Melanie in Manhattan

by Carol Weston

  Cecily turned to me and whispered, “Any e-mails yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not. I’m being patient.” And it’s true. When I think about Miguel, I don’t worry. It mostly feels like a wonderful secret, sweet and warm.

  Suze had been folding and writing on a square of paper. She put it on her thumbs and fingertips and smushed it together, apart, together, apart. Then she made Cecily and me pick colors and numbers and told our fortunes.

  Cecily’s was: “Friendships can change.”

  I hope not!

  Mine was: “Someone has a crush on you.”

  I hope so!

  Patiently,

  I’ve been working on this poem:

  April 5

  Dear Diary,

  I can’t believe I signed off “Patiently” yesterday because today I am officially impatient!

  I also can’t believe I thought things felt almost perfect last week because now things feel totally imperfect!

  I called Cecily, and her mom said she was out with “Susan.” I felt like saying, “You mean Suze the Ooze,” but said, “Thank you, Priscilla. No message.”

  Whenever I check my e-mail (which, I confess, is a little too often), I look for Miguel’s e-mail address. But it’s never there. The little voice says, “You’ve Got Mail,” but it’s not the mail I want.

  Since there is never any New Mail from Miguel, I’ve been opening my Sent Mail and rereading what I wrote him.

  Pathetic, right?

  I just want to be sure I haven’t sent anything stupid or cheesy or boring that I should have deleted.

  Here are the three e-mails I’ve sent so far:

  E-mail #1:

  Hola Miguel—

  It’s me, Melanie!! We’re back in New York and I’m jet-lagged. I hope this e-mail reaches you. Right now you are probably asleep because it’s dinnertime here. I hope you are having a nice dream!

  Adiós,

  Melanie

  When I sent that, it seemed like a friendly e-mail. Now I’m wondering if it was weird that I said I hoped he was having a nice dream. Was that too personal? Then again, it’s not like I said, “a nice dream about me,” or anything! It wasn’t thaaat inappropriate, I don’t think. But what do I know? I’m not used to writing boys!

  E-mail #2:

  Hi Miguel,

  ¿Cómo estás? I am fine. Please write me because I am really hoping to hear from you. It is good to be back home but I like vacation better. My doorman friend, Gustavo, said I learned a lot of Spanish. I told him I had a good teacher! :)

  Yours,

  Melanie

  P.S. Matt says hola.

  I think that one’s okay, but maybe not. When I wrote I was “really” hoping to hear from him, did it sound desperate, like I have no life unless he e-mails? And did it sound like I’m showing off about my Spanish?? Was it dumb to write “Yours” at the end? No, I think it’s okay. I just wish I knew it was okay.

  E-mail #3 (this is the one that worries me the most):

  Dear Miguel,

  Yesterday we went on a boat trip. You would have loved it. We saw the Statue of Liberty. France gave it to us in 1886. Spain is full of things that are thousands of years old, but to us in America, 1886 seems like a long time ago.

  To me in New York, even a few days seems like a long time ago.

  Are you there, Miguel???

  miss u,

  Melanie

  Why did I ask if he was there? And why did I write “miss u”? Does “miss u” sound mushy? Will he even get that u = you, or will he think I can’t spell? I bet he will get it—but what will he think of it?

  I wish I could press Unsend, but we’re on different systems.

  I wish he’d write!!!

  Once you send an e-mail, you want one back. You can’t help it. So I feel as if I’ve shouted “Hello” three times into one of those echo-y archways in Central Park, and instead of hearing Hello Hellooo Helloooooooo, all I’m hearing is … nothing nothing nothing.

  Sometimes I think I must have made the whole thing up.

  Then I look at the photos I put in my scrapbook, and touch the silver fan necklace he put around my neck, and leaf through my travel diary, and I know Miguel is real, even if he is far away and silent.

  This isn’t all in my head, because it was in his head too.

  Maybe since I like to write (I’m always writing), it’s easier for me to e-mail him than it is for him to e-mail me. But he could still send a short paragraph. Or a sentence. Or a word! Or a smiley!!

  In my diary, I’m tempted to scribble: I hate love.

  But I don’t.

  P.S.

