Meg Cabot - Every Boy’s Got One

Oh, I saw them, all right.

Between the being-afraid-of-snakes thing, and now a soft spot for cats, I guess Mr. No Heart might just have one after all.

Still, I didn’t let on that I knew. About his heart, I mean. Instead, I told him—because I couldn’t help myself—that I’d spoken to Mark, and that he (Cal) was living in a fantasy world if he thought he could talk him (Mark) out of marrying Holly on Wednesday.

To my surprise, Cal just totally ignored that. Instead— while staring at my Christian Louboutins, as usual—he asked me instead if I knew Indian women sometimes decorate their feet with henna.

????????????

There is something seriously wrong with this guy.

Me: “Um, no. But I do know if they show their ankles in public, they can be punished by having their feet cut off. Why don’t you write a book about how unfair that is, instead of what’s going to happen to the Saudis when the oil runs out?”

Cal: (finally looking away from my feet) “Do you think women’s lives there are going to get easier when their country is essentially shut off from contact with the outside world, due to their no longer having a product we want to exploit? Or do you think they’ll get harder?”

Me: “Harder, obviously. But what can I do about it? Use fewer water bottles?”

Cal: “Yes, overconsumption of petroleum-based products is a leading cause of global warming.”

Seriously, I can’t believe he ever got any woman to marry him. I mean, with a line like that. Even a model.

Hey, maybe that’s why he only dates foreigners now. Because they can’t tell what’s coming out of his mouth.

Me: “Well, then maybe we’d better just use it all up and get it over with so we run out already and can go back to how things were before.”

Cal: “You mean before they started bottling spring water and selling it for a buck fifty a pop and pretending it’s better for you than tap?”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Me: “I don’t know. You’re the one who wrote a book about it. Why do you keep looking at my feet, anyway?”

Cal: “Why do you keep looking at my crotch?”

I SWEAR TO GOD!!! THAT IS WHAT HE ASKED ME!!!!

Then THANK GOD Peter showed up from out of nowhere and went, “Jane Harris, I am hearing your woice and knew you vere avake. Now will you be drawing me the sketches of Vundercat you promised for my Veb site?” and handed me a sketch pad and some markers.

So I said, “Of course, Peter,” in my most gracious voice— even though I was FREAKING OUT about the crotch thing— and drew him about fifty Wondercat sketches, while Cal sat there scowling in the candlelight and going, “Peter, shouldn’t you be in bed by now? Don’t you have school in the morning?”

But of course Peter explained that he goes to Internet school and doesn’t have to log on by any particular time.

 And all I could think was, what if Peter hadn’t shown up right then? I mean, Cal and I had basically been in each other’s face over that whole petroleum thing. Close enough that, you know, it occurred to me— just kind of randomly—that if we didn’t hate each other so much, we might have started, I don’t know.

Kissing or something.

I KNOW! I don’t even LIKE him. He’s a totally pompous know-it-all—a modelizer!

But still, he does kind of…exude something. I don’t know what it is. I mean, I was having a pretty good time hating his guts right up until I saw him with those cats. CATS!!!! HE LIKES CATS!!!!

And he so clearly didn’t WANT to be caught feeding them. He looked so GUILTY when he saw me.

And then, when we got close there, during our little argument…

BAM. There it was. I couldn’t stop noticing how handsome he looked in the candlelight, with those too blue eyes and his messy Brad Pitt-y hair and his shirt open a little at the neck so I saw a tiny bit of that chest he’d had out on display earlier by the pool and—

WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME??? I ALREADY HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!!!!!!!!

Well, okay, not really.

But I have one if I want one. All I have to do is go to British Columbia, and WHAM, there he is, the boyfriend. A boyfriend who BELIEVES in love. A boyfriend who would NEVER say love is a mere chemical reaction in the brain caused by surges of phenylethylamine (um, especially since Malcolm doesn’t know any words that big).

SO WHY AM I EVEN THINKING ABOUT CAL LANGDON IN THAT WAY????

It can’t just be the cat thing. It must be all this fresh air. It DOES things to a girl. As soon as I get back to the city and breathe in good old New York exhaust fumes, I’ll be all right again.

I hope.

In the meantime, I’ve just got to STAY AWAY from him and his pheromones or whatever it is that makes me keep thinking about what it would be like to sleep with Cal Langdon.

Tomorrow I’ll make sure to wear my Adidas, too. No guy looks at your feet when you’re in your Adidas.

God, how am I supposed to get to sleep NOW?

PDA of Cal Langdon

I have GOT to stay away from prosecco. It makes me do the most damnable things, things I’d never do were I in my right mind… feed perfectly fine tuna to a lot of stray cats, for example. Or admire the way the moonlight brings out the highlights in a certain cartoonist’s hair…

Who drank all the scotch?

___________________________________________

To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Darrin Caputo <darrin.caputo@caputographics.com>

Re: Your mother

ARE YOU SERIOUS???? HOLLY AND MARK ARE ELOPING???? In Castelfidardo?

Well, that’s kind of a weird place to do it (have you seen the whang on that naked accordionist statue in the town square? That dude is HUNG), but I couldn’t be happier for them. OF COURSE we’ll do something to throw Mom off the scent. I don’t know what, exactly…. Bobby’s going to think something up,he’s better at this kind of thing than I am.

