by Meg Cabot
I am sure you will agree with me that this will constitute a refreshing change from the normal routine of listening to people complain about how the local Krispy Kreme shut down and how we haven’t been able to get decent doughnuts at our staff meetings ever since.
Plus, seeing as how all the water to the building in which the Chronicle is housed has been shut off, we will have the fun of seeing our esteemed colleagues running into the Starbucks across the street to use their facilities.
Please give this matter the full consideration it so richly deserves.
Sincerely,
Mel Fuller
Page Ten Correspondent
New York Journal
To: Mel Fuller
From: George Sanchez
Subject: Office morale
Are you high?
Everyone knows you only want to look at the sinkhole because you love a good disaster.
Get back to work, Fuller. I don’t pay you for your looks.
George
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: A big giant hole in the ground
Come on. How can you resist? If you go with me to look at it, I won’t make you go to spinning class today…
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: The big giant hole where your brain should be
You are insane. It is like eighty degrees out. I am not spending my precious lunch hour going to look at a giant hole in the ground, even if it is in front of the Chronicle.
Ask Tim Grabowski. He’ll go with you. He’ll go anywhere men in uniform are gathered in large clusters.
Nad
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Tim Grabowski
Subject: I met him!
You lazy thing, you. If you’d gotten off your arse and come with us, you would have, as I did, met this fellow that our little Miss Mel has been yakking nonstop about all month.
But I suppose some of us think we’re simply too good for sinkholes.
Tim
To: Tim Grabowski
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: YOU MET HIM???
Spill it, you little weasel.
Nad
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Tim Grabowski
Subject: What will you give me?
You fiery-spirited wench, you.
Tim
To: Tim Grabowski
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: I have to review the
new Bobby De Niro place, and I’ll take you with me if you tell me all about meeting Max Friedlander.
PUH-lease tell me. I’m begging you.
Nad
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Tim Grabowski
Subject: Twist my arm
Okay, I’ll tell you. Only I want to go to Bobby’s new place for dinner, not lunch. That’s when all the cute investment bankers will be there.
All righty, then.
Picture it, if you will:
The scene–53rd and Madison. A forty-by-twenty-foot hole has opened up in the middle of the street. Surrounding this hole are police barricades, orange caution cones, bulldozers, cement mixers, Con Edison trucks, a crane, television news reporters, about a hundred cops, and twenty of the hottest construction workers this little computer programmer has ever seen.
The noise of the jackhammers and honking of horns by unsuspecting commuters, who did not listen to the 1010 WINS traffic report before they left Jersey, is deafening. The heat is oppressive. And the smell, my dear—well, I don’t know what those Con Ed boys are doing at the bottom of that hole, but let me tell you, I strongly suspect they hit the wrong pipe.
It was as if a proverbial hellhole had opened up, right before that bastion of all that is evil, the illustrious New York Chronicle, and attempted to suck it back down to its creator, Mr. Satan himself.
And then, through it all, I saw on the face of our Miss Mel—who is, as I am sure you can guess, already giddy with joy at the spectacle before us—a look of such delight that I thought at first a Mr. Softee truck had appeared, and was handing out free chocolate-dipped cones.
Then, following the direction of her dazzled gaze, I saw what it was that had brought that beatific look to her face:
An Apollo. I am not exaggerating. An absolutely perfect specimen of manly beauty. He was standing behind one of the barricades, gazing into the hole, looking as if he’d just stepped off the pages of a J. Crew catalog in his baggy chinos and soft denim workshirt. The wind tugged softly at his brown hair, and I swear to you, Nadine, if one of those construction workers had handed him a shovel, it wouldn’t have looked the least bit out of place in those big hands of his.
Which is a lot more than I can say for my boyfriend.
But to return to our scene:
Our Miss Mel (screaming to be heard over the pounding of the jackhammers): “John! John! Over here!”
Apollo turns. He sees us. He turns a deep but nevertheless completely attractive shade of umber.
I follow our little Miss Mel, picking her way through the police officers and outraged Chronicle employees, who, wearing their press passes, have descended on the poor souls from the mayor’s office and are demanding to know when their private bidets—don’t try to tell me they don’t have them up in those gold-lined halls they work in—are going to be flowing again. Upon reaching the godlike creature she calls John, for reasons that are still a mystery to me, our Miss Mel goes on in her usual breathless manner:
Our Miss Mel: “What are you doing here? Did you come to take pictures of the giant hole?”
