Melanie in Manhattan Page 4

  They showed me the photos of their Bonding Moment, and I told them they looked great. Which was not easy.

  I’m starting to feel like a Big Baby around them.

  Suze lives to get attention. Depending on what lunch is at school, she’s either a vegetarian or not, or allergic or not. And it works—she gets attention. Especially from boys. Even nice ones like Justin. Maybe it’s because she has long long long hair. Or because she’s pretty developed for our age. Or because she has a big big big mouth. And cool clothes. Now she has earrings too. She’ll probably have a dozen pairs in no time.

  I think she likes Justin. Not that I care.

  I know she likes Cecily. And I do care!

  Last week they wore matching skirts and were laughing so loudly in the library that they got a detention. Believe it or not, I wished I’d gotten a detention too, even though that’s a stupid thing to wish for.

  Confession: When Suze asks, “How’s your boyfriend?” I don’t even know if she’s being nice or making fun of me.

  4. Two Fridays; zero e-mail! Need I say more?

  I wrote two poems:

  and

  I realize that even virtual bouquets don’t last forever.

  But I didn’t expect mine to just plain disappear.

  I wrote Miguel a few times about rain and school and mice. Did the e-mails even get there? If not, wouldn’t they have boomeranged back? Did I write them in disappearing ink???

  May 13, day but it

  should be called day

  Dear Diary,

  Suze phoned looking for Cecily. I said, “She isn’t here.” She said, “What are you doing today?” I said, “Errands with my mom,” then felt like a little kid for admitting that.

  Later Cecily called and said, “Suze helped me go through my closet, and I have some hand-me-downs for you. My mom is about to leave them with your doorman, okay?” I said sure because I love when Cecily gives me hand-me-downs. They’re usually jeans and tops and bathing suits that are too tight for her but fit me fine.

  An hour later, our doorman Gustavo buzzed and said a bag had been dropped off, so I went down and said gracias and brought the bag up to my room.

  Well, life is full of surprises because inside the bag marked Melanie Martin (which had a sweater in it) was a second bag, and inside it was … a bunch of bras! Outgrown bras! I can’t believe Cecily has already outgrown her first bras! And I can’t believe she let Suze go through her clothes and help fill up a bra bag for me.

  Talk about humiliating!

  “Want to go shopping?” Mom asked, popping her head into my room, even though she hadn’t knocked and I keep asking her to.

  I shoved the bras in the back of my sock drawer, slammed the drawer shut, and said, “Sure.”

  Out we went. We bought invitations for Dad’s party, then Mom offered to buy me a top at Morris Bros. I wished she’d offered to buy me a bra, but why would she have?

  At the store, Mom picked out five tops that I would never wear in a million years. I said, “I can pick out my own stuff,” and Mom backed off.

  I chose two tops, but Mom said one looked “trampy” and the other was “too revealing.”

  Finally we found one we both liked and Mom bought it. It’s silky blue. And I’m happy about that.

  But how can I be truly happy when things are weird with my so-called best friend and my so-called boyfriend?

  Here’s how I really feel: like a dried-up Christmas tree.

  You know how on sidewalks in early January, there are evergreens everywhere? Tired-out trees lying on their sides waiting to be taken away by garbage trucks? Weeks earlier, those same trees had presents under them, and stars on top of them, and they gleamed with lights, ornaments, tinsel, and candy canes. Each one smelled fresh and piney and made someone somewhere feel joyful and lighthearted.

  Then, boom, just like that, it was: Time’s up, party’s over.

  Happens every year, but it always comes as a sad surprise.

  Well, that’s how I feel. Like a forgotten Christmas tree.

  They say nothing lasts forever. But I wish holidays did. And first love! And best friendship!!

  In English last week, we learned the word “chagrin,” which is when you feel sad or disappointed. Well, “chagrin” has “grin” buried in it. And now, if I try, I bet I can find something positive buried deep inside all this.

  Got it: Deep down, even when used-up evergreens are everywhere, you know, you still know, that Christmas will come again. Because Christmas always does. Year after year.