Oh my God, that is just the BEST NEWS. NO ONE deserves a romantic wedding in Italy more than my sister Holly. Give her a big kiss from me, and don’t worry, I won’t tell a SOUL!!!!

Love,

D

___________________________________________

To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Claire Harris <charris2004@freemail.com>

Re: Holly’s mother

Really, Jane, you don’t have to SHOUT at me. That’s what they call it when you write an email in capital letters, you know. SHOUTING. And it’s very rude.

I didn’t mean to say anything to Marie. Obviously. It just slipped out. You should be a little more understanding, you know. I’m under a lot of stress these days over at the Salvation Army, where I’ve been volunteering. The past three Saturdays in the row I’ve signed up to work in the thrift shop, and each and every time they’ve put me in the back, ironing the donated baby clothes! I know I’m very good with an iron, but can’t they at least once let me work the cash register? Or help the poor people find the right clothes for their body type?

But no. “Oh, look, here comes Claire. Get out the ironing board.”

I am seriously considering quitting and going over to Good Will. Marcy Clark told me they don’t make anybody iron ANYTHING over there.

Plus your dad touched a mango yesterday, and you know how allergic he is. I WARNED him there was a mango in the fruit bowl. I was going to use it in the fruit salad I’m bringing to the gourmet potluck at Helen Fogarty’s this weekend.

But Dad had to go and cut it up, thinking it was a papaya, and now he’s got hives all over his hands and arms. I’ve been putting calamine lotion on them, but I think we’re going to have to take another trip over to the Promptcare for some prednisone….

So don’t be so snappy with me, young lady. I have a lot going on.

I don’t know what Marie’s problem is, anyway. At least her daughter’s got a man who wants to marry her. All MY daughter has is a development deal with the Cartoon Network. And while Daddy and I are very proud of you, sweetie, you can’t exactly honeymoon with a development deal, now, can you? Or gaze into a development deal’s sweet angelic eyes while you’re changing its diaper.

So cut your mother some slack.

Love,

Mom

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

Okay. Okay. Everything is going to be all right. I can figure this out. I can totally figure this out—

No, I can’t. This is a disaster. A total and complete disaster.

What am I going to do????

___________________________________________

To: Listserv <Wundercat@wundercatlives.com>

Fr: Peter Schumacher <webmaster@wundercatlives.com>

Re: JANE HARRIS

Good morning fellow lovers of Wundercat! There is BIG NEWS today about JANE HARRIS! Her friends who will be getting the marriage both eat the bad oysters last night, and this morning are sick as dogs! YES! They cannot get up out of the beds!

And this is bad because they are supposed to get the form from the Consulate of the US today, so they can have the marriage tomorrow!

But when I drove by the villa this morning on my motorino, to bring JANE HARRIS fresh brotchen, she is very upset, and says, “Ask your grandmother what can be done.” So I get my grandmother, and she comes to the villa and says that nothing can be done from eating the bad oyster, they will have to wait until it has passed through.

Which, if it does not do soon, there will be no marriage tomorrow!

So this is BAD NEWS for JANE HARRIS.

I will keep you informed as news continues! This is Peter Schumacher, #1 Fan Of Wundercat!

Wundercat Lives—4eva!

Peter

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

Oysters. They just HAD to have the oysters.

I warned them. They can’t say I didn’t warn them. Who eats raw shellfish in a foreign country, I ask you? Who? This isn’t Japan. Italy is not known for its raw seafood. What were they THINKING?

Poor Mark. I guess that’s what I heard him throwing up last night. And he’s STILL throwing it up. He can barely move from the bed.

And Holly… my God, when I knocked on their bedroom door to see why they weren’t up yet for our drive to Rome, and Holly answered, she looked like… well, the undead. She hasn’t looked this bad since that Fourth of July we invented the drink with the watermelon balls and vodka (Rockets’ Red Glare).

“I don’t think there’s going to be any wedding,” she said. And then had to run to the bathroom.

What could I do but follow her? It’s not like I haven’t held her hair for her while she barfed plenty of times before—Rockets’ Red Glare in particular.

“Holly,” I said, as gently as I could, when she’d sunk back down onto the bathroom tiles in exhaustion. “You guys HAVE to make it to Rome today. You know tomorrow’s the only day the mayor said he could fit your wedding into the schedule.”

Which turned out not to be the right thing to say, since Holly promptly started to cry.

“I know!” she wailed. “But what can we do? We wouldn’t last five minutes in the car. We’d have to pull over every thirty seconds to throw up. Oh, God, Janie. It’s over. We’re not getting married. Not now, anyway. Not in Italy. And the way everything seems to be going against us… maybe not ever. Maybe my mother is right. Maybe HIS mother is right. Maybe we should just forget it. Maybe it’s just not meant to be.”

I know! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Not meant to be? Holly, I know you don’t feel well, but are you NUTS? You can’t just forget it. You guys HAVE to get married. And you have to get married here, in Italy.”

She just looked at me through miserable, swollen eyes. “Why?”

“Because I already told Darrin!” was what I ALMOST said. I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to have told anyone, though, and at the last possible second changed it to, “Because it’s what you’ve always wanted to do. You’ve been planning this forever. And Mark wants it, too, I know it. More than anything. You can’t just give up because of a little food poisoning!”