by Meg Cabot
To: Mel Fuller
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hi
It’s me. Max Friedlander, I mean. I’m [email protected]. That’s a reference to Jerry Garcia. He was the lead singer in the Grateful Dead. In case you didn’t know.
How are you? I hope you didn’t actually try those leftover cold sesame noodles yesterday. My share congealed overnight into something resembling stucco.
Look, I think some of your dry cleaning got delivered to my aunt’s apartment last night instead of yours. At least, I don’t think my aunt owns any leopard-print blouses from Banana Republic—or at least, if she does, she unfortunately hasn’t had much opportunity to wear them lately—so it must be yours, right? Maybe we could meet later for a dry cleaning exchange.
Oh, and I noticed there’s a digitally restored re-release of Shadow of a Doubt playing tomorrow night at Film Forum. I know you said that was your favorite Hitchcock. I thought maybe we could catch a seven o’clock showing, if you don’t have other plans, then maybe grab something to eat later—preferably not Chinese food. Let me know.
Max Friedlander
P.S.: I’ve been meaning to tell you, my friends call me John. It’s a college thing that sort of stuck.
To: [email protected]
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Hi back atcha
Sure. The seven o’clock show would be great. We could go to Brother’s Barbecue afterward. That’s right down the street from Film Forum.
Thanks for rescuing my dry cleaning. Ralph is always getting 15A and B confused. I am forever getting giant bags of Iams dog food delivered to my door. I’ll pop by around nine to pick up my shirt, if that’s not too late. I have a function to attend after work—an art opening I have to cover for my column. This guy actually does sculptures out of Vaseline. I am not kidding, either. And people actually buy them.
Well, talk to you later.
Mel
P.S.: John is sort of a strange nickname, isn’t it?
P.P.S.: You might be surprised to know that I am actually aware of who Jerry Garcia is. In fact, I even saw him in concert once.
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: OHMYGOD
HE ASKED ME OUT!!!
Well, kind of. It’s just a trip to the movies, but that sort of counts, doesn’t it?
Here, read this copy of my reply and tell me if I sound too eager.
Mel
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Dolly Vargas
Subject: Max Friedlander
Good God, I see what you mean. I haven’t seen Mel this excited since she found out about that Little House on the Prairie reunion special (remember poor blind Mary? What a sap. I hated her).
Thank God Aaron’s on assignment in Botswana and doesn’t have to be subjected to the delighted squealing coming from Mel’s cubicle. He is still pathetically hung up on that girl. Why Mel would want to throw away a work-in-progress like Aaron for a wretch like Max I can’t imagine. I mean, at least Aaron has potential. I have known many women who’ve tried to change Max, to no avail.
In other words, Nadine, be afraid, be very afraid. Max is everything our mothers warned us about (well, mine would have warned me about boys like Max if she’d ever been home).
Max’s modus operandi: very intense until he gets a girl into bed, then he starts backing off. By that time the young lady is usually besotted, and cannot understand why the formerly attentive Max stops calling. Pathetic scenes ensue, in which cries of “Why haven’t you called?” and “Who was that woman I saw you with the other night?” are answered with “Stop suffocating me” and “I’m not ready for a commitment.” Variations on this theme include: “Can’t we just take this one day at a time?” and “I’ll call you on Friday. I swear it.”
Are you getting the picture?
Oh, and did I tell you about the time Max made all the models on a Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoot ice down their nipples because they weren’t sticking out enough?
Darling, he’ll eat our little Mel up and spit her out.
You didn’t really mean what you said about Nobu, did you?
XXXOOO
Dolly
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: OK, so what do I wear?
Seriously. Last time I saw him I was in sweats, so I want to look really, really good. Come with me at lunch and help me pick out something. I’m thinking this slip dress I saw at Bebe. But do you think that’s too slutty for a first date?
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: We need to talk
Meet me in the ladies’ room in five minutes.
Nad
To: Mel Fuller
cc: Nadine Wilcock
From: George Sanchez
Subject: Doesn’t anybody work here anymore?
Where the hell is everybody? Has it occurred to any of you that we have a paper to put out?
Dolly, where’s that story you were doing on stilettos, silent killers?
Nadine, I’m still waiting for that review of Bobby Flay’s new place.
Mel, did you or did you not attend last night’s premiere of the new Billy Bob Thornton film? I expected at least a diatribe from you about what a cad he was to leave the blond chick from Jurassic Park for that creepy girl who has the thing for her brother.
If I don’t see some butts in some chairs pretty soon there’s not going to be cake for any of you at Stella’s baby shower.
And I really mean it this time.
George
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Me? Hostile?
