The Boy Next Door

by Meg Cabot

  So then John started laughing, too. I don’t know why he was laughing, except, well, he doesn’t exactly strike me as the praying type. He kept laughing in these little bursts. You could tell he was trying not to, but sometimes it would come out.

  Meanwhile the weirdest people kept coming in, with the strangest emergencies! Like one lady was there because her golden retriever had eaten all of her Prozac. Another one was there because her iguana had taken a flying leap from her seventh-story balcony (and landed seemingly unscathed on the roof of the deli below). A third lady was worried about her hedgehog, which just “wasn’t acting right.”

  “How,” John whispered to me, “is a hedgehog supposed to act?”

  It really wasn’t funny. Only then we really couldn’t stop laughing. And everyone was giving us these mean looks, and that just made me laugh harder. So we were sitting there, the dressiest people in the place, pretending to be comfortable in these hard plastic chairs and trying not to laugh, but doing it anyway….

  At least until all these cops came in. They were there to check on one of their bomb squad dogs, which had choked on a chicken bone. One of them saw John and went, “Hey, Trent, what are you doing here?”

  That’s when John stopped laughing. He got very red all of a sudden and went, “Oh, hi, Sergeant Reese.”

  He put a very hard stress on the word Sergeant. Sergeant Reese looked quite taken aback. He started to say something, but right then the veterinarian came out and called, “Mr. Friedlander?”

  John jumped up and said, “That’s me,” and rushed up to the vet.

  The vet told us that Tweedledum had, indeed, swallowed a rubber band, and that it was tangled in his small intestine, and that surgery would be necessary or the cat would definitely die. They were willing to do the surgery at once, only it was very costly, $1,500 dollars, plus $200 for the overnight stay at the hospital.

  $1,700! I was shocked. But John just nodded and reached for his wallet and started to pull out a credit card….

  And then he put it away really fast and said he forgot, all his credit cards were maxed out, and that he would just go to the bank machine and get cash.

  Cash! He was going to pay in cash! $1,700 in cash! For a cat!

  Only I reminded him that you can’t get that much cash from a bank machine in a single day. I said, “Let me put it on my credit card, and you can pay me back later.” (I know what you’re going to say, Nadine, but it isn’t true: He would have paid me back, I know it.)

  But he absolutely refused. And next thing I knew, he’d gone over to the cashier to arrange a payment plan, leaving me alone with the vet and all of the cops, who were still standing around staring at me. Don’t ask me why. Undoubtedly my too-short skirt was to blame.

  Then John came back and said it was all taken care of, and the cops left, and the vet suggested we stay until the surgery was over, just in case there were complications, so we went back to our seats and I went, “Why did that policeman call you Trent?”

  And John went, “Oh, that’s just how cops are, they always make up their own nicknames for people.”

  But I definitely got the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me.

  He must have realized it, too, since he told me I didn’t have to stick around and wait with him, that he’d pay for a cab home for me, and that he hoped I’d take a raincheck on dinner.

  So I asked him if he was crazy, and he said he did not believe so, and I said anyone with as many nicknames as he has definitely has some major problems, and he agreed with me, and then we argued pleasantly for about two hours over which serial killers throughout history were the most deranged, and finally the vet came out and said Tweedledum was recovering and we could go home, and so we left.

  It wasn’t too late to get dinner by Manhattan standards—only ten o’clock—and John was all for it, even though we’d missed our reservation at wherever he’d planned on taking me. But I wasn’t up for battling the late-night supper crowd, and he agreed and said, “Want to order Chinese again or something?” And I said it would probably be a good idea to comfort Paco and Mr. Peepers, who were surely unsettled by their missing feline brother. Plus I had read in the TV Guide that The Thin Man was showing on PBS.

  So we went back to his place—or his aunt’s place, I should say—and ordered moo shu pork again, and the food arrived just as the movie was starting, and so we ate it off Mrs. Friedlander’s coffee table, sitting on her comfy black leather couch, on which I dropped not one but two spring rolls smothered with that orange stuff.

  Which was, incidentally, when he started kissing me. Seriously. I was totally apologizing for getting that sticky orange stuff all over his aunt’s couch when he leaned over, stuck his knee in it, and started kissing me.

  I haven’t been that shocked since my algebra tutor did almost the same thing my freshman year in high school. Only there wasn’t any orange stuff and we’d been talking about integers, not paper towels.

  And let me tell you, Max Friedlander is a way better kisser than any algebra tutor ever was. I mean, he has got the kissing thing down pat. I was afraid the top of my head was going to blow off. Seriously. He’s that good of a kisser.

  Or maybe he isn’t that good of a kisser. Maybe it’s just been so long since anybody has kissed me like he meant it—you know, really meant it—that I forgot what kissing is like.

  John kisses like he means it. Really means it.

  Still, when he stopped kissing me, I was in such a state of head-spinning shock that all I could do was blurt out, “What did you do that for?” which probably sounded rude, but he didn’t take it that way. He went, “Because I wanted to.”

