Melanie in Manhattan Read online

  June 9

  Dear Diary,

  The dance was almost over. Justin had danced a lot (including twice with Suze, who asked him), and I’d danced only once (with Norb, who asked me).

  I was about to ask Cecily if I should ask Justin to dance, but then Suze the Ooze came to schmooze and I didn’t want to ask Justin in front of her. She said, “Come with me to the girls’ room.” She was including me, I guess, but Cecily went and I didn’t want to.

  So I just stood there, all alone, trying to find the courage to approach Justin.

  The dj announced that the next song would be the last dance and said it would be “a slow one.” I looked up, and suddenly Justin was coming straight toward me! Our eyes met and our eyes smiled then our mouths smiled and he got all the way up to me and I felt tingly and it was as if we were moving in slow motion and the music started and he took my hand and pulled me gently onto the dance floor and rested his other hand on my back and I could feel his fingers on the back of my silky top and I didn’t know where to put my hands but I put them behind his shoulders and I leaned my head toward his and my ear touched his ear and I closed my eyes and I could feel his warm breath and we kind of swayed silently until the song was over and all the lights went on.

  If I didn’t have a bf in Spain and he didn’t have a gf in camp, I’d probably let myself think about tonight forever.

  June 12

  Dear Diary,

  School is over!!!

  We cleaned out our lockers and said tons of goodbyes (Justin gave me a fast hug) and got our grades. I did really well in English and Spanish and pretty well in everything else.

  Now we have the whole summer to sleep late and stay up late and read whatever books we want.

  After dinner, we four M’s walked down Broadway to get ice cream cones. On the walk back, Mom asked for a bite of my cone. I said, “You should have gotten your own.”

  Mom said, “C’mon, Mel. I gave birth to you!”

  Dad said, “It’s true. For nine months, your mother drank an awful lot of milk.”

  Matt eyed Mom’s stomach and said, “I can’t believe we came out of you.”

  I can’t believe my family’s idea of appropriate chitchat!!

  I tilted my ice cream cone toward Mom, and she took a bite and thanked me. “This is heaven,” she said. “Walking with you three on this beautiful night!”

  It was beautiful. No stars, of course. The only time I saw the Big Dipper in New York City was during a blackout. Tonight’s moon, however, was big and bright and round and romantic.

  I started thinking about Justin. Then Miguel. Then Justin. Then Miguel. Then I ordered myself to stop thinking about either of them!

  Meanwhile, my family was continuing the debate about what to do with Miguel—which bites to take of the Big Apple or La Gran Manzana (La Grahn Mon Son Ah).

  “We could take a helicopter ride!” Matt suggested.

  “Only if we rob a bank first,” Dad said.

  I can’t believe Miguel arrives in less than a week!!! The anticipation is killing me. (Not literally. I take it back!)

  Saturday June 16

  Dear Diary,

  This morning, Dad started listening to an opera that’s over five hours long. Since he’s still acting depressed about turning forty on June 30, Mom did not want to say, “No! Please! Spare us! Not Die Meistersinger!” She likes opera—but not thaaaaat much.

  She decided to take Matt and me out for Chinese food at Ollie’s.

  While Little Science Boy was dissecting the insides of his egg roll with chopsticks, I sat up straight, got really really really brave, and announced, “Mom, I want to go back to Morris Bros.”

  “You want another top?”

  I looked at her, shook my head, and mouthed: “I want a bra.”

  Out loud Mom said, “A what?”

  I frowned, tilted my head toward Matt, made the shhh sign with my finger, pointed to my lower neck area, and repeated silently, “A bra!”

  “Oh!” Mom said, her eyes wide. “Oh! Well! Okay!” She was doing a terrible job of acting normal. Of course, as soon as she figured it all out, I realized I should have picked a time to shop when it was just Mom and me—or just Cecily and me—but not Mom, me, and Tagalong Boy.

  Too late. And before we even crossed the street and went into the store, Matt started whining, “You said lunch! You didn’t say shopping!”

  “We’ll be quick,” Mom said, and I ducked straight into the changing room in the back while Matt ran up and down the stairs. Mom started handing me bras, and I started trying them on. I didn’t want Mom or the saleslady to come in, but I’m not exactly a bra expert (a B.E.?), so how was I supposed to know if they fit?

