The Boy Next Door Read Online Free PDF
Author: Meg Cabot
wants you to do him in return?
Jason
P.S.: No, we’re going to the place in the Hamptons. You’re welcome to join us.
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: S.O.S.
I don’t even want to ask. What is it that you want me to do for you, Max?
And please, I’m begging you, nothing illegal in New York, or any other state.
John
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: S.O.S.
Look, it’ll be a piece of cake: All I want you to do is be me. Just for a week or two.
Well, okay, maybe a month.
Simple, right? Here’s the 411:
My aunt—you know, the filthy stinking rich one who always kind of reminded me of your grandma, Mimi, or whatever the hell her name is. The one who was so mean about our apartment? The neighborhood wasn’t that bad.
Anyway, my aunt apparently suffered a senior moment and let a psychopath into her place, who conked her on the head and fled, and now she’s in the vegetable crisper at Beth Israel.
There is a chance—albeit a small one—according to her doctors, that she might come out of it.
So you understand that it simply won’t do to have her waking up and finding out that her beloved Maxie didn’t fly to her side as soon as he heard about her accident. Auntie Helen’s will is arranged 80/20—80 percent of the $12 million my aunt is worth goes to me upon her demise, and 20 percent goes to various charitable organizations she sponsors. We wouldn’t want there to be any sort of untimely shift in those percentiles, now would we, on account of Maxie turning out to have been playing house with a supermodel during this alarming tragedy?
Of course we wouldn’t. Which is where you, my friend, come in:
You’re going to tell this neighbor of hers that you’re me.
That’s it. Just be me, so Ms. Melissa Fuller reports back to Auntie Helen—if she ever comes around, which is extremely doubt-ful—that, yes, her beloved nephew, Maxie, did show up as soon as he heard about her little accident.
Oh, yeah, and you might have to walk the dog a few times. Just to shut the neighbor up.
And, of course, if the old biddy shows the slightest sign of rejoining the conscious, you call me. Got it? And I’ll rush right back.
But since I figure the chance of an eighty-year-old woman springing back from this kind of thing is pretty much nil, I won’t be expecting to hear from you.
You know I wouldn’t ask you to do this if we weren’t talkingVivica here. Okay? VIVICA. The girl is supposedly very well versed in yoga.
YOGA, Trent.
You do this for me, and your slate’s clean, dude. Whadduya say?
Max
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: S.O.S.
Let me see if I’ve got this straight:
Your aunt was the victim of a brutal assault, and you don’t even care enough to postpone your vacation?
That is cold, Friedlander. Really cold.
Essentially, what you want me to do is impersonate you. Is that it?
I think I’d rather be married to the showgirl.
John
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: S.O.S.
You crime reporters are all alike.
Why do you have to make it sound so underhanded? I toldyou, Helen’s in a coma. She’s never even going to know about it. If she croaks, you tell me, I come back to arrange the funeral. If she comes out of it, you tell me, I come back to help her convalesce.
But as long as she’s unconscious, she’s never going to know the difference. So why postpone anything?
Besides, we’re talking Vivica here.
You see how easy things can be if you don’t overanalyze them? You were always like this. I remember those multiple-choice tests we’d get in Bio, you were always, “It can’t be A—that’s too obvious. They must be trying to trick us,” and so you’d choose D, when the answer was
Jason
P.S.: No, we’re going to the place in the Hamptons. You’re welcome to join us.
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: S.O.S.
I don’t even want to ask. What is it that you want me to do for you, Max?
And please, I’m begging you, nothing illegal in New York, or any other state.
John
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: S.O.S.
Look, it’ll be a piece of cake: All I want you to do is be me. Just for a week or two.
Well, okay, maybe a month.
Simple, right? Here’s the 411:
My aunt—you know, the filthy stinking rich one who always kind of reminded me of your grandma, Mimi, or whatever the hell her name is. The one who was so mean about our apartment? The neighborhood wasn’t that bad.
Anyway, my aunt apparently suffered a senior moment and let a psychopath into her place, who conked her on the head and fled, and now she’s in the vegetable crisper at Beth Israel.
There is a chance—albeit a small one—according to her doctors, that she might come out of it.
So you understand that it simply won’t do to have her waking up and finding out that her beloved Maxie didn’t fly to her side as soon as he heard about her accident. Auntie Helen’s will is arranged 80/20—80 percent of the $12 million my aunt is worth goes to me upon her demise, and 20 percent goes to various charitable organizations she sponsors. We wouldn’t want there to be any sort of untimely shift in those percentiles, now would we, on account of Maxie turning out to have been playing house with a supermodel during this alarming tragedy?
Of course we wouldn’t. Which is where you, my friend, come in:
You’re going to tell this neighbor of hers that you’re me.
That’s it. Just be me, so Ms. Melissa Fuller reports back to Auntie Helen—if she ever comes around, which is extremely doubt-ful—that, yes, her beloved nephew, Maxie, did show up as soon as he heard about her little accident.
Oh, yeah, and you might have to walk the dog a few times. Just to shut the neighbor up.
And, of course, if the old biddy shows the slightest sign of rejoining the conscious, you call me. Got it? And I’ll rush right back.
But since I figure the chance of an eighty-year-old woman springing back from this kind of thing is pretty much nil, I won’t be expecting to hear from you.
You know I wouldn’t ask you to do this if we weren’t talkingVivica here. Okay? VIVICA. The girl is supposedly very well versed in yoga.
YOGA, Trent.
You do this for me, and your slate’s clean, dude. Whadduya say?
Max
To: Max Friedlander
From: John Trent
Subject: S.O.S.
Let me see if I’ve got this straight:
Your aunt was the victim of a brutal assault, and you don’t even care enough to postpone your vacation?
That is cold, Friedlander. Really cold.
Essentially, what you want me to do is impersonate you. Is that it?
I think I’d rather be married to the showgirl.
John
To: John Trent
From: Max Friedlander
Subject: S.O.S.
You crime reporters are all alike.
Why do you have to make it sound so underhanded? I toldyou, Helen’s in a coma. She’s never even going to know about it. If she croaks, you tell me, I come back to arrange the funeral. If she comes out of it, you tell me, I come back to help her convalesce.
But as long as she’s unconscious, she’s never going to know the difference. So why postpone anything?
Besides, we’re talking Vivica here.
You see how easy things can be if you don’t overanalyze them? You were always like this. I remember those multiple-choice tests we’d get in Bio, you were always, “It can’t be A—that’s too obvious. They must be trying to trick us,” and so you’d choose D, when the answer was
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