  So I thought about that for, like, a split second, and then I reached up and put my arms around his neck and said, “Good.”

  Then I did some kissing of my own. And it was really nice because Mrs. Friedlander’s couch is very cushy and soft, and John kind of sank down onto me and I kind of sank down into the couch, and we kissed for a very long time. In fact we kissed until Paco decided he needed to go out, and stuck his big wet nose between our foreheads.

  That’s when I realized I better get out of there. First of all, you know what our mothers always said about kissing before the third date. And second of all, not to gross you out, but there was some very interesting stuff happening downstairs, if you know what I mean.

  And Max Friedlander is definitely NOT gay. Gay guys do not get full-on stiffies from kissing girls. This much even a small-town girl from the Midwest knows.

  So, while John was cursing Paco out, I was straightening myself out and saying primly, “Well, thank you for the lovely evening, but I think I have to go now,” and then I tore out of there, while he was still going, “Mel, wait, we have to talk.”

  I didn’t wait. I couldn’t. I had to get out while I still had control over my motor functions. I am telling you, Nadine, this guy’s kisses are enough to numb your brain stem, they’re that good.

  So what’s to talk about?

  Well, there’s one thing: Nadine, I’m letting you know right now. I am bringing a date to your wedding.

  Gotta go. Fingers are cramping up from writing too much, and I still have tomorrow’s column to do. Things are looking up for Winona and Chris Noth. I hear a vacation in Bali is in the works. I can’t believe Winona and I have both found guys at the same time! It’s like when she and Gwyneth were going out with Matt and Ben—only better! Because it’s me!

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: I hope at the very least

  you let him pay for the Chinese food.

  Nad

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Well of course he

  paid for the Chinese food. Well, except the tip. He didn’t have any singles.

  Why are you bei
ng this way? I had a great time. I thought it was sweet.

  And it’s not like I let him feel me up or anything, for God’s sake.

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: I just think

  that this is all happening too fast. I’ve never even met this guy. No offense, Mel, but you do not have the greatest track record where men are concerned—Aaron being only example number one. I mean, what about that Delta Upsilon and the sock thing, which you yourself mentioned only the other day?

  I’m just saying I might feel more comfortable about all of this if I had actually met the guy. We’ve heard some pretty sketchy things about him from Dolly, after all. How do you expect me to feel? You are like the baby sister I never had. I just want to make sure you don’t get hurt.

  So could you get him to come over to pick you up for lunch or something one of these days? I’d be more than willing to forgo spinning class….

  Don’t hate me.

  Nad

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: You are such

  a mother hen.

  But, yes, if you insist, I suppose I could arrange for the two of you to bump into one another somehow.

  God, the things we do for our friends.

  Mel

  To: John Trent

  From: Genevieve Randolph Trent

  Subject: Your recent behavior

  Dear John,

  This is your grandmother speaking. Or should I say writing. I suppose you will be surprised to hear from me in this manner. I have chosen this venue, the e-mail, with which to correspond, because you have not returned a single one of my telephone calls, and your brother, Jason, assures me that while you may not check your answering machine, you actually do occasionally answer e-mail messages.

  Therefore, to business:

  I can forgive the fact that you have chosen to throw caution to the wind and embark on your own career in a field that, frankly, no respectable Trent—or Randolph, either, for that matter—would ever consider. You have proven to me that not all news reporters are vermin.

  And I can forgive the fact that you chose to move out of the building and live on your own, first in that hellhole on 37th with that hairy lunatic, and then where you currently reside, in Brooklyn, which I’m told is the most charming of the five boroughs, aside from the occasional race riot and collapsing supermarket.

  And I can even forgive you for choosing not to touch any of the money that has been held in trust for you since your grandfather’s death. A man should make his own way in the world, if at all possible, and not depend upon his family for his means. I applaud your effort to do just that. It is far more than any of my other grandchildren have done. Look at your cousin Dickie. I’m certain if that boy had a vocation like you do, John, he would not spend half so much time putting things up his nose that have no business being there.

  But what I simply cannot forgive you for is missing the dedication the other night. You know how much my benefits mean to me. This cancer wing I’ve donated is particularly important to me, as you know that cancer was what took your beloved grandfather from me. I understand that you might have had a previous commitment, but you could, at least, have had the courtesy to have sent a note.

  I will not lie to you, John. I most particularly wanted you at this event because there is a certain young lady I was very anxious for you to know. I know, I know how you feel about my introducing you to my friends’ eligible daughters. But Victoria Arbuthnot, whom I am sure you will remember from your childhood summers on the Vineyard—the Arbuthnots had that place in Chilmark—has grown into quite an attractive young lady—she has even overcome that horrible chin problem that has plagued so many of the Arbuthnots.

  And she is, from what I understand, a real go-getter in the investment market. Since career-minded women have always appealed to you, I made an effort to ensure Victoria would be at the dedication the other night.

  What a fool you made me look, John! I had to pawn Victoria off on your cousin Bill. And you know how I feel about him.