Max Friedlander: “Um. Yes.”
Our Miss Mel: “Where’s your camera?”
Max Friedlander: “Oh. Um. I forgot it.”
Hmmm. Lights may be on, but no one seems to be home. At least until—
Max Friedlander: “Actually, I already got the shot I need. I was just out here because…well, you know I love a disaster.”
Our Miss Mel: “Do I! Here, meet my friend Tim.”
Friend Tim shakes hands with Perfect Specimen of Mankind. Will never wash right hand again.
Max Friedlander: “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
Friend Tim: “Likewise, I’m sure.”
Our Miss Mel: “Listen, I’m glad I ran into you.” She then proceeds to throw all known dating protocol to the wind by saying: “All my friends want to check you out, so do you think you could show up tomorrow night at Fresche on 10th Street around nine o’clock? Just a bunch of people from the paper, don’t be alarmed.”
I know! I was horrified as well! I mean, what could she have been thinking? You simply do not go around admitting things like that to prospective paramours. What happened to subtlety? What happened to feminine wiles? To boldly blurt the truth like that…well, I’ll tell you: I was appalled. It just goes to show, you can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the girl.
Mr. Friedlander, I could tell, was every bit as shocked as I was. He went almost as white as he’d been red a minute before.
Max Friedlander: “Um. Okay.”
Our Miss Mel: “Great. See you then.”
Max Friedlander: “Sure thing.”
Exit our Miss Mel. Exit Friend Tim. When I glanced over my shoulder, Max Friedlander had disappeared—a remarkable feat, considering that there was nowhere on that side of the hole for him to go except into the Chronicle building.
But he can’t have go
ne in there. His soul would have been ripped instantly from his body while demons sucked out his life force.
Anyway, that’s all. I fully expect to see you at Fresche tonight at nine. And don’t be late.
What’s the appropriate cocktail to order for something like this? I know! Let’s consult Dolly. She always knows just the right drink to go with the occasion.
Ta for now.
Tim
To: Dolly Vargas
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Mel
All right, you guys, you’ve heard the hype; now let’s see if he lives up to it. The place is Fresche. The time is nine o’clock. Be there, or tomorrow at the water cooler you won’t know what the rest of us are talking about.
Nad
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: New York Journal
All right, tell me, and tell me quick:
Who do you know from the New York Journal?
I want names, Friedlander. I want a list of names, and I want it NOW.
John
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: New York Journal
So, you’re stooping to speak to me again, I see. Not so high and mighty now, are you? I thought I’d mortally offended you with my thoughtfully crafted precepts on womankind.
I knew you’d come crawling back.
So what is this you want to know? Do I know anyone at the New York Journal? What are you, nuts? You’re the only journalist I hang out with. I can’t stand those pseudo-intellectual phonies. Think they’re so great just because they string a few words together to form a sentence.
Why do you want to know anyway?
Hey, Trent, you aren’t actually going out in public pretending to be me, are you? I mean, you’re just doing the whole impersonation within my aunt’s building, right? With that chick who was so mad about having to walk the dog?
Right?
RIGHT???
Max
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: New York Journal
Wait, I forgot. I do know this one babe. Dolly something. I think she’s with the Journal. You’re not meeting her, are you?
Max
To: John Trent
From: Genevieve Randolph Trent
Subject: Miss Fuller
Dearest John,
Well, well, well. A gossip columnist, no less. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I was thinking at worst she’d turn out to be a “grad” student. You know, one of those horrid longhaired girls you see sometimes in Central Park, reading Proust on a park bench with the sandals and the glasses and the “backpacks.”
But a gossip columnist. Now really, John. What can you be thinking?
Did you think I wouldn’t find out? More fool you! It was easy. A simple phone call to the Fullers of Lansing, Illinois. I pretended I was one of those family-tree tracers. You know, a Fuller from way back when the Mayflower landed. Oh, they were just so eager to tell me all about the farm and their precious little Melissa, who’s moved to the big city, dontcha know. And not just any big city, either, but the biggest one in the whole world, Noo York City.
Honestly, John.
Well, you’d better bring her around so we can all get a look at her. Next week would be fine. After the benefit, though, John. I am really quite solidly booked until then.
