Meg Cabot - Every Boy’s Got One

Ciao, amore XXXX

Grazi

PDA of Cal Langdon

Art sent the UK cover design for Sands today. It’s got a very romantic feel to it that I’m not sure is entirely appropriate, considering the book’s subject matter. Well, I suppose if it tricks unsuspecting readers into buying it, expecting it to be a work of fiction about a mummy’s curse instead of a nonfiction treatise on Saudi Arabia’s tiring oil fields, all the better.

I can’t believe Aaron Spender is still among the living. I’d have assumed Barbara Bellerieve bit his head off and ate it on their wedding night. I still marvel at my own lucky escape from her clutches. If it hadn’t been for that Daisy Cutter…

And Mary. I guess that grand I sent her last month didn’t last very long. What the hell does she do with it all? It’s not like she ever has anything to show for it. She can’t smoke it ALL away, can she? I wish Mom and Dad had taken some control over her earlier in her adolescence. She probably wouldn’t still be living out of some guy’s van at the age of twenty-five.

But I guess they weren’t necessarily the best role models, as parents go, considering Dad’s obsession with the track and Mom’s conviction that she’s the next Grandma Moses. It’s surprising, actually, that Mary isn’t a bigger flake than she is….

Much like some people I could mention. It was amusing, coming from the airport, to hear Holly’s friend squeal at the sight of every monument—and every passing billboard. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone get so excited about a sign for mouthwash. I thought she was going to have a coronary when we drove by the Colosseum. I’m not entirely sure which impressed her more… the fact that it’s stood for over two thousand years, or the fact that Britney Spears was recently there, filming a television commercial (at least, that’s what Holly’s friend announced to all of us).

There is something refreshing about American enthusiasm for antiquity. I guess I forget, having been away so long, that there is still a place on this earth where there are no structures older than half a millennium. It must be impressive to see something that existed fifteen hundred years before the Mayflower….

Of course, if we hadn’t slaughtered all the Indians and destroyed their native lands, it would be different.

Good Lord. It just occurred to me. What if that wasn’t what she was impressed by? What if it was the Britney Spears thing?

But no. No, that couldn’t be. Not even an artist could be that shallow.

I’ll have to remember to change money later, if I can find a place with a decent exchange rate. I blew my last euro on that cab ride—

That was the concierge. Grazi is here. That didn’t take her long. I called her less than half an hour ago. Still, I thought she’d be coming over later tonight, not NOW.

I guess it would be ungentlemanly of me not to see her, though….

___________________________________________

To: Julio Chasez <julio@streetsmart.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: The Dude

Hi, Julio! Me, again! Just checking in, since I haven’t heard from you. How’s The Dude doing? Does he like that salmon pate I got him? I figured he’d appreciate a few treats, with me being gone. I hope you found the Pounce. I left it on the counter, with the oven mitts. Really, you should only need the Pounce if he tries to attack. Which he really shouldn’t, I mean, he KNOWS you. You two are buds. Right?

Well, let me know how he’s doing as soon as you get a chance. No biggie. You can just email, if you want. Or call. From my phone in the apartment. That way it won’t cost you anything. Don’t worry about the time difference, you can call at any time. I don’t mind being woken up, if it’s for The Dude.

J

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

Oh my God, this place is FABULOUS! When I woke up from my nap, it was two, and I called Holly to see if she was hungry, and she was, but Mark was still asleep, and Modelizer/Armrest Nazi didn’t pick up his phone (much to my relief) when Holly tried him… you know, to be polite, and not exclude him.

So Holly and I met in the hall and the two of us just strolled right out onto tiny Via di Buffalo, which I suppose is named after the mozzarella, which is made from buffalo milk, at least in Italy, and we started walking, and in half an hour, not five blocks from our hotel, we’d seen the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, the Piazza Navone, and a bunch of other sights I can’t even remember, as they all involved monolisks with bumpy writing on them.

But that’s not all! We saw portrait artists, right on the street—good ones, not like the cheesy ones in New York—and people eating gelati, and groups of senior citizens following around tour guides holding a flag, and I threw money in the Fontana di Trevi—I don’t know how much, because it was Italian— which apparently guarantees you’ll be back there someday. Which I hope is true, because it’s a kick-ass fountain, almost as cool as Ozzy’s pool on The Osbournes .

And we were solicited by a humpbacked dwarf with no shirt on and a tattoo that said Antonio on his shoulder, and I gave him some money, and then I bought a bottle of Diet Coke that cost five euros, which is more than a six-pack back home, and I realized I gave the humpbacked dwarf enough money to buy FIVE Italian Diet Cokes.

I really need to get a grip on this money thing. Although I’m sure Antonio (if that’s his name) needs the money more than I need Diet Coke.

And then Holly wanted her picture taken with a hot guy dressed as a gladiator in front of the Pantheon, so I started to take one, but then this very blowsy older woman dressed in a toga came over and demanded ANOTHER five euros, just for letting me take the picture with her hot gladiator boyfriend! The guy just stood there looking all sheepish while this went on, but Holly was all, “I want it, it’ll be funny,” so I forked over five more euros and took the picture.

Holly said later that right before I took the picture, the gladiator handed her his plastic sword, and when she asked him, “What should I do with this?” he went, in a long-suffering voice, “Keel me. Please.”

