Meg Cabot - Every Boy’s Got One

“I love it.”

I loved it so much, I had another glass of it. By the time Mark joined us, I was in a VERY good mood.

Fortunately, so was Holly. There was so much people-watching to do in our corner of the piazza that she soon forgot all about the wedding we’d seen, and her yearning for her dad to give her away at her own. Soon we were able to pick out the American tourists as quickly as the Italians obviously could. I don’t mean to say anything negative about my countrymen and women, but hello, the Fab Five have their work cut out for them.

Holly was instantly cheered, as always, by the sight of Mark. He asked for a menu and got one—in English!—and ordered mussels and an antipasto platter, and we sat and ate chunky crumbles of parmesan and fresh tangy olives and buttery slivers of salami and garlicky mussels and had fun watching other suckers get fleeced by the handsome, morose gladiator and his pimp.

Then the shadows started getting longer and Mark checked his Blackberry and said we should be getting back to the hotel to change for dinner. So we got the bill—which Mark insisted on paying—and started back, Mark with arm around Holly’s waist, and her head leaning on his shoulder, her unhappiness from a few hours earlier blissfully forgotten.

And I wished SO HARD that awful Modelizer Cal was with us, so he could see how cute Holly and Mark are together, and how great a couple they are, and what sweet parents they’ll make, and what a crime it would be if they didn’t get married. I mean, how could anyone look at Holly and Mark and think, for even one minute, that marriage is an antiquated institution that ought to be abolished? They are living proof that it works. Just because Modelizer’s wife turned out to be a money-grubbing beeyotch doesn’t mean—

Ooooh! I got an email! On my Blackberry! PLEASE let it be Julio!!!!

___________________________________________

To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Malcolm Weatherly <malcolmw@snowstyle.com>

Re: Ciao!

Hey, babe! How’s it hang in? So ya there yet? Whaddaya think? Pretty rad, huh? Yeah, I-ty blew my mind when I was there last year for the European Open. Even the freaking coffee tastes better there.

But I don’t get the whole “everything closing from noon to four and lunch and everybody serving nothing but pasta after ten” thing. Bummer if you wake up at one and want a freaking waffle.

But make sure you try one of those bidets. It’ll change your life!

Stay away from those I-ty Latin Lover types. I know how those guys operate. They only want a green card, anyway. Not that you’re not, you know, totally hot.

Aw, gotta go, I’m up next on the half pipe. Luv ya.

Mal

PS Know what? I kinda miss The Dude. Give him a big kiss for me, willya? Oh, you can’t, cause you’re in I–ty. Sorry.

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

Isn’t that sweet? I miss The Dude, too. If he were here right now, he’d be curled up around my feet.

And my toes would be losing all circulation because he weighs so much. But still.

I don’t understand why Julio hasn’t written, though. What if he forgot? To feed The Dude, I mean?

But how could he forget? I stuck a giant sign on his dad’s door, to remind him….

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Walking through the piazza behind Mark and Holly.

Well… while I was looking at them, and thinking how cute they are, and what a shame it was that Modelizer Cal wasn’t there with us to see them and all, I got a pang.

A PANG.

I’ll admit it. I mean, I am totally happy for Holly and in full support of this elopement scheme. Really, given the situation, I don’t see how she and Mark have any choice BUT to elope.

But seeing them together like that, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her—I felt a pang.

Because where is MY Mark? Really? Where IS he?

Because I know he’s not in Canada right now, hitting the half pipe—or the full pipe. Or even both, as in Malcolm’s case. I mean, I like Malcolm and all, and we have a blast together. But I can’t really picture him strolling through the piazza with his arm around my waist. Skateboarding through it, certainly. But having a nice glass of bianco frizzante as the sun sets? Not so much.

I’m sure he’s out there, somewhere. My Mark, I mean. He has to be, right?

But what if I never find him? Or what if I already met him, and I messed it up somehow? This would not be unusual, since I mess up everything. I mean, what if My Mark was DAVE who cheated on me with Amy Jenkins (that whore)?

Oh, God, no. Fate would never be so unkind.

Or what if My Mark was Curt Shipley, who took me to the prom in 11^th grade, and we made out in his Chevette afterwards, and then that summer, I found out he’d been making out, in that same Chevette, with Mike Morris after the fireworks on the Fourth of July?

Which means I must have turned Curt gay, because he certainly wasn’t gay BEFORE we made out.

Oh, my God. What if Curt Shipley was the man of my dreams, and I TURNED HIM GAY?????

Killing self now.

___________________________________________

To: Mark Levine <mark.levine@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Cal Langdon <cal.langdon@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Sorry

Sorry I missed it when you called earlier. I was dead to the world. We still on for dinner tonight?

Cal

___________________________________________

To: Cal Langdon <cal.langdon@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Mark Levine <mark.levine@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Sorry

Yes, I happened to hear how “dead to the world” you were as I passed by your room on my way to meet the girls. I wasn’t aware that corpses were sexually active… at least, if I’m to assume the heavily accented female voice calling your name with ever-increasing volume as she climaxed was, indeed, coming from Room 204.

