Stupid and Contagious

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to events or to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Although some celebrities’ names are mentioned, they are al used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2006 by Caprice Crane

Al rights reserved.

5 Spot

Warner Books

Hachette Book Group

237 Park Avenue

New York, NY 1017

Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com 5 Spot and the 5 Spot logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group.

First eBook Edition: May 2006

ISBN: 978-0-446-55104-5

Contents

Acknowledgments

Heaven

Brady

Heaven

Brady

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Brady’s Answering Machine

About the Author

5 Spot Send Off

ACCLAIM FOR
STUPID AND

CONTAGIOUS

“ STUPID AND CONTAGIOUS is anything but stupid and completely contagious. Infectious, riotous, and hip beyond belief, it’s a great read.”

—Isabel Rose, author of
The J.A.P. Chronicles

“A witty romantic comedy debut.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“ Smart and feisty! Milk-snorting funny and playful y intriguing! Love it!”

— Karen Salmansohn, author of
How to Be Happy,
Dammit

“ Insanely funny and outrageous, STUPID AND

CONTAGIOUS effortlessly captures the glorious awkwardness of becoming who you are, finding that special someone who drives you crazy, and ultimately fol owing your dreams wherever they may take you.”

—Erica Kennedy, author of
Bling

“ Caprice Crane rocks! This is the best book I’ve read in a long, long time. Sharp, original, and wickedly funny, this is a must-read. I absolutely loved it.”

— Johanna Edwards, bestsel ing author of
The Next
Big Thing
and
Your Big Break

“ Caprice Crane’s writing is so cool I feel like the geek girl stalking her locker, trying to slide a mix CD

through the slats before she spots me. STUPID AND

CONTAGIOUS is hilarious and insightful. A book with its own soundtrack, this is one not to miss.”

—Pamela Ribon, author of
Why Girls Are Weird

“ Caprice Crane brings her respect for music and al of its universal sentiment into her stylish, page-turning, sharp-tongued debut novel.”

— Liza Palmer, author of
Conversations with the Fat
Girl

For my beautiful mother, Tina Louise, the eternal optimist . . . whose outer beauty is eclipsed only by her exquisite inner . . .

who’s been my biggest fan and cheerleader for my entire life. Your belief in me and unconditional support have inspired me, kept me going, and taught me faith. I love you with al of my heart.

Mom (Tina Louise), Dad (Les Crane), Stepmom (Ginger Crane), Grandma (Betty Yaeger), my dogs (Chelsea and Max), Jennie Abrams-Trager, Walter Afanasieff, Jeremy Armstrong, Jenny Bent, Cristina Brascia, Daniel e Brisebois, Al ison Burnett, Stephen Cabot, Adam Carl, Michel e Chydzik, Dahlia Cohen, Alex Coletti, Robert Cort, Jim Cotter, Tajma Davis, Denise Diforio, Steve Dirado, Amy Einhorn, Endeavor Agency, El en and Irwin Frankel, Glen E.

Friedman, Jonathan Fuhrman, Gil ian Garrett, D. B.

Gil es, Jeff Goodman, Emily Griffin, Gary Helsinger, Kevin Hershey, Andy Kaplan, Devon Kel gren, Scarlett Lacey, Erik Lautier, Adam Levine, Brian Lipson, Melissa Lipton, David List, K. E. Macey, Nez Mandel, Nathalie Marciano, Cade McNown, Tracey Mikolas, Jil Morris, John Nutcher, Brigid Pearson, Dizzy Reed, Joel Rice, Kevin Roentgen, Amanda Rouse, Penina Sacks, James Schiff, Lisa Singer, Lou Stalsworth, Jason Steinberg, Makyla Stone, Sky Stone, Sarah Tomkins, Trident Media, Robert Trujil o, David Vanker, David Veloz, Joe Vernon, Amanda Voelker,

Fran

Warner,

Warner

Books,

El y

Weisenberg, Andrea Wel s (my third-grade teacher), and Harley Zinker

“ This song explains why I’m leaving home to become a stewardess.”

—
Anita Mil er,
Almost Famous

“ Yeah, wel , sometimes nothin’ can be a real cool hand.”

—
Luke,
Cool Hand Luke

Heaven

My name is Heaven Albright and my husband of two years is cheating on me. I’m only twenty-five and you can argue that getting married at twenty-three is young, but I’l argue right back that people marry out of col ege and even high school, so considering that, it’s not so young. Anyway, young or not . . . the bastard is cheating on me. After I gave him the best years of my life.

He’s cheating on me with someone he works with.

A girl from his office who he didn’t even think was cute at first, but after months of working long hours together

and

cultivating

inside

jokes,

and

commiserating over bad cafeteria food . . . they’re bumping uglies. It sickens me to even
think
about it.

He’d always be so happy when he came home late from work, and you’d think I would have caught on because
nobody’s
happy when they have to stay late at work. But I thought he just real y enjoyed his job. Or maybe he
was
pissed off, but the minute he walked through the door and saw me, his bride of two years whom he loved and adored, al the day’s annoyances would disappear. Poof.