  Imagine trying shoes on for the first time in your whole entire life. Would you think, “Wow, these are comfortable!”? No, because barefoot is more comfortable. But you need shoes.

  Well, I felt I needed a bra. Whether I need need need one or not (if you know what I mean).

  I kept asking Mom, “Are there any other kinds?” She kept pushing more and more over the top of the changing-room door. Small ones and big ones and ones with adjustable straps and ones with no straps at all and ones that squashed into nothing and ones with soft padding. It was much more complicated than I thought!

  I will say this: I checked the store mirror, and I liked the way I looked with a bra on. I looked older. More grown-up. More mature.

  Dad’s worried about getting old, but I’ve been worrying about staying young. And getting left behind.

  For a while I wanted everything to stay the same, but nothing was—except me.

  I keep staying the same up top, which is frustrating, but I can’t do anything about that. Except wait. Well, today over lunch, I realized that I could at least control whether I’d be wearing undershirts for the rest of my life.

  Outside the changing room, I heard Matt, who had been racing all over the store, suddenly stomp up and complain, “What’s taking so long?”

  “Melanie is trying things on,” Mom said, which was nice and discreet of her.

  “Mel! Hurry up!! Or just come out and we’ll tell you if you look dorky.” Neither Mom nor I said anything. “What’s she trying on, anyway?”

  “Shoes!” I yelled, which was stupid because that’s the one thing Morris Bros. doesn’t sell.

  “Whoa!” Matt suddenly gasped. “Is that what I think it is? Is that a bra???” I wished he hadn’t figured it out. I knew I should have waited to go shopping alone with Mom—but I didn’t know when I’d feel brave again. “Melanie wears a BRA?” Matt asked the entire store. “I didn’t even know she had BOOBIES!”

  “Matt, you are so dead!” I said. “Mom, shut him up NOW!”

  “Matthew, be quiet,” Mom scolded.

  I looked in the dressing-room mirror, and instead of the pretty almost-teenager who’d been right there a second ago, there was this dumb, flat-chested kid with a bra strapped on her.

  Mom was whispering furiously, and Matt was saying, “Okay, okay.” Then he said, “I’m sorry, Melanie. You can wear a bra if you want to.”

  “Thanks for your permission!” I put my clothes back on and stormed out of the dressing room.

  “C’mon, don’t be mad, Mel. I think of you as my sister. Not as a girl.”

  “Well, I think of you as a stupid little idiot. You act like you have no I.Q.”

  Without meeting Mom’s eyes, I handed her three bras and said, “These.” Then, even though Matt is a stupid little I.Q.-less idiot, I said, “Come outside,” because one thing for sure, I was not going to stay inside and stand there watching a cashier ring up my bras!

  Matt and I waited on Broadway, and Mom came out with the shopping bag. A big part of me was embarrassed, but another big part was happy. I like hand-me-downs, but I wanted brand-new bras. And now I have three. One white. One beige. One pink.

  And they’re mine mine mine.

  Mission accomplished!

  Back home, Dad was still listening to
his opera. Those singers have been la la laing all day! Is this Dad’s idea of a good time, or is he torturing us on purpose, or is he wallowing in Wagner because he’s in a bad mood about his birthday?

  When will it end? (The bad mood and the opera!)

  P.S. The word “brave” has the word “bra” buried in it—which is probably a weird thing to notice!!

  thirty minutes later

  I just changed and I’m wearing my white bra. I have to keep pulling on it. But it feels okay, I guess.

  Cecily is coming soon for a sleepover. YAY!! I hope the opera singers will be done by the time she gets here.

  Next week, Cecily is going on vacation with her dad. Which means she won’t meet Miguel. Which is too bad.

  Tonight she said she’d bring her Amsterdam T-shirt, the one that matches mine. She’ll also bring Snow Bear and her three-inch square of worn-out baby blanket that her Grandma Flo knitted for her. Am I still the only one besides her parents who knows about that scrap of blankie? Maybe Suze knows too. I hope not.

