Melanie in Manhattan Page 8

  “Your turn, Mel!” Matt said, which yanked me out of my daydream.

  I said, “Georges de La Tour.” We walked over, and I said I liked how the candlelight was reflected in the girl’s, Mary’s, face, and how the light coming through her fingers turned them see-through, like when you shine a flashlight behind your hand. Then I noticed its title, The Education of the Virgin. I did not want Miguel to read that, so I said, “Let’s keep going!”

  Mom said, “Shall we go to the Fragonard Room to see The Progress of Love?”

  “No!!” I said too loudly, since that title was even worse.

  Miguel said, “It is very tranquil here.”

  “No Snotty Noses,” I agreed.

  Right on cue, Matt bounded over, looked up and down the long hallway, and said, “Mom, you’d kill me if I ran back and forth, right?”

  “Correct,” she said. “So you’d end up dead and I’d end up in jail. Don’t do it, okay?”

  “Okay,” Matt said.

  “Slow down and let the paintings speak to you.”

  “Okay,” Matt said. Then he whispered to me, “Naked Statue Alert,” and pointed out some R-rated sculptures on the long table behind us.

  Mom sighed and led us to the room with the George Washington painting.

  “Can I sit down?” Matt asked, eyeing an ancient embroidered chair.

  “Don’t you dare!” Mom practically shouted. “In fact, we’d better go—though I hate to rush you, Miguel.”

  “I don’t mind to leave,” Miguel said. “A skyscratcher, a zoo, a hotel of luxury, a museum—I have already seen a lot of New York.”

  “We’re just getting started!” Mom said, adding that rascacielos (Ra Ska Syell Ohse) is skyscraper not skyscratcher.

  We were about to go when Matt pointed out the window by the coat check and shouted, “Baby ducks!” He started hollering, “Melanie!! Miguel!!” until I whispered, “Matt, you’re ten.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot.”

  I looked out the window and saw a little pond with goldfish and lily pads and purple and white flowers, but no ducks.

  Suddenly I saw the ducklings too, and they were adorable (Odd Or Ob Lay). “¡Pato!” (Pa Toe), I said, and pointed at one.

  “Patitos” (Pa Tee Toes), Miguel replied. He was behind me, and he held my pointing hand in his hand and moved it from duckling to duckling, and we counted together in Spanish. There were eight or ocho (Oh Cho). I wish there had been eighty!!! I liked the way his hand felt holding mine up.

  Soon other people came over to see what we were staring at. Before long, there were more people oohing and aahing at the ducklings than had been oohing and aahing at the paintings. The baby ducks followed their mom everywhere, hopping over and scooting under the lily pads.

  “Vámonos” (Ba Moan Ohs), Mom said, which means “Let’s go.” She suggested we walk across Central Park, and I couldn’t object since I’d sent Miguel that Nature Girl e-mail.

  Mom must have read my mind, because she said, “A little sunshine will feel good and will help Miguel get over jet lag. Once we get to the West Side, we’ll take a taxi. Deal?” I nodded.

  Central Park is giant. You could walk all day and not see it all. It goes from the East Side (Fifth Avenue) to the West Side (Central Park West). And from 59th Street all the way up to 110th.

  We walked and walked (well, Matt also skipped), and Miguel liked how people on horseback trotted by and how teams of kids were playing sports and how a few mothers were jogging with babies in special strollers and how we were in a park but surrounded by tall buildings. The grass in one area was freshly cut, and Matt said it smelled “green,” and I said “verde” (Bear Day), and we all talked about whether colors have smells. We passed Bethesda Terrace and got to Strawberry Fields. Miguel said, “Strawberry? Fresa?” (Fray Sa).

  Mom started singing the Beatles song (she never gets embarrassed!), then pointed out the Dakota, the building where John Lennon was killed in 1980. She explained that his widow, Yoko Ono, gave a million dollars and got lots of different countries to send plants and help make a Garden of Peace.

  Miguel took a photo of the black-and-white mosaic that says IMAGINE, and Mom started singing that song too. “Imagine all the people, living life in peace …”

  Suddenly a squirrel dashed out and Miguel shouted, “¡Ardilla!” (R D Ya). I said that squirrels are totally common here, no big deal, but Miguel didn’t care. It was as if he had seen an endangered rhinoceros or something. He took more photos of the squirrel than he’d taken of the penguins or polar bears or monkeys or me. Combined! He even asked me to take one of him in front of a tree with a squirrel climbing up the trunk. Which I did, but I was a teeny tiny bit annoyed because I’d never been upstaged by a bushy-tailed squirrel before.

