Meg Cabot - Boy Meets Girl

Dear Kate,

Hi, you don’t know me, but the other night I did a runway show (I am a model) in Bryant Park for Marc Jacobs and I met your ex-boyfriend, Dale Carter, lead singer for the band I’m Not Making Any More Sandwiches (isn’t that the funniest name for a band? Dale told me why he calls his band that, and I think it’s just the CUTEST story).

Anyway, I think Dale is pretty hot, and all. I mean, I have always wanted to have a boyfriend who could perhaps immortalize me in song. Like that Alison girl that other guy sings about, or the Lady in Red. Or Layla. Or that lucky-duck showgirl Lola, for that matter.

But the thing is, due to an unfortunate experience two years ago involving a man I learned was actually a murderer (well, attempted, currently serving twenty years to life), I have given up on dating men who don’t come with references, particularly from their exes. I would really like to get to know Dale better, because he is a fox—I love his little goatee!—and a musician and all. But I told him, “No way will I ask you out, buster, unless you give me your mother’s phone number and the names and e-mail addresses of the last five girls you’ve dated.”

Well, you can imagine I was pretty surprised when I found out Dale’s only been with one girl in the past ten years! I mean, I haven’t even had the same HAIR COLOR for that long, let alone DATED anyone. I think it is pretty impressive that Dale and you went out for that long, even if, like Dale says, you ultimately stabbed him in the back by demanding a commitment and then left him, rendering him into the broken shell that he is today.

I, however, am not looking for commitment, since I am only twenty-fo—three years old, and as I said, I am a model, and so I travel quite a bit between New York and Milan and Paris, and the last thing I want is a ball and chain. Know what I mean? I mean, I did get a dog, finally, but Pedro is a Maltese and fits into my wallet, practically. If you could get a wallet-sized boyfriend I so would, but you can’t, so I am stuck looking for ones who don’t mind a girlfriend who travels a lot. But since Dale will be touring with his band for the next eighteen months, he says my traveling is cool with him.

So if you don’t mind, Kate, could you call me on my cell at your convenience? The number is 917-555-4532. And if you could just answer true or false on the topics below, I would really appreciate it.

Love,

Vivica

1) My ex has never attempted to murder someone for the inheritance money.

T or F

2) My ex is appreciative of the fine arts, such as driftwood sculpture.

T or F

3) My ex would never have sex with a hotel maid while I was at the beach.

T or F

4) My ex would never lie about having a job and then try to borrow my money and never pay it back.

T or F

5) My ex has never borrowed my Christian Dior thong and stretched it all out.

T or F

6) My ex enjoys exotic cuisine, such as onion blossoms from TGI Friday’s.

T or F

7) My ex is fond of animals.

T or F

8) My ex is respectful of his mother/sisters/aunts.

T or F

9) My ex has never asked another person to pose as him in order to dupe a reporter into thinking he is somewhere he is not.

T or F

10) My ex does not snore.

T or F

Thanks bunches!

V

To: Kate Mackenzie

Fr: Mitchell Hertzog

Re: Hi

Remember me? Okay, stupid question.

Wait, before you hit the Delete button, hear me out—or read me out, anyway.

I had absolutely no right to do what I did. And I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I completely and totally screwed up. My intention, for what it’s worth, was twofold—and I could probably be disbarred for admitting this, but what the hell: 1) to get Ida her job back—no one who makes brownies like that should be out of work, and 2) to show my brother what kind of girl he’s marrying, by forcing my future sister-in-law into revealing what kind of two-faced liar she really is.

I should have known Ms. Jenkins would react the way she did. She is, after all, cut from the same cloth as my brother.

I know you didn’t write that letter, Kate. I know Amy wrote it, forged your signature and Ida Lopez’s initials on it, and then stuck it in Ida’s file. I’m betting she didn’t do it until after Ida filed for breach of contract, when Amy must have realized she’d been a little too cavalier with union regulations in her zeal to appease my brother’s wounded pride.

What I’m really writing to say—besides I’m sorry—is that I don’t want you to worry about any of this, because I’m going to get your job back.

And then we’ll see how your boss likes being on the receiving instead of the sending end of a letter of termination for a change.

Listen, we really should get together and talk about this. What are you doing tonight? If you’re not feeling too vodka-and-tonicked out, why don’t you come over to my place for dinner? It might be safer than dining out. At least for my wardrobe.

Please don’t say no. I owe you dinner, at the very least.

Mitch

Journal of Kate Mackenzie

Help.

Pain. Intense pain, radiating from behind eye sockets. Can barely move.

What HAPPENED? Oooooh, writing in capitals is hurting my eyes. But really . . . what DID happen last night? It’s all starting to come back, but only in patches. I remember . . . Skiboy. I remember Skiboy being really nice to me.

But why? Why would Skiboy be nice to me? He’s Dolly’s boyfriend. Something to do with my job, I know but . . .

Ooooh. That’s right. I have no job. I have no job anymore. Which is good, because it’s . . . 12:45 in the afternoon, which means if I did have a job, I would be three hours and forty-five minutes late for it now.

Amy. Amy fired me. That stupid cow. I can’t believe she did that.

Jen. Did Jen come over last night? I seem to dimly remember—

Oh. My. God.

Jen did come over last night. To check on me. But so did—

MITCH HERTZOG!

Mitch Hertzog came over last night to check on me. Only I was PLASTERED. And . . . oh my God. I think I threw up on him.

Okay. Okay, deep breath. Just get to the phone. Just get to the phone to call Jen and see if I really did throw up on Mitch Hertzog. Maybe it was all a bad dream. . . .

It wasn’t a dream. I just got off phone with Jen. I really did throw up on Mitch Hertzog. On his shoes, no less.

Oh! And he had on really nice shoes! They were wingtips. Jen says there were chunks of vomit stuck in the little punched-out places. . . .

To which all I can say is . . . Good.

Oh, God. If I had anything left to throw up, I’d throw it up now.

WHY did I let Skiboy fix me all those drinks? Why didn’t I just say no? Oh my God, now on top of being homeless, jobless, and boyfriendless, I’m an alcoholic. They’re going to have to send me to the Betty Ford Clinic.

Only I can’t afford to go there, because I don’t have any health insurance, because I lost my job.

Jen says Mitch was really very kind and concerned about me last night. Great. The person who is responsible for getting me fired was kind and concerned about me last night. As I was yakking on his shoes.

WHY didn’t I see any of this coming? Not the being-hung-over-from-drinking-with-Skiboy thing. The losing-my-job thing. My God, I just WALKED into it, didn’t I? Amy’s little trap.

Of course, I had an excellent guide steering me along . . . Mr. Mitch Hertzog.

Hertzog. God. It even sounds as if I’m hurling up an evening’s worth of vodka and tonics when I say it. Hertzog. Hertzog. Amy HURTS OGG.

Oh God, I wish I were dead.

Good morning, roomie! Just a note to say I know you probably feel like merde ce matin . Never fear, I’m the queen of hangovers. There’s tomato juice in the fridge, and Vitamin B in my medicine cabinet.