But no. He would come home al smiles because he’d just gotten his rocks off with some little skank who probably wore twinsets and laughed like a hyena at their stupid inside jokes. I hate twinsets, with their matching fabric and color coordination and phony reserve. It’s a known fact that twinsets are one of the most easily removed garments there is. Her name is probably Megan or Jessie, and she’s probably a couple years younger than me. She’s like me two years ago, but in a twinset. He’s re-creating me even before I’ve had a chance to become the tired, old, sexual y reluctant “bal and chain.” I resent that. I’m not
old.

Marriage sucks. People who tel you that you stop having sex after you get married are right. You just don’t have it anymore. It’s not like you say your
I-do
s and immediately stop. It takes a little time. Of course there’s the honeymoon, and the first few months of playing horny housewife and helpful handyman, or slave girl and surprisingly warmhearted barbarian, or Winnie the Pooh and the Magical Honeypot. But after a while you stop shaving your legs, and he stops noticing, and it seems more practical to try to get a good night’s sleep.

Brady

My name is Brady Gilbert, and I hate the window seat.

Airplanes in general are a pain in the ass, and when I clearly stipulate that I want to sit on the
aisle,
a window seat is a personal affront that my secretary wil be hearing about. If I had a secretary.

I’l just sit here and
will
nobody to sit in the aisle seat. That way I’l not only have the aisle seat, but I’l be able to achieve that almost-but-not-quite-comfortable sleeping position that inevitably ends up with a dead arm, stiff legs, and dried drool at the outer corner of my mouth. In front of complete strangers, no less.

Don’t get me wrong . . . sure, it’s nice to look out a window. But at what price? Do I want to have to ask permission every time I need to take a piss? It’s like needing a hal pass in school, but worse. These are strangers. And when I got a hal pass, I didn’t inconvenience anyone. But to go to the bathroom on an airplane, I have to make awkward smal talk and offer the obligatory apologetic shrug to a guy who’s been hogging my armrest. Then he gets up just enough to let me squeeze by. He’l sigh as he gets up, not trying to make me feel guilty per se, but more like

“Oh, these old bones of mine,” which is crap unless he’s over eighty. And he’s not, he’s just annoyed.

Then to add insult to injury, as I maneuver out of the

“now more room than ever before” four inches of space, I hold on to the tacky fabric headrest of the seat in front of me and get a glance from that person, too. I’m making enemies left and right. Flight attendants hate me, too. Me and my devil-may-care bladder. Then when I come back, I have to do the dance al over again. Heaven help me if it’s a three-seater with a middle seat. Not to mention the etiquette question of which way to pass my neighbors—crotch first or ass first?

I hate the window seat. So I wait, and I
will
. People are stil boarding, but so far, so good. I’ve spotted the token hot chick that’s way out of my league anywhere but in my overactive imagination. This is going to be a long flight. There is always that one hot chick, no matter where you’re going, domestic or international, and never in the seat next to you. Or me.

Wel , this flight’s no different. In walks our token goddess of flight, and I shift al my wil power to connect her ass with the seat next to mine. Nothin’.

But she smiled at me, or at least I think she did.

Maybe she was smiling at the flight attendant who’d just given her an extra blanket. Just because.

Heaven

If it sounds like I’m okay with my husband cheating on me, it’s because I’ve worked hard at it. And not in the way that you might think. You see, I’m
not
actual y married. And nobody is cheating on me. I’m engaged.

I’m getting married in eighteen months. I do these little mental exercises every now and then to prepare myself for anything that might come up in life.

Unfortunately, you caught me when I was smack-dab in the middle of one, so we sort of got off on the wrong foot. I’m stil me, and everything I told you up until the married-with-the-cheating-husband bit was true. Just not that part. I guess that’s where we started, so you real y don’t know me at al . But you have to admit, I was handling it fairly wel . Which I think I can attribute to my exercises. Had I never done this and found myself in the position of having a cheating husband, I don’t know how I would deal. Luckily, I am now prepared.

So let’s start over. I’m stil Heaven Albright, stil twenty-five years old. I’m five foot six and I weigh about one hundred thirty pounds. One twenty-five. One twenty-five on a good day. One thirty if I’m PMS-ing.

One thirty if I’m depressed or indulging a little too much in things like wine or pizza or raw cookie dough.

One thirty most of the time. I have medium-length dirty blond/light brown hair. It’s that store-bought highlight thing. Kind of rootsy and tricolored, but not in a punk rock kind of way. Or like pasta, for that matter. Okay, sometimes I may top out at one thirty-five. And five feet five inches if you wanna get technical.

I’ve always thought I had somewhat chubby cheeks, but I think I final y see some cheekbones coming through. And not by sucking in my cheeks when I look in the mirror. I never quite got that whole thing.