  And deep down, even when it is rainy, you know the sun is up there somewhere shining away. Because that’s what it does, day after day.

  P.S. I wrote an unjolly poem shaped like a Christmas tree.

  Dear Diary,

  Dad took Matt to a little-kid movie, so Mom and I quickly worked on the invitations to his surprise party. (Shhhh!) Mom says doing something creative is “spirit lifting,” and I confess, it was fun to doodle party hats and birthday cakes on all the envelopes.

  Writing in you helped too.

  May 14

  Dear Diary,

  I don’t know why Miguel isn’t writing, but I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to keep writing him. Here’s my new rule for myself: I will not write Miguel. I will not write Miguel!

  5/14 P.M.

  DD,

  May 15

  Dear Diary,

  I went online to see if Miguel had written (I’m weak, I admit!), and Cecily had forwarded me a cool e-mail. Usually I get the stupid kind that ends by saying if you forward them to ten friends, you’ll have good luck, but if you don’t, you’ll wake up dead. (You know what I mean.)

  I hate those e-mails because I don’t want to wake up dead, but if I keep forwarding them to friends, soon I won’t have any friends.

  Her e-mail said:

  If the frist and Isat lettres of a wrod are in the rihgt plcae, the odrer of the ohter ltteres deosn’t mttaer. Why? Bceuase poelpe dno’t raed leettr by Itteer. Tehy raed wrod by wrod.

  I was just figuring it out when Justin IMed me. He wrote sup. I wrote n2m (for not too much). He wrote r u ok? I was surprised and wrote yes y? He wrote u seemed quiet 2day.

  Well, I didn’t want to blame the rain, Miguel, or the bag of bras, so I decided to try to be funny, even though trying to be funny doesn’t always work.

  I wrote: a math word problem is bothering me.

  He wrote: r u kidding?

  I wrote: In March, Melanie Martin had a pair of mice. In April, they became ten mice. Four were given away, but the others kept getting pregnant. How soon will Melanie Martin have one million mice?

  Justin wrote: lol

  I liked picturing him laughing out loud, so I wrote i am about 2 send u something Cecily sent me.

  He wrote k and I cut and pasted the thing about lagnugae. He wrote incerdilbe!

  I sent a smiley.

  He wrote: i looked up big apple

  I typed: u did?

  Then he wrote about different ways New York might have gotten nicknamed the Big Apple. It might have to do with the apple that tempted Adam and Eve (even though the Bible never said the fruit was definitely an apple). Or with horse races because winning horses were given big apples. Or with a jazz club and dance club in Harlem called the Big Apple. Whatever the reason, in 1971 the nickname was used for New York tourism and it stuck.

  I wrote: I nveer kenw taht!

  He sent a smiley.

  I wanted to keep writing, but Dad yelled, “Dinnertime!” so I wrote dinenritme g2g and he wrote wut’s deessrt? and I wrote mybae aplpe pi! and we signed off.

  P.S. Miguel and I had commas as our inside e-mail joke; do Justin and I have fnuny spelinlg?

  P.P.S. New poem:

  May 16

  Dear Diary,

  Suze is ruining my life—which has not been 100 percent perfect lately anyway!

  Today on the lunch line, she whispered, “I asked Justin if he likes you.”

  “What?!
Why???” I swear, I almost dropped my lunch tray, Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, carrots, and all.

  “Because sometimes it seems like he does.”

  “We’re just friends!!” She raised one eyebrow (which she loves to do since no one else in our class can) and smiled an I-know-more-than-you-do smile, so I asked,

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he might like you a little, or he might like you someday, but right now, he likes a girl from camp.”

  I wanted to die. “Suze, I wish you hadn’t asked him!”

  “I was curious. You’re not the only one who thinks he’s cute.”

  “Who said I think he’s cute?”

  “Oh, c’mon, Melanie, he is cute. That’s not even up for debate!”

  “You didn’t tell him I asked you to ask him, did you?”