  If I had pointed at the squirrel, would Miguel have taken my hand and helped me count all the squirrels in the park?

  Instead of passing Tavern on the Green, we walked north to the theater where Shakespeare plays are performed outdoors in the summer. There’s a statue of Romeo and Juliet, and Juliet’s head is tilted up, and her hair is falling straight down behind her, and she’s on tiptoe, and she and Romeo are almost (but not quite) kissing. I don’t think Miguel noticed it, but I did:

  Will Miguel and I kiss again?

  When he was far away, I missed him soooo much. But now, even though he’s right here, it’s as if I still miss him a tiny bit. What is there between us, now that the Atlantic Ocean isn’t between us? Do girls usually think about love and stuff more than boys? And did I imagine Miguel as too good to be true? In Spain, he seemed to know about everything, but here there’s so much he doesn’t know about—like squirrels! Maybe when you’re on vacation, everything and everyone seems extra wonderful? When Miguel went to Galicia, even he described rain as magic mist, not gloppy drops. Does everything depend on how you look at it?

  Back home, we showed Miguel our many mice and one little fish, Wanda. My bedroom was a mess, so I closed the door, but Matt proudly showed Miguel his room—and new bullfighter poster.

  Speaking of posters, I’m glad I remembered to take down my sketches from the closet doors, a.k.a. Mom’s Art Gallery. Matt’s dorky doodles are up on display, along with postcards of real art. Mom could have been a curator. (That’s the word for a person who arranges museum shows.) Right now she has a bunch of postcards up. She calls it her “American Exhibit.”

  Miguel complimented Matt’s pitiful sketches and looked at the American flags by Jasper Johns, bones by Georgia O’Keeffe, farmers with a pitchfork by Grant Wood, soup cans by Andy Warhol, and cowboys by Frederic Remington.

  “Cowboys!” Miguel said. “We learned about them in school.” He looked closely at a painting by Norman Rockwell of ten happy people and an old lady serving a giant turkey. “Thanksgiving. We studied this too.”

  It seemed funny to study stuff we take for granted.

  “Did you learn about Harriet Tubman?” I asked, pointing to a Jacob Lawrence postcard. He shook his head. “She helped slaves escape.”

  “We learned about slavery,” Miguel assured me. He pointed to some Jackson Pollock splotches. “You like?”

  “Not as much as these.” I showed him a chubby baby by Mary Cassatt. He smiled and it was almost as if we were playing Mom’s museum game, just the two of us.

  “And this?” He pointed to a funny photograph by William Wegman of a dressed-up dog with an umbrella.

  I laughed. “My mom has weird taste—in art.” Since his dad and my mom had dated, I didn’t want him to think I thought that she had weird taste in people.

  I pointed to a country scene by Grandma Moses. “She was in her seventies when she began these oil paintings.”

  “Inspiring, yes?” He put his hand next to mine, and suddenly we were inspired and were showing each other the tiny trees and horses and children, our fingers almost touching.

  Matt blurted out, “Miguel, come watch TV!” I wanted to bonk Matt on the head, but Miguel went toward the sofa and sat do
wn. And conked out! Mom said it’s tiring to talk another language all day, so it was good he was taking a catnap or siesta (Sea S Tah).

  His siesta is also giving me a chance to catch up in you. When too much happens and I don’t write it down, I get so full of words I feel as if I might burst.

  Mom is next to me emptying the dishwasher. She just said, “Miguel is a nice young man.”

  I didn’t disagree.

  She probably wanted me to say more, but I stayed quiet.

  P.S. Should I put the necklace Miguel gave me back on? Would that seem too obvious? Or would that be nice? Would he even notice??

  Dear Diary,

  I wrote another little poem.

  I decided to put the necklace back on.

  Fans open and close.

  Maybe relationships do too.

  Dear Diary,

  Uncle Angel came over to pick up Miguel and to have dinner. Instead of cooking, we ordered in. Mom and Dad wished that they’d been able to cook an elaborate homemade meal, but I think Uncle Angel and Miguel got a kick out of seeing how New Yorkers sometimes make dinner.