  It’s funny how Cecily and I both have bras but still have stuffies. I hope I never outgrow Hedgehog!

  6/17 4ish

  Dear Diary,

  In Spanish, me siento (May Syen Toe) means “I sit” and also “I feel.” Since I’m stuck here waiting for Mom, I’m going to sit and tell you how I feel.

  I don’t like being called “tween” or “preteen.” But I do like that sixth graders are in middle school and are in the middle of being kids and teenagers. Last night Cecily and I gave ourselves makeovers and took pictures of ourselves posing like models and laughing.

  Is every age a little mixed-up?

  People my age try to look older, but people my parents’ age try to look younger!

  I’m now in a chair in a corner of Mom’s hair salon, waiting for her to get her hair colored, rinsed, and blow-dried. The whole place is filled with young people trying to help not-young people look young again.

  Mom is reading, but I can see her in the mirror. She has goo and a showercappy thing on her head, and she looks reeeeally bad, a total BEFORE.

  Mom used to have a little gray in her hair. Now it’s pure brown. This is how she puts it: “I used to be salt and pepper, but now I’m chestnuts and chocolate.” She laughs when she says that, but is it funny?

  Well, I’m getting older, so obviously Dad and Mom are too.

  Will I ever look like Mom looks now?

  Will I ever want to look younger?

  What is the perfect age?

  Maybe there is no perfect age since there’s no perfect anything.

  Anyway, I’m changing the subject because you can do that in a diary. In fact, a diary is the perfect place for random thoughts.

  Here’s one. Miguel comes tomorrow, and lately it’s been as if different parts of New York have been auditioning for me.

  For instance, Mom and I got out of the subway at Columbus Circle, and I swear it was as if Columbus himself called out, “Hey, kid, look up! Your friends see me but you never look!” So I looked and it’s true: I’d never before noticed him standing proud on his column decorated with anchors.

  I like to think I’m observant, but in New York, there’s so much to observe!

  Today I also observed American flags flapping and fluttering on schools, museums, hotels, and post offices. How come I’d never noticed?

  The building at 9 West 57th Street is not a regular rectangle but a giant gentle slide. A cartoon character could skateboard down it! How come I’d never noticed that either?

  On the same street, there’s a whole entire row of clocks with city names above them, like Paris and Tokyo and Moscow, so you can tell what time it is around the world. I’d never stopped to look.

  Well, I looked, and even though Valencia was not up there, I knew it was evening in Spain. So I whispered into the sky, “Hasta mañana (Ah Sta Mon Yon Ah), Miguel! See you tomorrow!”

  I wonder if I’ll see more new things once I’m with him.

  I wonder how it will feel to see him.

  Wonderingly,

  Melanie in the Middle

  Monday June 18

  twoish at home

  Dear Diary,

  I’m excited but also nervous or nerviosa (Nare V O Sa). I tried on about ten outfits—and put back all the rejects.

  Mom is not nervous, but she was three months ago when she was about to see Antonio, her old boyfriend, after a long time apart.

  She’s been doing one of her big summertime puzzles. Mom says that in Spanish, puzzles are called rompecabezas, or Rrrome Pay Ca Bay Soss, which means head breakers, but you can also say puzzle, or Pooz Lay. Mom’s pooz lay is of a painting by a New Yorker named Edward Hopper. I don’t know why Mom likes him. The people in his paintings all seem lonely. Even when they’re not alone.

  Matt and I have been trying to help Mom find and connect edge pieces. I found way more than Matt. But it was hard. Sometimes a piece looks just right, but you can never be sure that it fits until you try it.

  Mom just checked Miguel’s flight and it’s on time, so we’re about to pick him and his uncle up at JFK! We usually tell visitors to take a taxi. But our visitors usually speak excellent English. Dad’s coming too—he’s leaving work early.

  I can’t believe Miguel is almost here!!!

  I hope we’ll be able to pick up where we left off. Of course, where we left off was with his giving me a kiss.

  Is it my turn to give him a kiss?

  I just realized that I didn’t put my fan necklace back on! How could I have forgotten?? I hope Miguel doesn’t notice. But I bet he will! Shoot shoot shoot! I’m so mad at myself!

