by Carol Weston
Back at school that day, we counted and weighed our apples and cut them into halves and quarters. To the teachers, it was beginner math. To us, it was Fun With Apples.
Well, today our teacher, Ms. Riley, broke us into groups. Mine was Norbert, Cecily, Justin, and me. Perfect! I like Ms. Riley, but at the last minute, for no good reason, she made a switch. She put Suze in our group and plunked me in a different group. It was so not fair!
Each group got a ruler, a calculator, and a two-foot piece of string. With that and our “eyes and brains,” we were supposed to figure out how many gallons of water fit in the well of the cool central fountain and how many square tiles are in the reflecting pool in front of the Vivian Beaumont Theater and stuff about the angles of a spindly steel sculpture by Alexander Calder.
Since Justin is way better at math than anyone in my group, I asked him for help. Twice. He’s really nice. And smart but not conceited. He’s like a teacher: He doesn’t just give out answers; he explains how to get them.
He even knows the long number for pi.
I think of pi as 3.14. But he knows the first fifteen numbers of it by heart! It’s 3.14159 … oops, that’s all I know.
He said his mom is a math teacher and that his family calls March 14 “Pi Day.” Every 3/14, they bake a pie. If it’s a weekend, they say “Happy Pi Day” and eat it at exactly 1:59. Justin said, “It might sound dumb, but my sister Katie and I look forward to March 14. It’s like having a whole extra holiday.”
I said it didn’t sound dumb and asked what kind of pie they made last month. He said apple. The sun was shining softly on his face, and his sandy hair matched his eyes. Maybe his eyes are more hazel than pale green. Cecily and I became friends during a field trip, and I was thinking maybe Justin and I were becoming friends too.
“Omigod!” Suze suddenly butted in. “Lincoln Center! I just realized: Last time I was here, it was for the Big Apple Circus!”
I was tempted to say, “Were you a clown?” because I was mad at her for interrupting our private conversation. But all I said was, “Why is New York called the Big Apple anyway?”
None of us knew, not even Genius Justin.
April 20
Dear Diary:
From Miguel:
MELANIE:
I AM IN MY FATHER’S OFFICE.
YOU ASKED WHERE I HAVE GONE ON VACATION. GALICIA. IT IS A PRETTY AREA IN SPAIN WHERE THE RAIN IS SO FINE AND GENTLE THAT IT DOES NOT SOAK THINGS, IT MAKES THEM TO SPARKLE. THE RAIN IS CALLED MOJABOBOS, WHICH MEANS WET FOOLS. THIS IS BECAUSE A FOOL MIGHT COMPLAIN, “I AM WET!” BUT OTHERS LIKE THE MAGIC MIST.
MAYBE SOMEDAY YOU COME AND SEE MORE OF MY COUNTRY, YES?
CON CARIÑO,
MIGUEL
Yes! But I didn’t know what Con cariño (Cone Care E Nyo) meant, and I couldn’t find the Spanish dictionary anywhere. Finally I asked Mom. She said, “With care” or “With affection.” I asked her whether it seemed funny that Miguel starts his e-mails “Melanie:” instead of “Dear Melanie.” She said, “Not in Spain.”
Melanie
April 21
Diary:
Central Park is in bloom right now. We walked across the Bow Bridge and saw herons, red-winged blackbirds, kids playing Frisbee, and dog walkers walking big Labradors, little terriers, cute spaniels, fluffy collies, crinkly pugs, stocky bulldogs, and dainty poodles, all wagging their long or stubby tails. I also saw couples rowing boats. It made me want to rush home and write to Miguel. So I did!
Dear Miguel,
We say “April showers bring May flowers,” but New York has been beautiful all month! We live in an apartment, so we think of the parks as our backyard. Riverside Park is near us, and right now its trees are pink and look like strawberry ice cream cones.
The biggest park is Central Park. It has a zoo, theater, turtle pond, swimming pool, reservoir, fountains, and places to fish, ice skate, play tennis, and bird-watch. There is even an old old old obelisk called Cleopatra’s Needle and a lake for riding a gondola—or rowing boats.
Remember when we did that in Madrid? I do!