You ought to take a look in the mirror, Jase. You are not going prematurely bald because of your genes, bud. I am practically your genetic double, and not to brag or anything, but I still have a full head of hair. You have got a lot of pent-up hostility killing off those follicles. And if you ask me, it’s all directed at Mim. It’s your own fault for letting her run your life. See, I broke free, and guess what? Not a single damn strand on my pillow when I wake up in the morning.
I am willing to overlook your intense personal insecurities for the moment in order to inform you that I will not be able to attend the dedication tomorrow night, as I have alternate plans.
I will elaborate no more, for fear of further fraternal wrath.
I like that, further fraternal wrath. Maybe I’ll put that in my novel.
Fraternally yours, your faithful brother,
John
To: Nadine Wilcock
cc: Dolly Vargas
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Chill
You two need to calm down. I am going out with the guy, okay? I am not diving into bed with him. As Aaron can attest, I do not dive into bed with anybody that easily, all right?
You guys are way overreacting. First of all, Dolly, I don’t even believe that nipple story. And Nadine, I am not the emotionally fragile mess you imagine me to be. Okay, I am concerned about Winona Ryder, but it is not keeping me up at night. Ditto Laura Dern.
I can take care of myself.
Besides, it’s just a movie, for God’s sake.
Thanks for caring, though.
Mel
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: What is going on here?
What was that supposed to be? An intervention? I nearly died when I walked into the ladies’ room and Dolly was there with YOU. I kept looking around for the fax guy, thinking he was hiding in one of the stalls with a box of condoms and some edible massage oil, and her being there was all just some terrible mistake.
Nadine, I don’t care what Dolly says about Max Friedlander. He is nothing like that. Maybe he used to be, but he’s changed. I mean, I know. I have spent time with the guy. And I’ve watched him with Paco, and especially with Mr. Peepers (okay, I admit it, so I spied on him through the window. Hey, I’m not proud. But it’s the truth). Mr. Peepers hates everybody, but he is really starting to warm up to Max, and I know you can’t judge a person by how he or she relates to animals, but I think it says a lot about Max that he has spent so much time getting to know his aunt’s pets that even a distrustful and generally antisocial cat like Mr. Peepers is starting to warm up to him.
OK?
And, yeah, maybe my batting average ain’t what it ought to be, considering the fact that Aaron was doing Barbara Bellerieve behind my back and I never suspected a thing, but I really don’t think Max is just out to get me into bed. Because if what Dolly is saying is true, then Max Friedlander could have anybody. So why would he want me? I am not being self-effacing, either. I mean, why would a guy like that go for a short red-headed gossip columnist when he could have…well, Cindy Crawford, if she wasn’t happily married to that guy who owns Skybar, or Princess Stephanie of Monaco, or somebody like that?
I mean, seriously, think about it, Nadine.
That’s all. I’m not mad or anything. Just hurt, I guess. I mean, I’m not a baby.
Mel
P.S.: You can make it up to me by helping me pick out new shoes at Nine West to go with my new dress.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Fine. Go out with him. See if I care.
But I want a full report the minute you get back. Understand?
And I am warning you, Mel, if this guy breaks your heart and you are mopey for my wedding, I will personally kill both him and you.
Nad :-[
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: What novel?
You’re writing a novel now? You’ve shed the shackles of the family fortune, you’re leading a double life, you’re trying to solve the mystery behind the old lady’s assault, and you’re writing a novel?
Who do you think you are, anyway? Bruce Wayne?
Jason
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Batman
Actually, I don’t believe Bruce Wayne ever wrote a novel, nor did he shed the shackles of the family fortune. He used his fortune quite extensively, I believe, in his crime-fighting efforts. Although he did, obviously, lead a double life.
As for solving the mystery behind the old lady’s assault, Bruce would probably have done a better job than I have so far. I just can’t understand it—why would somebody try to bump off a harmless old lady like that? The closest the police have gotten to explaining it is that it was an interrupted robbery—but interrupted how? And by whom?
Mel mentioned something about how the doorman often gets her apartment, 15B, and Mrs. Friedlander’s apartment, 15A, mixed up. Which got me thinking about what a cop friend of mine said— that it almost resembled the work of the transvestite killer, except that the old lady didn’t fit the victim profile. I’m kind of wondering if maybe the guy got the wrong apartment…if Mrs. Friedlander wasn’t his intended victim at all. That once he’d realized his mistake, he tried to go through with it, but couldn’t quite do it, and ended up leaving the job undone.
I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about. I polled the doormen in the building, and none of them remembers sending anyone up to the fifteenth floor that night—although one of them did ask me if I’d gotten my hair cut. Apparently, he’d seen Max before, and while he recognized that I was not quite the genuine article, he couldn’t make out just how precisely I had changed in appearance. Frightening how we take our security for granted, isn’t it?