  Dear Diary,

  I have been staring at my computer screen, trying to make Miguel write me. But he hasn’t. So for better or worse, I just wrote him again. Even if it is his turn.

  And I didn’t press Send Later or Delete. I pressed Send.

  I hope he doesn’t think I’m a stalker.

  Here it is, my fourth and final e-mail:

  Dear Miguel,

  I was thinking of you and of Blanquito, your grandmother’s bird. Remember when I told you that we had two pet mice? When we were on vacation, they had babies! Eight babies! Their ears have opened but their eyes haven’t. They are growing fur and whiskers and getting cuter by the day.

  Yesterday my mother took my Spanish class to see paintings by Velázquez and Goya. It reminded me of when you and I went to the museum in Madrid.

  I don’t know if you are getting my e-mails, but I want you to know that I’ve been wearing my necklace.

  Gracias again for it.

  Melanie

  I could probably analyze that one for hours, as though it were a tricky paragraph we’re studying in English. But I’m not going to let myself. Not today anyway! Besides, all I’m trying to say is: Write back!!!

  (as Miguel used to call me!)

  P.S. I made sure I have Miguel’s correct address. I do.

  April 9

  Dear Diary,

  In Spanish today, Señora Barrios asked me to describe a friend, so I said that Cecily is my best friend or mejor amiga (May Hhhor Ah Me Ga), and that she’s nice or simpática (Seem Pa Teek Ah), and that she has a bunny and a cat—un conejo (Oon Co Nay Hhho) and un gato (Oon Ga Toe).

  I wish I could really speak Spanish because I wanted to say more about Cecily’s cat. Like when Cheshire licks himself, the tip of his little tongue sometimes gets stuck outside his mouth, and it looks so so so cute. And when he was a kitten, he used to run up to mirrors and pounce at himself, but now that he’s older, when he tries to jump on Cecily’s bed, he sometimes misses and goes tumbling off, and then makes it on the second try, and it’s sort of funny but also sort of sad.

  Of course, I didn’t know how to say any of that in Spanish.

  After class, Justin, this boy I’ve never really noticed much, said he was amazed by how much Spanish I’d learned over spring break. I said I learned un poco (Oon Poe Coe) or a little, but that my Spanish still wasn’t bueno (Bway No) or good.

  He said, “Sounds bueno to me.”

  I said, “Your best subject is math, right?” (Maybe I have noticed him a little.)

  “I like math.”

  “Even word problems?”

  “Especially word problems.” He laughed and looked into my eyes. His are pale green with brown flecks.

  Well, just now when I was checking my e-mail (and rereading—or re-rereading—my old letters), I got an instant message from justjustin. I guessed justjustin might be Justin, so I accepted the IM and he wrote hi so I wrote hi and he wrote sup and I wrote nm (for not much) and he wrote if u ever need help in math just ask so I wrote k and he wrote k and I wrote thnx and he typed g2g (for got to go) so I typed cu and that was that.

  the tenth of abril (Ah Breel),

  which means April

  Dear Diary,

  Mom and Dad’s passports were about to expire, so they got their photos
taken today and were in the kitchen filling out applications for new passports. Matt took a peek and said, “That’s Dad’s new passport photo?!”

  Mom said, “Dad’s handsome but not photogenic.”

  Dad corrected, “Mom’s kind but Dad’s old.”

  “You are not old!” Mom said. “You just should have shaved. And opened your eyes a little more.”

  I examined Dad’s new photo, and well, it does stink. I said, “At least yours is good, Mom.”

  Matt said, “Dad’s looks like a police picture of a bad guy.”

  “A mug shot!” I agreed.

  “C’mon, kids, a little respect,” Mom said. “You’re talking about my distinguished husband.”

  “The decrepit almost-forty-year-old,” Dad said.

  “Forty is not old,” Mom said.

  “It’s not young,” Matt argued. Mom frowned at him, so he added, “But it’s not decrepit either—whatever that means.”

  “Old,” Dad explained. “Worn out. Broken down. Ancient.”

  “Enough!” Mom said, and kissed Dad. To be honest, she seemed a teeny bit worried, like when she checks our foreheads to see if we have a fever.