  “No! I wouldn’t pretend to be your messenger. I asked because I wanted to know.”

  She sat down, so I did too, but part of me wanted to mash my already-mashed potatoes into her face.

  “Since he mentioned the camp girl,” she continued, “I told him about your long-distance boyfriend.”

  “You didn’t!” I wish she’d never moved here!!

  “I did. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or disappointed or if he didn’t care one way or the other. As my dad would say, he has a poker face.”

  “I can’t believe you! And Suze, I don’t even know if I have a boyfriend. Miguel hasn’t e-mailed in over two weeks.” Why I was telling this to the class blabbermouth, I have no idea.

  “Two weeks?” She took a sip from her milk carton and jiggled her Jell-O. “No offense, but that is pretty long. Think he broke up with you and forgot to tell you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I read that some boys do that. Of course, if he did, then at least you wouldn’t be ‘taken,’ so you could ask Justin out if you wanted to.”

  “But I don’t want to!”

  “Oh, good. That’s what I wanted to find out, because I might ask him out, which I wouldn’t if you and he already liked each other. I mean, I wouldn’t want you to be mad at me.” She looked up and the gold stud in her ear gleamed.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I was already mad at her! Really mad! Furious mad! Boiling mad!

  I took a bite of potato, but I couldn’t eat. So I just sat there, trying not to cry and trying to get the potato bite to go down past the lump in my throat. Across the cafeteria, I saw Justin walking toward the exit. Normally I might have looked up and waved and smiled and said hi. But all I could do was stare down and hope he didn’t see me see him. Which I don’t think he did. He was looking straight ahead. Maybe he was trying to avoid eye contact too??

  Has Suze messed things up with both Cecily and Justin?

  My eyes started burning, and tears blurred up my carrots and potatoes. Somehow I blinked them back. The last thing you want to do in a school cafeteria is cry!!

  I took a sip of milk, mumbled, “I’m outta here,” got up, and left.

  Suze called out, “What’s the matter? Is something wrong? Hey, what about your tray?”

  I didn’t answer, just rushed through the lunchroom. I could feel everyone looking but I made it through the crowded doorway and into the hall—where I practically bumped into … Cecily!

  “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?” she asked. They were the exact same questions Suze had just asked, but from Cecily they sounded nice, not horrible. I motioned for Cecily to go with me to the girls’ room. A third grader was inside, but she took one look at me and left in a hurry.

  “Cecily,” I said, “Suze asked Justin if he liked me!”

  “Omigod! You’re kidding!” She looked shocked—which was better than her trying to defend Suze. “What’d he say?” I told her, and she didn’t even say, “Don’t worry.” Which worried me.

  I told her the rest of our conversation too. She listened and said that last week, Suze had asked her to ask Justin who he liked, but she’d said she didn’t want to.

  Cecily also said, “You have a little potato on your lip.” I looked in the mirror (I looked awful!!) and wiped the potato away. The least the Oozer could have done was tell me I was wearing lunch!

  It is now 8:30 P.M., but I have finished my homework and checked my e-mail and there’s nothing on TV so I’m going to bed pathetically early.

  Matt has been singing and jumping around, and I told him to keep quiet. He said he’d try, but that he’s bad at keeping quiet.

  I said, “So is Suze.”

  He said, “What?”

  I said, “Never mind.”

  P.S. I just took off my silver fan necklace that Miguel gave me. I’ve worn it for over six weeks straight, which is way longer than I usually wear jewelry.

  P.P.S. iwnwm

  same night, 10ish

  same night, elevenish

  May 17

  Dear Diary,

  Justin and I are talking a little, but I feel awkward around him, and I think he feels the same way. In math, I asked him to explain something and he did, but without looking at me. If I didn’t already know his eyes are greenish hazel, I’d have no idea what color they are.

  In Spanish, he asked me to help him pronounce some words. Like, toes are “fingers of the foot” or dedos del pie (Day Dose Del Pyay). And neck is cuello (Quay Yo). And lips are labios (La B Yose), which for some reason felt embarrassing.