Anyway, if you’re good, I’ll send you the first couple chapters of my opus. It’s about a bunch of people who lack any redeeming qualities—kind of like Mim’s friends. You’ll like it.
Oh, my God, I’ve got to go. I have to be at Film Forum in fifteen minutes.
John
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: You are unbelievable
Film Forum? That’s why you can’t be at the dedication? You’re going to the movies?
The redhead has something to do with this, doesn’t she?
Jason
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: My date-a-logue
18:00
Preparation for my date begins. I put on the stunning little blue dress you helped me pick out. I notice that it looks a little too stunning for dinner and a movie. Add a cotton sweater. Mom would be pleased. Remember her adage: You know how cold it can get in movie theaters in the summertime.
Practice walking in new platform mules for half an hour. Only turn my ankle twice. I’m ready as I’ll ever be.
18:30
Depart for downtown. Know I must look nice, as I am groped on the 1 train between Times Square and Penn Station. Elbow groper in the midriff. Receive round of applause from fellow straphangers. Groper disembarks, looking shamefaced.
19:00
Arrive outside movie theater. There is a huge line! Scan line nervously for John (did I tell you Max asked me to call him John? It’s an old college nickname). Finally spot him at end of line, already holding tickets. My plan to go dutch (therefore making this an outing between friends, and not a date, per your suggestion) instantly ruined! I rally by informing him I will buy popcorn and sodas. You will be pleased to know that John graciously acquiesces to this plan.
19:00–19:20
Stand in line chatting about giant sinkhole that has opened up on 79th Street. You know how I love weather disasters. Well, it turns out John does, too! This leads to a long conversation about our favorite weather disasters.
19:21
Line begins to move. John goes to find seats. I go to buy popcorn and soda. Realize with dismay I forgot to tell him to get me a seat on the aisle due to absurdly small bladder.
But when I get inside the theater, he has done just that—saved me the aisle seat! Now, really, Nadine, has Tony ever once let you have the aisle seat? No, never, and you know it.
19:30–21:30
Watch movie. Eat popcorn. Notice John can chew and breathe through his nose at the same time. This is a marked improvement over Aaron, who you will recall had a problem with that. I wonder if Dolly has noticed it yet.
Also, John does not look at his watch while the movie is running. This was one of Aaron’s most annoying habits. Then I notice that John does not even wear a watch. Definitely an improvement over Aaron, who not only wore one but checked it obsessively every twenty minutes.
21:30–22:00
We walk over to Brothers Barbecue and discover that it, like most popular Manhattan eateries, has been overrun by out-of-towners. There is a two-hour wait for a table. I suggest we go for a slice at Joe’s, which as you know has the best pizza in the city. On the way, John tells amusing anecdote about his brother and a drunken midnight pilgrimage to Joe’s. I say I did not know he had a brother, and then he says he meant a fraternity brother. This is upsetting: I don’t know if I ever told you that after a particularly embarrassing incident back when I was
in college, involving a Delta Upsilon and a sock, I vowed never again to date another frat guy.
Then I remembered that this was not a date, but a friendly outing like you suggested, and I was able to relax again.
22:30–24:00
Pizza consumed standing up because there is no place to sit. While we eat, I relate amusing anecdote about how one time I ran into Gwyneth Paltrow at Joe’s, and she ordered a slice with veggies and sauce but no cheese! This leads to discussion about my job, and how much I want to write features. It turns out John has been reading Page Ten, and admires my sprightly but pithy style! Those were the words he used! Sprightly! And pithy!
I am sprightly and pithy, aren’t I?
So then I tried to talk to him about his job. I thought I could subtly find out the truth about that whole nipple thing.
But he didn’t want to talk about himself at all! He just wanted to know where I went to college, and stuff like that. He kept asking all these questions about Lansing. As if that’s interesting! Although I did my best to make it interesting. I told him about the time the Hell’s Angels came to town, and of course about the tornado that took out the middle school’s cafeteria (unfortunately during summer, so we didn’t even get out of going to class).
Finally, I ran out of steam and suggested we head home. But on our way to the subway, we passed a bar where live blues was being played! You know I can’t resist the blues. I don’t know if he saw me looking wistful or what, but he went, “Let’s go in.”
When I saw there was a $15 cover and two-drink minimum I was, like, “No, we don’t have to,” but he said he’d buy the drinks if I paid the cover, which I thought was very decent because you know those places charge like ten bucks just for a beer, and so we went in and I got a second wind and had a very fun time and drank beer and ate peanuts and threw the shells on the floor and then the band took a break and we realized it was midnight and we were both, like, “Oh, my God! Paco!”