  April 11

  Dear Diary,

  Mice are more fun to watch than television! My favorite thing is when two mice get on the treadmill and spin each other around and take turns holding on upside down. It’s like a mouse Ferris wheel. Matt’s favorite thing is taking the mice on one-at-a-time field trips in his pocket around the apartment.

  I like our mouse family, but when the pet store man sold us a pair and said they were female, he really should have checked to make sure.

  Mom says life is full of surprises—but I like when life’s more predictable! I don’t like that everything is changing, from my pet mice to my best friend!

  Two questions:

  1. If I saw a mouse in the basement of our building, would I still be scared?

  2. How come mice are cute but rats are disgusting?

  April 11

  Dear Diary,

  I’m glad you’re not mad at me, because everyone else is! I forgot to take something out of my pocket, and it ruined all the laundry.

  It was makeup. Cecily gave me concealer, which is beige stuff you put on your face to hide zits. I don’t even have zits yet. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it. Well, the container opened up in the washing machine and went round and round, and the beige stuff got all over everything. Matt’s T-shirts and Dad’s boxers and Mom’s gym socks.

  It’s like the clothes have zits!

  I wanted to make a joke about our laundry being full of surprises, but since Mom was mad, I just said, “Sorry,” which usually works.

  Not this time. Instead of saying, “It’s okay, Tootsie Roll, I know it was an accident,” Mom sighed and said it’s enough to wash, dry, and fold clothes, she should not be expected to check everybody’s pockets for keychains-gum-quarters-rings-marbles-feathers-pebbles-erasers-Chap Stick-and-makeup. She said emptying pockets was our job, not hers. She added that we were getting older, and she also didn’t like that when we tried on lots of shirts and chose one, we stuffed the rejects in the hamper instead of putting them back on the shelf where they belonged.

  I was about to point out that I never put feathers in my pocket—that was Matt—and that I hadn’t put any clean clothes in the hamper since last week. But I decided just to mumble “Sorry” again.

  Mom held up a pair of little boy underpants with beige polka dots and said, “Apology accepted, but Melanie, this was not your ‘finest hour.’ ”

  Which got me wondering. When was my “finest hour”? Did I miss it? Was I even paying attention? Did it happen over spring break with Miguel? Do I have any more ahead?

  P.S. The concealer got ruined too.

  Dear Diary,

  I keep turning my computer on then off, and there are never any messages. Which makes me want to say, “Okay, okay, okay! I get the message!”

  Would my English teacher call that “irony”?

  P.S. I can’t believe I referred to Miguel as my boyfriend. He’s not even my pen pal!

  P.P.S. At least I never expected Miguel to call. If I’d gotten hopeful every time the phone rang, I’d feel worse than I already do.

  April 13

  Dear Diary,

  Friday the 13th is usually an unlucky day, but today I turned on my computer oh-so-casually, and my heart started pounding because there was an e-mail from Miguel! My mouth got dry and my stomach flipped over, and I was afraid to click on his name but too excited not to.

  Here’s what he wrote:

  MELANIE:

  FOUR E-MAILS! THIS IS VERY GREAT! IT IS LIKE RECEIVING MANY PRESENTS WHEN IT IS NOT MY BIRTHDAY!

  I AM SORRY I DID NOT WRITE, BUT I HAVE BEEN AWAY ON EASTER HOLIDAY WITH MY MOTHER (MY PARENTS ARE STILL SEPARATE). I AM NOW AT THE OFFICE OF MY FATHER. HE SENDS GREETINGS.

  THE MOUSES SOUND CUTE. BUT I HAVE TO TELL YOU ABOUT BLANQUITO. SHE FLEW INTO MY GRANDMOTHER’S DISHWASHER. MY GRANDMOTHER DID NOT KNOW THIS AND SHE TURNED ON THE WASHER WITH THE BIRD INSIDE. AT THE END, IT WAS DEAD. (CLEAN BUT DEAD.) WE WERE ALL VERY SAD BECAUSE BLANQUITO WAS A SWEET LITTLE BIRD.

  FORGIVE ME FOR NOT TO WRITE SOONER. WILL YOU? I WANT TO KNOW HOW ARE YOU. EVEN THOUGH YOU ARE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC, YOU ARE HERE IN MY THOUGHTS.