Mark

___________________________________________

To: Mark Levine <mark.levine@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Cal Langdon <cal.langdon@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Sorry

Oh. That was Graziella. She won’t be joining us tonight.

Cal

___________________________________________

To: Cal Langdon <cal.langdon@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Mark Levine <mark.levine@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Sorry

I am sorrier to hear that than words can adequately express. See you at eight.

Mark

PDA of Cal Langdon

It was a mistake to invite Grazi in. I should have insisted on going to her place. I’d forgotten how… loud she can be.

___________________________________________

ANTIPASTI

Insalatina mista all’aceto balsamico Carpaccio tiepido di manzo con parmigiano e rucola Medaglioni d’astice con insalata di stagione

PASTA

Fusilli con pomodori e basilico Garganelli con pesto, patate e fagiolini Tagliolini con zafferano, gamberoni e zucchine

SECONDI PLATTI

Medaglioni di vitello in crosta di basilico con purea de melanzane e parmigiano Filetto di manzo alle erbe aromatiche Tagliata di manzo con timballo de patate e cardamomo Filetto di rombo al forno con limone e capperi

INSALATE DI STAGIONE

SELEZIONE DI FORMAGGI ITALIANI

DOLCI

Bavarese al cioccolato bianco con crema cocoa alla liquirizia e latte di madorle Mousse al cioccolato fondente con sedano candito Crema al limone Budino al cocco con frutto della passione

___________________________________________

PDA of Cal Langdon

Insisted on paying for dinner, as spent majority of it pontificating on Sweeping Sands, and felt I had to make amends. Also, it was the least I could do after Mark’s revelation regarding Grazi. Eight hundred euro, but worth it—especially the wine.

Don’t think I made a friend of Ms. Harris, however. Which is a shame, because she looks rather fetching in heels—a point that was driven home rather hard when she stumbled outside the restaurant, and I was forced to pry her heel from where it was wedged between two cobblestones.

The tattoo IS of Wondercat. It’s the same cat’s head that she’s got on her luggage. I’ve never been one for tattoos, but hers is rather fetching.

I can’t believe I wrote the word fetching. This country goes to my head like prosecco.

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

Oh, my God, that restaurant was so fancy that they even had tiny little chairs for ladies’ purses! Seriously! Like the waiter held my chair for me, then he pulled out this matching stool for my bag! The bag I bought off an outdoor table on Canal Street in Chinatown, then bedazzled with Wondercat’s face! In a seat of honor!

It was almost too much. There was silverware on the table I had never seen before.

Plus, in the ladies’ room, there were actual folded hand towels for every visitor. Not paper towels. But a huge stack of tiny hand towels, so when you dried your hands, you reached for one, then threw it into a laundry basket underneath the sink.

I have no idea what I ate for dinner. It was delicious, though. The waiter said a bunch of stuff, and Holly, who speaks a little Italian, and Modelizer Cal, who I guess speaks a little more than that, just nodded and went, “Si, si.” And then plates began to appear, of squash blossoms stuffed with goat cheese, and perfect little circles of foie gras, and curls of endive dripping in butter and cheese….

That meal had to have been three thousand calories, at least.

But I didn’t care. Because it was all so delicious. THIS IS SO FUN!!!!!!!

Well, except for Cal. It’s no WONDER he’s never heard of Wondercat. I doubt he’s ever read anything for fun in his entire life. Holly made the mistake—BIG one—of asking him what the book he wrote is about.

Of course a modelizer like him can’t be writing something cool like a spy thriller or dick lit, like Nick Hornsby or anything. Oh, no. HE has to have written a book about—get this—how Saudi Arabia’s oil fields are on the decline, and soon won’t be able to meet the world’s demands. This, of course, is going to crush Saudi Arabia’s economy, and have serious repercussions throughout the rest of the globe, as well.

Yeah. Who cares? Guess what, Cal? In Saudi Arabia, women aren’t allowed to vote or drive cars. Why should I care if that nation’s economy goes down the tubes? Maybe if they’d let women have some say in their country’s governance, they wouldn’t be in this sorry position in the first place.

Sadly, he SAW me yawning. Cal, I mean.

And instead of just politely accepting my apology— “Sorry, jet lag”—he was all, “This could have a profound impact on you, too, Jane. What do you think those water bottles you’re so fond of are made from? Petroleum.”

Geez! I love Mark to death, but why is he even friends with this guy? Oh, sure, maybe the ex left him a bitter shell of a man. But does he have to take it out on me?

Also, he may think he’s slick, but when I was leaving my room to meet Holly and Mark for cocktails down in the lobby, I got a major eyeful of what he spent the afternoon doing, as she slunk out of his room and down the stairs. I don’t care what Holly says about me being his type, it’s a total lie. Cal Langdon’s “type” is STILL clearly five-foot-eleven blonde models, NOT five-foot-four brunette cartoonists into whose jeans TWO of said models could easily fit.

As if that’s not bad enough, when we were waiting for a taxi to take us home, I looked over and saw Mark take off his jacket and wrap it around Holly, who was shivering a little in her sleeveless pink dress. Then he put his arm around her, and the two of them nuzzled each other.

NUZZLED. They were NUZZLING.

And I looked over to see if Cal had noticed, and he totally had, he was looking right at them.