The Boy Next Door

IN THE SECOND GRADE, WHEN YOU ARE A BOY WHO LIKES A GIRL, YOU GIVE HER YOUR BEST POKEMON CARD. OR YOU PULL HER HAIR. NOT HARD ENOUGH TO MAKE HER CRY, THOUGH. OR YOU CAN ASK TO HER ROLLERSKATE BACKWARDS WITH YOU, AND THEN HOLD HER HAND SO SHE DOESN'T FALL DOWN.

I can't join a gym! I'm depressed, not suicidal!

Honey, You ain't a hundred dollar bill, not everyone is going to like you.

Aaron, in order to die you have to live a little first.

All men are pigs and I hope they die and monkeys take over, then things would be way better.

Am I really not worth shaving for?

I've dug this grave myself. I guess I have no choice but to lie down in it.

Friend Tim shakes hands with Perfect Specimen of Mankind. Will never wash right hand again.

You're like the little mentally retarded sister I never had

Write this letter or we'll put you in a home, grandma.

You coulld put girls' boyfriends in jail, and I could teach the immigrants how to dress!!!

I must seem like the biggest nagging idiot in the world!

It's a natural progress, but still. That thing about the cow is so stupid. Do I look like a cow to you?

Everyone knows you only want to look at the sinkhole because you love a good disaster. Get back to work, Fuller. I don't pay you for your looks.

I am willing to overlook your intense personal insecurities for the moment in order to inform you that I will not be able to attend the dedication tomorrow night, as I have alternate plans. I will elaborate no more, for fear of further fraternal wrath. I like that, further fraternal wrath. Maybe I’ll put that in my novel. Fraternally yours, your faithful brother, John

To: Nadine Wilcock From: George Sanchez Subject: Where the hell is Fuller? She better not be in the ladies’. I swear to God, I’m beginning to think there’s somebody in there serving lattes, you all spend so much time locked in those damned stalls….

Exit our Miss Mel. Exit Friend Tim. When I glanced over my shoulder, Max Friedlander had disappeared—a remarkable feat, considering that there was nowhere on that side of the hole for him to go except into the Chronicle building. But he can’t have gone in there. His soul would have been ripped instantly from his body while demons sucked out his life force.

To: Mel Fuller From: Nadine Wilcock Subject: Go take a Midol…

You don’t have to shout, sweetie. I can read you just fine in lower-case letters.

Dolly, I swear to God, if you tell one more person that I saw Max Friedlander naked I will personally come over there and put a stake through your heart, which I hear is the only way to stop someone like you. He was not NAKED, okay? He was fully clothed. FULLY CLOTHED AT ALL TIMES. Well, except for his forearms. But that’s all I saw, I swear it. So, stop telling people otherwise!!!

Okay, the cops are gone. I explained about my mother and her obsession with the transvestite killer. They didn’t even get that mad.

It’s only until Mrs. Friedlander gets better And when is THAT going to be? Earth to Mel. Come in, Mel. The woman is in a COMA. Okay? She is COMATOSE. I think some alternative arrangements for the woman’s pets need to be made. You are a DOORMAT. A COMATOSE woman is using you as a DOORMAT. The woman has to have some relatives, Mel. FIND THEM.

To: Mel Fuller From: jerrylives@freemail.com Subject: Dinner You got it. I’ll make reservations for eight. I hope you know what you’re doing, however, letting me choose the restaurant. I am very partial to entrails, you know. John To: jerrylives@freemail.com From: Mel Fuller Subject: I don’t believe you You’re just trying to scare me. I grew up on a farm. We had entrails on toast every morning for breakfast. Mel To: Mel Fuller From: jerrylives@freemail.com Subject: Now you’re scaring me. See you at six. John

Whatever it is, I cannot seem to pull off something as simple as dinner between the two of us. As you know, my first attempt ended with us eating pizza standing up (and her paying for her own slice). My second attempt was even worse: We spent most of the evening in an animal hospital. And then I very suavely added insult to injury by sexually harassing her on Max Friedlander’s aunt’s couch. She fled, in romance-novel vernacular, like a startled fawn. As well she should have: I’m sure I must have seemed like a teenager in postprom heat.