  UN BESITO,

  MIGUEL

  Beso (Bay So) is the word for kiss, so besito (Bay Sea Toe) must mean little kiss.

  Well, a little kiss is A BIG DEAL!

  It was weird. I was all alone in my room with the door closed, but it was as though Miguel were right in front of me. I mean, I was looking at the screen, feeling warm and happy and tingly and melty, and my heart was beating fast and my face was tilted to the side. And I was smiling because even though Miguel is far away, he suddenly felt very close.

  I almost gave the computer a beso. Instead, I wrote back:

  Dear Miguel,

  Gracias for your e-mail. Where did you go on vacation?

  I am very sorry to hear about Blanquito. I bet your grandmother misses him. :-(

  Our baby mice are now a little over two weeks old and their eyes just opened. Soft fur and open eyes do a lot for a mouse’s appearance! The babies are busy busy busy exploring their nest of wood shavings and cotton balls.

  I wish you could see them!

  Hasta la próxima,

  Melanie

  After I wrote, “I wish you could see them,” I tried to get myself to write, “And I wish I could see you,” but I couldn’t. I also tried to get myself to sign off with un besito, but I couldn’t do that either. Thing is, I didn’t want to write “Love” or “Sincerely” or “Bye” or “Your friend” or “XOXO” either.

  It took me over half an hour to come up with Hasta la próxima (Ah Sta La Proke C Ma). It means “Until next time” and it’s what Miguel and I said to each other at the airport in Spain when I told him that I didn’t want to say goodbye or adiós.

  P.S. I IMed Cecily Guess who wrote me? and she IMed back MIGUEL? and I IMed back :) :) :) and then she IMed omg for omigod and then she phoned.

  April 15

  Dear Diary,

  When Matt and I fed the mouse babies today, we were in for a surprise. It was as if the babies had all gone crazy—at the exact same time.

  They were leaping like grasshoppers or frogs or popcorn! Matt opened the top of their cage so we could feed them berries, and the babies sprang straight up.

  At first it was scary, then weird, then funny. Matt looked in one of his science books and we found out that at about sixteen days, if baby mice are disturbed, they jump straight in the air to avoid danger.

  Well, obviously the pet store man should have checked the mice’s private parts and also warned us about the Bouncing Baby Stage!

  Matt and I named the mice: Leap Frog, Pirate, Buccaneer, Ahoy, Stuart Little, Happy, Mickey, and MouseMouse. (Matt chose MouseMouse in honor of DogDog.)

  Uh-oh. Matt needs me. He’s
by himself with the jumping micelets!

  P.S.

  April 16

  bedtime

  Dear Diary,

  Tomorrow is our math-class field trip to Lincoln Center. We sometimes go there for operas, plays, ballet, or jazz—but not math. Mom loves the giant Marc Chagall murals in the Metropolitan Opera House.

  I laid out my clothes, then changed my mind four times, which is two times more than usual, which sounds like the beginning of a word problem.

  P.S. I stuffed the three reject outfits in the hamper, then got them out and put them neatly back on my shelf.

  April 17

  Dear Diary,

  Field trips used to be so much fun. This one should have been … and almost was.

  I remember my first field trip ever, back in kindergarten. We all piled into a big yellow bus and rumbled up to an orchard. I’d just met Cecily (she was missing her two front teeth), and we sat next to each other.

  If it’s possible to look back and point to a day when two people became best friends, that was the day for us.

  Sunshine poured everywhere, and the second we got off the bus, we smelled the apples, tart and sweet. Teachers gave us bags with handles, and we were supposed to fill the bags to the top.

  Cecily filled hers in a minute. Ripe red apples seemed to pop off their stems. Maybe I was trying too hard, because every time I saw an apple I liked, I had to climb up high or reach in deep or twist or pull or yank, and I almost got stung by two different bees.

  When I finally filled my bag, Cecily said, “Let’s have lunch.” But I’d left my lunch on the bus! She said, “Don’t worry,” opened her brown bag, handed me half her banana-and-jelly sandwich, and we’ve been friends ever since.