Every Boy's Got One Read online

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

  ___________________________________________

  To: Jane Harris

  Fr: Malcolm Weatherly

  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 Jane Harris

  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 11th 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.

  ___________________________________________

  e-mails

  To: Mark Levine

  Fr: Cal Langdon

  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

  Fr: Mark Levine

  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

  Fr: Cal Langdon

  Re: Sorry

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

  Cal

  ___________________________________________

  To: Cal Langdon

  Fr: Mark Levine

  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

  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 Jane Harris

  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 c
heese….

  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.

  And I will admit that it was impossible to tell what was going on behind those steely baby blues of his.

  But I imagined—my second BIG MISTAKE—that he was feeling the way I was… that Mark and Holly are the cutest couple EVER and totally belong together and it’s a CRIME what their families are doing to them, being so unreasonable about the differing faiths thing.

  So I went, in a soft voice so Mark and Holly wouldn’t overhear, “Do you STILL think those two shouldn’t get married?”

  And the Modelizer went, “I give it a year. Two, tops.”

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

  I couldn’t believe it! I mean, where could he POSSIBLY be getting that?

  So I went, “Are you crazy? They’re totally in love. Look at them.”

  Cal: “You know love is just a chemical reaction in the brain caused by surges of phenylethylamine, don’t you?”

  Me: (confused) “You’re saying Holly and Mark don’t really love each other? That it’s all in their heads?”

  Cal: “I’m saying no one loves anyone. People are attracted to one another and pair up to breed due to our natural mating instinct. But that attraction doesn’t last. As with all drugs, the body develops a tolerance for the phenylethylamine, and eventually, the attraction you once felt for your partner fades. It’s all perfectly natural. You can get the same amount of phenylethylamine, a stimulant the mind craves, by ingesting vast amounts of chocolate as you can by, quote, falling in love, end quote.”

  Me: “So… you don’t believe in romantic love?”

  Cal: “I believe I just said that.”

  Me: “Because of the vast amount of time you’ve spent studying the subject?”

  Cal: “From my own personal experience, yes. And from the relationships I’ve observed around me.”

  Me: “So Holly and Mark are going to break up because there’s no such thing as love?”

  Cal: “Oh, no. Well, yes, eventually. But well before that happens, they’re going to break up because their backgrounds are too different.”

  I really don’t think I can be blamed for saying, “At least they’re both human, unlike the skank I saw leaving your hotel room earlier.”

  I had the satisfaction of seeing him, for the first time since we’ve met, completely speechless.

  Sadly the effect was ruined when one of my stiletto heels got caught between the cobblestones outside the restaurant. It gouged away all the silver lame. I don’t think it can be fixed, either.

  I’ll admit the cobblestones are charming, but have these people never heard of asphalt? It was totally humiliating too, the Modelizer had to help me pry it loose. My heel, I mean.

  His hand fit all the way around my ankle. You know, his fingers met his thumb on the other side.

  Thank God I remembered to shave my legs in the shower before dinner.

  God, I’m so jazzed from all that good food, I don’t think I’ll ever fall asleep. Plus, I keep thinking about The Dude. He has to be all right, doesn’t he? I mean, Julio would have called if there was anything wrong. I left my cell number by the phone, so Julio could call from my phone, and not wrack up a bill on his parents’ line.

  And I just checked it, and he hasn’t called. So The Dude is good. No news is good news, right? The Dude HAS to be good.

  It’s just that we’ve spent maybe only five nights, total, away from each other since he was a kitten. Who is going to get up during The Dude’s 4-AM windowsill yowl at the moon and comfort him if I’m not there? That yowl used to drive me insane. But now I sort of miss it. I’d give anything to hear that yowl right now. In fact, I don’t think I’ll be able to go to sleep without it—

  —

  —

  —

  —

  —

  —

  —

  —

  —

  —

  —

  ___________________________________________

  e-mails

  To: Customer Service New York Journal Travel Privileges

  Fr: Mark Levine

  Re: Car Rental

  I realize it’s Sunday, and that your offices are closed. However, when I made the reservation for a rental car in Rome, I specified that I needed a four-door sedan with trunk room for four VERY LARGE bags. I asked for a Jaguar or Mercedes, NOT a Toyota. Now I have to cram one of the bags in the backseat with two passengers, and we’re going to be driving through MOUNTAINS. Do you really think it’s safe to drive through a mountain range with a large, overstuffed suitcase between passengers in the backseat?

  I didn’t think so. I’ll expect to hear from you on Monday.

  Mark Levine, MD

  ___________________________________________

  To: Julio Chasez

  Fr: Jane Harris

  Re: The Dude

  Hi, Julio! I have to admit, I’m getting kind of worried. Is everything OK? I mean, you haven’t written back to me, and I just want to know if everything is going all right. I know you’re busy with school and hockey and all, but if you could just send me a tiny message, letting me know The Dude’s all right, I’d really appreciate it.

  I think I’ll try your pager.

  J

  ___________________________________________

  To: Jane Harris

  Fr: Holly Caputo

  Re: Where are you?

  ????????????????????

  ___________________________________________

  To: Holly Caputo nyjournal.com>

  Fr: Jane Harris

  Re: Where are you?

  I’m still in the dining room, finishing breakfast. Where are YOU?

  J

  ___________________________________________

  To: Jane Harris

  Fr: Holly Caputo

  Re: Where are you?

  Outside. Hurry up and finish and get out here. You’ve got to see this. Mark and Cal are trying to cram all of our bags into the trunk, only they won’t fit. So they’re doing physics. All serious, like it’s a puzzle or something. Something actually IMPORTANT. Get out here, or you’ll miss it.

  Holly

  ___________________________________________

  To: Holly Caputo

  Fr: Jane Harris

  Re: Where are you?

  I’m not done with my yogurt yet.

  J

  ___________________________________________

  To: Jane Harris

  Fr: Holly Caputo

  Re: Where are you?

  Oh my God, it’s just YOGURT. Get out here. You can have yogurt anytime.

  Holly

  ___________________________________________

  To: Holly Caputo

  Fr: Jane Harris

  Re: Where are you?

  Not like this. This is the best yogurt I’ve ever had.