  They get out their menu file, make a decision, and make a phone call!

  “Should we order in Indian?” Mom said.

  “We don’t speak Indian!” Matt said, because he loves that joke.

  “Or Korean?” Dad asked. “Japanese? Vietnamese?”

  “How about Malaysian?” Matt said.

  “¿En serio?” (N Sare E O), Miguel asked. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s yummy!”

  “I’ve never had Malaysian,” Uncle Angel said.

  “We could do Italian or Mexican or Cuban,” Mom suggested.

  “Any foods are okay,” Uncle Angel said. “Don’t molest yourself.”

  “What?!” Matt said, looking shocked.

  Mom corrected Uncle Angel’s English: “We say ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ ” she said, then explained to us that No se moleste (No Say Mow Less Tay) is a common expression in Spanish.

  We settled on Thai, Dad phoned in our order, and around fifteen minutes later, our doorman called to announce the delivery. Mom said, “Send him up.” Uncle Angel was amazed.

  Mom was looking for money for the dinner and tip; Dad was showing Uncle Angel our apartment; Miguel and I were setting the table; and Matt’s job was to pour the milk.

  Not a hard job, but obviously beyond him.

  “Oh no!!!” Matt said.

  Mom was in the doorway paying the delivery man.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You know how you always say you’ll love me no matter what?” Matt asked.

  “What did you do?”

  “And you know how everyone says, ‘Don’t cry over spilt milk?’ ”

  “Matthew Martin, what are you trying to pull?”

  “People shouldn’t yell over spilt milk either.” Matt scrunched up his face, hoping his adorableness would save him.

  Mom looked at the kitchen floor and saw that he had dropped an entire quart of sticky chocolate milk on it. If Miguel and Uncle Angel hadn’t been there, she might have exploded, but since they were, she just sighed, put down the brown bag of satay and spring rolls, and helped Matt mop up.

  We lit candles, and it felt like a dinner party, even though it was take-in. I hope I’m a good host, because Miguel is a good guest—he kept refilling everyone else’s water glasses and offering seconds to the rest of us before taking more himself. In Spanish and English, everyone talked about politics and Santiago Calatrava, a famous architect from Valencia who designed our World Trade Center PATH station. Mom also described Miguel’s first full day here. She said he saw New York in a nutshell.

  “Nutshell?” Miguel asked, looking handsome by candlelight.

  Mom explained.

  “Nooo Yorrrk een ay nutta shell!” Uncle Angel repeated, delighted.

  Suddenly Miguel said, “The gift!” Uncle Angel dug into his bag and handed Mom a ceramic plate with Don Quixote on it. Mom said, “Thank you! Our whole family will enjoy this!” But I confess I wish he’d brought something just for me.

  Uncle Angel smiled and got out a cigarette, which made us four M’s stop smiling and start looking at each other. Dad said, “Mind not smoking inside?”

  Uncle Angel looked surprised but said, “No, no. Clearly. Ees okay.” He put away his cigarettes and got out his guidebook that explains New York. And we all planned our next tourist stop: Broadway.

  P.S. I wish I had a guidebook to explain Miguel. And Cecily. And maybe Justin too.

  June 20 or 20 junio (Who Knee Oh)

  Dear Diary,

  “What is that awful smell?” I heard Mom ask as I stepped out of the shower. Matt and I answered, “Mice” at the exact same time, then both yelled, “Jinx!”

  The mouse cage needed cleaning (obviously), so Matt got out our dinky second cage and put shavings in it with the exercise wheel and an empty toilet paper roll. We temporarily transferred the mice, including the teenage ones and nine tiny new ones (Peanut, Butter, Hickory, Dickory, Dock, Sunshine, Snowball, Snowbell, and Speedy Gonzalez), into our second, smaller cage. After the transfer, Mom picked up the big mouseless cage, turned it upside down, and dumped its stinky shavings and pooplets into the giant trash can in a hallway outside our apartment.

  Suddenly Matt burst into tears and said there were only EIGHT babies in the dinky cage instead of NINE! I panicked. Mom grumbled that cleaning the mouse cage shouldn’t even be her job. But Matt was bawling, so she went back to the trash can and started sifting through the garbage in search of the missing mousie/mouseton/mouselet/mouseling.