  More than help with math and Spanish, I think Justin and I both want things to go back to normal. But what is normal between us? Maybe we have to find a new normal.

  Dear Diary,

  Owwwww! I fell out of bed. On my head! I’m way too old to do that but I did that.

  Mom didn’t have a normal ice pack, so she handed me a bag of frozen peas, which I wore like a cold bumpy hat. Then she sat down to keep me company.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you,” I said, reaching for my glasses.

  “No need to apologize.” Mom kissed me. “I was reading. In fact, I just learned something. Nowadays, when artists depict someone with glasses, they may be saying that the person is smart. But in the Middle Ages, when a subject was wearing glasses, the artist was saying that the person was foolish—that he couldn’t even see with his own eyes!”

  I sat there with glasses on my nose and peas on my head, and I think Mom realized (a little late) that I was feeling foolish enough without her new factoid. To tell you the truth, I was about to tell her the truth about how everything is going wrong. But just when I was about to speak up, she stood up.

  So here I am, alone again. And here’s what I think: I might give up on Miguel. But not on Cecily.

  Your hurt friend,

  Mel-A-Moron

  P.S.

  5/18

  Dear Diary,

  Cecily e-mailed me, so I e-mailed Justin:

  Count the F’s:

  “Friendship comes from the pleasure of knowing someone well, a mutual sense of fun, and, if possible, the sharing of common interests.”

  Fffffffondly,

  M.

  P.S. Justin is good at math, but will he find all the F’s? I didn’t. Even if he answers wrong, it could still help our friendship.

  5/19 at 5:19

  home

  Dear Diary,

  I had an orthodontist appointment and forgot to remember my retainer. Which annoyed Mom. But walking up Fifth Avenue, I said, “Want to stop at the Met?” Which thrilled her.

  To Mom, the Met is like a big enormous treasure chest. Or a wonderful time machine. Even Matt likes the ancient mummies, knights in shining armor, graffiti on the Temple of Dendur, and chipped statues with missing hands, heads, and you-know-whats. Until today, though, I don’t think I’d ever been the one to suggest a visit.

  In front of the Met, Mom handed me a five-dollar bill and I bought us two big, soft, warm, salty pretzels. Mom said, “Check the change,” then asked, “Anything you want to see?”

  “Maybe that Goya boy?” I’d been thinking about that
Goya lady from Mom’s field trip. The devoted duchess with the “Only Goya” ring.

  Did she ever take her ring off? I took my necklace off.

  “Don Manuel Osorio Manrique de Zuñiga,” Mom said, because she actually knows these things. We went up all the outside stairs and all the inside stairs until we were standing in front of him.

  It’s weird. Every time I look at Don Manuel, he stays the same. But I notice something completely new.

  When I was little, I liked that he was my age and all dressed up with a white bow and a pet bird on a leash. After that, I saw the cage of other birds—six little finches. Later I noticed that in the pet bird’s beak is a calling card: a paper rectangle with a palette and Goya’s curly signature.

  Well, today was STRANGE. Maybe I was looking for a sign or something, but it’s like I finally “got” the painting, and it is not what I thought! The light is shining on the boy’s sweet face, and you think you’re looking at a lucky kid with a cool pet magpie.

  But nooooo. That is only the beginning! Besides one magpie and six finches, there are three big yellow-eyed cats that are NOT in a cage. They are staring at the pet bird, and soon there may not be a pet bird!

  This boy is in for a surprise!

  Is it because of Blanquito in the dishwasher that I have dead birds on the brain? Or is it because now that I’m eleven, I’m old enough to see Goya’s “dark side”? (He went from painting happy-happy scenes to creepy spooky nudie ones of ghosts and cannibals and wars.)

  Dad says kids see the world in black and white, but things are gray and complicated. Mom says the world isn’t gray; it’s colorful. All I can say is that the painting is a beautiful BEFORE, but the AFTER could be ugly. Pretty soon, that little boy could be sobbing his eyes out!