Which in and of itself was totally worth five euros.

And everywhere we went, lots of Italian vendors came up to us, another one every five seconds, it seemed, going “Bag, California?” I guess because we look like we’re from California, even though of course we’re not, though we are sort of tan thanks to Holly and Mark’s share in East Hampton.

Only how they knew we were American I can’t tell, though we were talking a lot, I suppose. And I am apparently the only girl in all of Rome who wears Steve Madden slides.

But then Mark called on Holly’s cell and said he was hungry and Cal wasn’t answering the phone in his room, so we agreed to meet Mark for a snack.

Except that on the way back to the hotel, we passed a church where a wedding was going on—or about to go on, anyway. I saw the crowd and assumed it was another sight we should see, but then it turned out to be a lot of tourists like us waiting outside a church with some flower girls and maids of honor, and we realized it was a wedding!

So then Holly said she had to stay to see the bride for luck, since she was getting married too.

So we edged into the church and stood there and waited and it wasn’t long until a sleek beige Mercedes sedan pulled up and the bride, looking incredibly chic in an ivory sheath with a tiny veil got out, beaming and speaking in Italian to the little flower girls who started jumping up and down.

I got some very good photos of the whole thing and wanted to ask her if she wanted me to send her copies (the bride I mean), but I didn’t know the right words in Italian, and besides, by that point her father had come out of the church and lent her his arm, and that’s when Holly and I realized we were standing right in the aisle, with the groom at the front of the church with the priest, trying to see past us to catch a glimpse of his wife-to-be in her gorgeous ivory sheath.

So we scampered out of the way and I looked at Holly and saw tears in her eyes!!!!

I thought she’d been stung by a bee or something so I was like, “Let’s go find some ice!” but it turned out that wasn’t it at all. Holly looked at me all tearfully and went, “I want my father to lead me down the aisle! Only he doesn’t know I’m doing this. And I’m not even going to have an aisle. Because we’re going to get married by some clerk in some office .”

Then she burst into tears right there on some street I can’t remember the name of.

Of course I had no choice but to hustle her as fast as I could to the cafe where we’d said we’d meet Mark for snacks. Only I knew it was my duty as witness/bridesmaid to get her cleaned up before her future husband saw what a psycho he was marrying. Not that he didn’t already know, since Holly cries at the end of every episode of Seventh Heaven she sees, even the reruns, and won’t pick up the phone on Monday nights as a consequence.

But still.

We got a seat right away at the cafe across from the Pantheon—an outdoor table, even. In New York, you practically have to chew off your own foot to get an outdoor table anywhere. Maybe the waiter saw how dire our need was, considering Holly’s tears. Anyway, he sat us under the shade of his restaurant’s big fluttery awning, and I said, “Un verre de vin blanc pour moi et pour mon amie,” forgetting I wasn’t in 11^th-grade French, but in Italy.

The waiter totally took it in stride though. “Frizzante?” he asked me.

I had no idea what he was talking about, but remembering I was in Italy and not France, I managed to say Si and not Oui.

My first foreign language exchange! I’d spoken English with the Diet Coke guy and Mr. Gladiator’s pimp. And OK, the exchange hadn’t been in the actual language spoken in this country. But it had still been foreign.

Then the bread basket came, with a little pot of silky white butter, and we dug in, because even when she’s crying, Holly can still eat, which is one of the many reasons I love her.

And I told her how lucky she is her father ISN’T here, since, like her mom, he doesn’t exactly approve of Mark. Which is ridiculous, because Mark is totally perfect husband material, being completely sweet and thoughtful and funny and self-deprecating and totally the opposite of his horrible friend Cal the Modelizer in every way. Plus Mark’s even reasonably good-looking. Oh, and a doctor. With a weekly health column in a New York paper that’s read by millions. What more could the Caputos ask?

A Catholic, apparently.

Sometimes I get so mad at Holly’s parents for what they’re doing to her, I just want to spit.

But then, Mark’s parents are just as bad, in their own way.

“L–like it even matters to us,” Holly sobbed, as the waiter reappeared with two glasses of white wine on a tray. “I mean, I haven’t been to church since I was eighteen! Church was their thing, not mine. And Mark hasn’t set foot in temple since his bar mitzvah. We have no intention of raising our children any particular religion. We’re going to bring up the kids a-religious. And then when they’re old enough, they can decide which religion—if any—they want to belong to.”

I nodded because I had heard this many times before. The wine in the glasses the waiter was putting down in front of us seemed to catch the sun and dance around before my eyes like fool’s gold in the bottom of that stream Laura found on that one episode of Little House on the Prairie .

“Why can’t they just respect that this is the man I love?” Holly asked, picking up her glass and taking a gulp. “And, yes, he’s Jewish. Get over it.”

I sipped my wine too—

And nearly spat it out! Because it wasn’t wine at all! It was champagne!

Only better than champagne! Because the bubbles in champagne usually give me an instant headache.

But these bubbles were tiny and light—barely there at all.

“What is this?” I asked, in wonder, holding my glass up to the light and looking at all the lovely bubbles.

“Frizzante,” Holly said. “Remember? He asked, and you said Si. It’s like…fizzy wine. Don’t you like it?”