  It was pretty gross and Mom was pretty mad. Matt and I offered to help, but she said that since I had just showered and Matt had just taken a bath, there was no point in our getting dirty again. After another few minutes, she announced, “Matt, I’m not finding the mouse, and I don’t think I threw it away. Could you take one more look in the small cage?”

  Matt looked, and guess what? There, hidden inside the toilet paper roll, was Missing Mouse Baby #9, safe and sound. It was either Snowball or Snowbell; we’re not sure. Matt was really happy. Me too. Mom was half happy, half annoyed.

  Well, all’s well that ends well!

  I guess I shouldn’t have gotten so so so worried—but that seems to be my specialty.

  Dear Diary,

  “There ees no beeznees like show beeznees,” Uncle Angel said, looking proud of himself. Matt high-fived him.

  We were at a Broadway musical! Our seats were in the middle of the row, which meant we had a good view but also that we had to disturb a lot of people just to sit down.

  The lights dimmed, and an announcement reminded people to turn off their cell phones and unwrap any crinkly candies. Matt whispered to Mom, “We should have brought candy! They expect you to!” Mom said, “Shhhh!”

  Everyone shushed, the conductor waved his baton around, and hummable music sprung up from the sunken orchestra.

  Uncle Angel and Miguel were both smiling—I peeked.

  I was next to Miguel and we were sharing an armrest, but our arms never ended up resting at the same time. The armrest was actually too skinny for both of our arms.

  Mom was happy that Miguel and Uncle Angel were getting to see a musical—and that we got half-price tickets. She wanted to take them to a classic like West Side Story or Showboat or Guys and Dolls or Annie Get Your Gun. But musicals open and close (like fans), so you have to pick from what’s playing.

  Well, I’ve heard of Great American Novels, like To Kill a Mockingbird and Of Mice and Men, but I’d never heard of Great American Musicals. Are there Great American Movies too? Maybe E.T. and The Wizard of Oz? (Random thought: E.T. kept wanting to phone home and Dorothy kept wanting to go home. I guess I’m glad I am home!)

  ANYWAY, Oklahoma! was perfecto for Miguel and Uncle Angel because it had lots of singing, dancing, costumes, and scenery. Mom had to whisper a few explanations in Spanish to Uncle Angel—but she had to explain stuff in Engl
ish to Matt too.

  The most embarrassing song in Oklahoma! is about a boy-crazy girl who LOVES kissing. She thinks she should play hard-to-get, but she never does. She says she’s just a girl who can’t say no.

  I don’t think I play hard-to-get. I hope I don’t play too easy-to-get. Do I play medium-to-get?

  At the end of the musical, and the end of all the clapping, we went outside and Mom started humming, where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain …” But the wind was sweeping around Times Square!

  Miguel and Uncle Angel couldn’t believe all the flashing colorful lights and enormous billboards and nonstop action. It felt as if we were surrounded by humongous TV sets, all high above our heads with different commercials on. A ring of moving words was giving headlines. A billboard for noodle soup had steam coming out. A billboard for Coke was supersized (Mom says too much soda makes people supersized). There were ads for plays and movies and bras and underpants. And you could buy deli sandwiches, popcorn, perfume, sunglasses, sweatshirts, incense, and hamburgers or hamburguesas (Ahm Booer Gay Soss). Miguel liked the Toys “R” Us store with the giant sixty-foot-high Ferris wheel inside it and the chocolate store with the giant, glittery Hershey’s Kiss outside it.

  Crowds of tourists were looking up, families were leaving theaters, couples were getting in and out of yellow cabs and white limousines, Uncle Angel and Miguel were taking pictures, and more and more people kept streaming out of the subway.

  Matt and I played a new game he calls Tourist or New Yorker? Some tourists were easy to pick out because they had maps or name tags or they dressed funny or had matching T-shirts. But often, we couldn’t tell who was who.

  Tourists like looking at our town—

  but we like looking them up and down!

  Now I wonder if I stick out when I’m a tourist. Today I was half tourist, half tour guide. Could anyone tell?

  Well, Dad met us and we all six went … underground! He led us down down down and through a turnstile and a bunch of wide tunnels like an endless rabbit hole. Mom held Matt’s hand tight as we paused to watch Peruvian musicians playing flutes, a Latin man dancing to salsa music with a big rag doll, teenagers doing backflips and spinning around on the hard floor, and a woman with a guitar singing love songs.