that the music on my pregnancy exercise video sounds like the music from a porno!
When has he ever watched porn, is what I would like to know.
Anyway, I’m just saying, don’t you feel bad about pretending to be this Max person. It’s for a greater good. And why don’t you ask the little redhead over for dinner on Sunday night? I’ll make sure I tell the girls to call you Max. They’ll think it’s fun, I’m sure. Like a game!
Well, that’s all for now. Hope to see you soon. Your loving sister-in-law,
Stacy
To: Michael Everett
From: John Trent
Subject: Contact
Please note that for the next several weeks, I will be available only by cell phone. Do not leave messages for me on my home phone. I can always be reached by e-mail, either at this address or my new one, [email protected].
Thanks.
John Trent
Senior Crime Correspondent
New York Chronicle
To: Jason Trent
From: [email protected]>
Subject: For Stacy
Dear Stacy,
I’d just like to thank you for being so understanding about my current situation. You see, my brother, your husband, has a tendency to take a very cynical view of everything.
Don’t ask me how he got this way, since Jason has always been the lucky one: He’s the one who got the head for business, while all I got was, if you’ll excuse the cliché, the bod for sin.
He was also lucky enough to get you, Stacy. I guess it’s easy for a guy who’s got such a gem for a wife to sit back and criticize the rest of us poor slobs, who can’t even find a geode out there, let alone a jewel. I guess Jason doesn’t remember how hard it was for him to meet a girl who was actually attracted to him, and not the Trent family fortune.