All my love,
Mim
To: [email protected]
From: Jason Trent
Subject: Mim
Just a heads up to let you know Mim’s on the warpath about you missing the dedication.
Plus, although I don’t know this for certain, she seems to have found out about the redhead.
Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell her. I still think you’re out of your mind to have agreed to this thing in the first place.
Stacy, on the other hand, wants to know whether or not you took her advice.
Jason
P.S.: Saw on the news about the sinkhole in front of your office building. My sympathies on the whole toilet situation.
P.P.S.: I’m sorry I called you a psychotic freak. Even though you are one.
P.P.P.S.: Forgot to tell you: Because of all this, Stacy has gotten her own e-mail account. She got tired of sharing mine. Her new address is [email protected].
To: Jason Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: You can call me…
anything you want. I don’t mind.
And don’t worry about Mim. I don’t mind about that either.
And I kind of like that sinkhole. I have a genuine affection for it. In fact, I’ll be sad when they finally fill it in.
Oops, there’s just been a triple stabbing in Inwood. Gotta go.
John
To: Stacy Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: John
Stace—
Something is wrong with John. I called him a psychotic freak last week, and he doesn’t even care. Plus I warned him about Mim, and he said he doesn’t care about that either!
He doesn’t even care about the sinkhole and the fact that there are no working toilets in his office building.
This happened to my cousin Bill that time he swallowed the worm at the bottom of a bottle of tequila down in Mexico. He had to spend a month in rehab!
What should we do?
Jason
To: Jason Trent
From: Stacy Trent
Subject: John
Jason—
Before you have your poor brother hauled off to Bellevue, let me see if I can get anything out of him. He might be more willing to open up to me, seeing as how I don’t go around calling him names.
Kisses,
Stacy
To: John Trent
From: Stacy Trent
Subject: You took my advice, didn’t you?
Don’t deny it. You called her. So spill.
And don’t leave anything out. I am thirty-four years old, which puts me, as a woman, at my sexual peak. I am also so pregnant I haven’t seen my own feet in weeks. The only way I can have sex is vicariously.
So start tapping on that keyboard, monkey boy.
Stacy
To: Stacy Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Monkey boy responds
You sure do talk racy for a full-time housewife and mother of two (and a half). Do the other mommies on the PTA have their minds in the gutter, too? That must make for some interesting bake sales.
For your information, what you are assuming has happened has not.
And if things continue in the manner they have been, it never will, either.
I don’t know what it is about this girl. I know I am not the most debonair of men. I don’t think anyone who has ever met me would classify me as a playboy. But nor have I ever been accused of being a complete imbecile.
And yet when I’m around Mel, that’s exactly how I end up looking—probably out of divine punishment for the fact that, since I met her, I’ve done pretty much nothing but lie to her.
Whatever it is, I cannot seem to pull off something as simple as dinner betwee
n the two of us. As you know, my first attempt ended with us eating pizza standing up (and her paying for her own slice).
My second attempt was even worse: We spent most of the evening in an animal hospital. And then I very suavely added insult to injury by sexually harassing her on Max Friedlander’s aunt’s couch. She fled, in romance-novel vernacular, like a startled fawn. As well she should have: I’m sure I must have seemed like a teenager in postprom heat.
Is this satisfying your wish to live vicariously through my romantic adventures, Stacy? Are those toes you haven’t seen in so long curling with excitement?
I almost broke down and told her after the couch incident. I wish to God now that I had. Things have only gone from bad to worse.
Because every day that I don’t tell her is just another day she’s going to hate me, when she finally figures it out.
And she will figure it out. I mean, one of these days, my luck is going to run out, and someone who knows Max Friedlander is going to tell her I’m not he, and she’s not going to understand when I try to explain, because it’s all so utterly juvenile, and she’s going to hate me, and my life is going to be over.
Because for some unfathomable reason, instead of reviling me, like any woman in her right mind would, Mel seems actually to like me. I cannot for the life of me figure out why. I mean, you would think that, considering what she knows of me—or Max Friedlander, I should say—she’d hate my guts.
But, no. On the contrary: Mel laughs at my inane jokes. Mel listens to my asinine stories. And she apparently talks about me to her friends and colleagues, because a group of them demanded to meet me.