  I know you pride yourself on being the black sheep of the family, John—though what is supposed to be so enraging about a man who works for a living, doing what it is he actually likes to do, I cannot imagine. Your cousins, with their various addictions and unsuitable pregnancies, are far more maddening.

  However, this type of behavior really is quite bewildering, even for you. All I can say is that I hope you have a very good explanation. Furthermore, I hope you will take the time to respond to this letter. It is very rude of you not to have returned my calls.

  Yours, in spite of that,

  Mim

  To: Genevieve Randolph Trent

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Forgive me?

  Mim—

  What can I say? You have made me thoroughly ashamed of myself. It was unconscionable of me not to return your calls. My only explanation is that I have not been checking my answering machine as assiduously as I used to, due to the fact that, recently, I have been staying in the apartment of a friend. Well, not my friend, really—my friend’s aunt, to be exact, who has been hospitalized, and needed someone to care for her pets.

  Although after what happened to one of her cats recently, I am not convinced I am the person most suited for the job.

  Anyway, I want you to know that I did not fail to attend the dedication out of any sort of disdain for you or for the event. I just had something else to do. Something very important.

  Which reminds me: Vickie Arbuthnot better not be holding her breath waiting for me, Mim. I’ve actually met someone.

  And no, it isn’t anyone you know, unless you are familiar with the Fullers of Lansing, Illinois. Which I suspect you are not.

  I know. I know. After the Heather debacle, you’d given up on me for good. Well, it takes a lot more to keep a man like me down than finding out a girl I hadn’t proposed to yet had already registered at Bloomingdale’s as the future Mrs. John Trent (and for $1,000 sheets, no less).

  But before you start clamoring to meet her, allow me to work out a few slight…kinks. No romantic relationship in New York City is ever simple, but this one is even more complicated than most.

  I am confident, however, that I can work it out. I have to work it out.

  I just don’t have the slightest idea how I’m going to manage it.

  Anyway, with many loving apologies, I hope you’ll still consider me sincerely

  Your John

  P.S.: To make it up to you, I’ll be at the Lincoln Center Benefit to Raise Cancer Awareness next week, since I know you’re its biggest supporter. I’ll even tap into the old trust fund and write a check with a guaranteed four zeros. Will that help soothe your ruffled feathers?

  To: Mel Fuller
  From: Don and Beverly Fuller

  Subject: Look out!

  Hi, honey, it’s Mommy again, writing you on the e-mail. I hope you are being careful because I saw last night on Tom Brokaw that another one of those awful sinkholes has opened up in Manhattan. This one is right in front of a newspaper, no less!

  Don’t worry, though, it is that newspaper you hate, the snooty one. Still, think about it, sweetie, that could have been you sitting in that taxi that fell into that twenty-foot-deep hole! Except I know you never take taxis because you spend all your money on clothes.

  But that poor lady! Why, it took three firemen to pull her out (you are so tiny, it would only take one fireman to pull you out of any sinkhole, I would think).

  Anyway, I just wanted to say BE CAREFUL! Be sure to look down everywhere you go—but look up, too, since I heard people’s air conditioners sometimes go flying out of
their windows if they are not fastened securely, and can go crashing down onto the pedestrians below.

  That city is so fraught with peril. Why can’t you come home and work for the Duane County Register? I saw Mabel Fleming the other day at the Buy and Bag and she said she’d absolutely hire you as their Arts and Entertainment writer.

  Think about it, would you? There’s nothing the least bit dangerous in Lansing—no sinkholes or falling air conditioners or transvestite killers. Just that man who shot up all the customers at the feed store that time, but that was years ago.

  Love,

  Mommy

  P.S.: You’ll never guess what! One of your ex-boyfriends got married! I’ve attached the announcement for you to see.

  Attachment: (Photo of total goober and a girl with very big hair)

  Crystal Hope LeBeau and Jeremy “Jer” Vaughn, both of Lansing, were married at the Lansing Church of Christ last Saturday.

  Parents of the bride are Brandi Jo and Dwight LeBeau of Lansing, owners of Buckeye Liquors on Main Street in downtown Lansing. Parents of the groom are Joan and Roger Vaughn. Joan Vaughn is a homemaker. Roger Vaughn is employed by Smith Auto.

  A reception was held at the Lansing Masonic Lodge, of which Mr. LeBeau is a member.

  The bride, 22, is a graduate of Lansing High School and is currently employed at the Beauty Barn. The groom, 29, is a graduate of Lansing High School and is employed by Buckeye Liquors.

  After a honeymoon in Maui, the couple will reside in Lansing.

  To: George Sanchez

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Office morale

  Dear George,

  In an attempt to raise the morale around here, which I am sure you will agree with me is—to coin a phrase you frequently employ—piss-poor, may I suggest that in lieu of a staff meeting this week, we all take a stroll over to 53rd and Madison in order to admire the gigantic sinkhole that has opened up in front of the office building housing our foe and main competitor, the New York Chronicle?