  Dear Diary,

  It’s lucky it is a clear clear clear day, because once they get here, we’re going to take Miguel and Uncle Angel (Antonio’s younger brother) up the Empire State Building.

  I’ve gone up only one time. Matt says he never has, but Mom and Dad said he did as a baby in a Snugli—they have photos. Matt said that doesn’t count, and Dad admitted that going up is the kind of thing New Yorkers do with out-of-towners. Mom added, “Which is one reason why it’s fun to have visitors.”

  It’s 4:10. I wish time would hurry up!

  I just went to the bathroom. The floor is made of little squares and the wall is made of medium squares and the ceiling is made of big squares. The bathroom mirror is like the school’s mirror, meaning I looked disgusting in it. I hope it was because of bad lighting!

  “Matt,” I asked, “do I look okay?”

  “No. But you never look okay.”

  He probably expected me to punch him, but I didn’t. Maybe I looked sad because he quickly added, “Mellie, you look fine. I like your shirt.”

  Matt never notices my shirts, so I said, “Gracias.”

  He smiled and said, “De nada” (Day Na Da).

  When will Miguel get here???

  He and Uncle Angel had to fly from Valencia to Barcelona, so they’ve had a long travel day. Even though Uncle Angel let us stay in his apartment when we were in Spain, Mom hasn’t actually seen him in seventeen years. She pronounces his name On Hell (!) and said to look for a skinny man with a big halo of dark hair.

  We’re looking!

  I just checked the TV monitor. For a while, it said: Barcelona On Time. Then it switched to Barcelona In Range. Now it says Barcelona Arrived.

  You’d think it would say: Barcelona Arrived!!!!!!!!! Yippee! Yippee! Yippee! Woo-Hoo! Woo-Hoo! Woo-Hoo!

  People are coming through the automatic sliding doors! No Miguel and no Angel-with-a-Halo, though. Maybe they’re going through Customs?

  Dad called out to one man, “Barcelona?” but he answered, “Budapest.” Mom asked a lady, “Barcelona?” but she said, “Cairo.”

  More and more people are pouring through!

  New York City is popular! Which seems strange. I mean, I just think of it as home.

  I keep looking up and not seeing Miguel or his uncle. I hope they don’t walk in while I’m writing. What if Migu
el arrives while I’m looking down instead of up?

  I better put you away.

  P.S.

  Dear Diary,

  They arrived!!!

  At the airport, a lot of Americans gave each other big back-slapping hugs, but Miguel and Uncle Angel gave us little Spanish cheek kisses.

  Uncle Angel, by the way, does not have a hair halo. He has no hair at all! He’s bald! He’s not skinny either. He’s the opposite! He’s nice but his English is only okay. He pronounces Dad’s name Maaaarrrrrc and Mom’s Me Ron Dah and mine May Lah Nee. And he calls New York Nueva York (Nway Va Yohrrk).

  Miguel looks the same: cute. But is he maybe a little shorter? That makes no sense, of course. Unless I grew a little. Which I’m sure I did. But did I also imagine him taller? Another thing (I can’t believe I’m writing this): His shoes are a tiny bit unusual. I mean, no boy in my class would ever wear loafers like his.

  Anyway, we put their stuff (or “luggages,” as Uncle Angel said) in our trunk and Uncle Angel smoked a cigarette (yuk!) and then we drove from JFK to NYC. From the Triborough Bridge, Mom pointed out the changing Manhattan skyline.

  “Look at the Empire State Building!” she said. We all turned our heads—even Dad—and admired how the Empire State Building sparkled, all rosy and golden and dramatic in the sunshine. But then Mom scolded, “Not you, Sweetheart, you drive!”

  Uncle Angel said, “It is beauty-full!”

  “Want to go up?” Dad asked.

  Uncle Angel said, “Yace!” It was fun to see a grown-up so excited. This is his first trip to Nueva York too, not just Miguel’s.

  Dad told them that on the Fourth of July, America’s birthday, the top part gets lighted up all red, white, and blue.

  “On Saint Patrick’s Day, it’s green,” Matt said.

  “At Christmastime, it’s red and green,” I said.

  “On Valentine’s Day, it’s just red,” Mom said.