Con cariño,
Melanie
My e-mail was already long (because I kept thinking of things to add), and I was just about to press Send when, for better or worse, my fingers typed a P.S. before my brain could stop them.
P.S. Don’t take this the wrong way, but would you mind putting a comma after my name instead of a colon? In America, commas are more personal. ¡Gracias!
The second I pressed Send, I wished I hadn’t. First of all, I’m not that big on parks, so why did I go on and on as though I were Little Miss Nature Girl? And worse, why oh why did I correct his punctuation??? Who cares if he writes “Melanie,” or “Melanie:”? Now that I’ve corrected him, I’ll be lucky if he writes me at all!
What was I thinking?
I couldn’t fall asleep so I called Mom to come tuck me and Hedgehog in again. I said, “Is it bad if I think about Miguel a lot?”
She smiled. “Not if you enjoy thinking about him. I guess it would be bad if thinking about him made you unhappy.”
“Will you lie down with me?” I don’t ask her to as much as I used to, so Mom didn’t say no, she just took off her shoes and stretched out. Problem is, she fell right to sleep and I’m still wide awake.
April 24
Dear Diary,
I got a detention today. It was so not fair! Cecily and I both had to miss recess, but Suze didn’t. She always gets other people in trouble. And gets away with it!
Our big crime was that in assembly, we were listening to a boring speaker who wouldn’t stop speaking. So at the exact same time, we each crossed our left leg over our right leg, then crossed our right leg over our left leg, then rested our chin on our right hand, then rested our chin on our left hand. Then we all leaned forward and pulled our right earlobe and looked deep in thought.
The teacher noticed us and got mad. It wasn’t even our real homeroom teacher—it was a sub. A sub with a bow tie and a unibrow. (If it had been Mr. Roberts, we would not have dared copy each other!)
Well, detention wasn’t so so so bad because of two reasons.
1. Missing recess isn’t as serious as being sent to Principal Gemunder’s office—which I never have been. Not once.
2. I was inside with Cecily (which is fun), not by myself (which can get lonely), and not with Cecily and Ooze Face (which can get annoying).
But I’m still mad at Suze because the leg crossing was her idea, so she should have gotten in trouble too! I’m also mad because in homeroom, she and Cecily were making this secret chart grading boys on stuff like Looks and Brains and Niceness, and Suze said, “I was thinking about you and Miguel, and no offense, but isn’t it easy to have a faraway boyfriend? You can just send love letters—or love e-mails—and pretend everything is perfect, since you never actually see each other.”
Cecily said I shouldn’t worry and that Suze is probably jealous. So why am I letting what she said get to me? Is it because it’s a teeny tiny bit true? I doubt Suze is jealous, but if she is, it would be because Cecily and I have been best friends half our lives!
Anyway, I got to Spanish class early and Justin asked, “How come you weren’t on turf?” Turf is what we call the fake green grass on our school’s fenced-in roof.
I was surprised Justin had even noticed I missed recess. I told him what happened, and he started laughing—but in a nice way. While I was talking to him, he also started copying all my positions: crossing and uncrossing his legs, propping up his chin, and touching his earlobe.
If Matt the Brat had done that, it would have made me crazy. But since it was Justin, it made me smile.
P.S. I wrote a poem called “Detention Prevention.”
April 27
Dear Diary,
Third Friday in a row! Does Miguel go to his dad’s office only on Fridays? If so, I wish he’d say so. Magazines say a little mystery is good for romance, but when I don’t know what’s going on, I just worry.
A good thing about e-mail is that it’s always convenient—it’s not like a doorbell or a phone that can ring when you don’t want to be interrupted. A bad thing about e-mail, at least for me, is that since e-mail can be so fast, it feels funny when it’s not fast. By “funny,” I mean the opposite!
Today, getting Miguel’s e-mail made me want to half laugh, half cry, and half smother my computer with besitos. (Justin a.k.a. Mr. Math would point out that that’s one half too many!)
Miguel wrote:
DEAR MELANIE,,,
NOW THAT I KNOW THAT YOU LIKE SPRING FLOWERS, I SEND YOU A BOUQUET OF TULIPS. THE FLOWERS OF A VIRTUAL BOUQUET CAN TO CHANGE COLOR. I AM SENDING THEM TO YOU YELLOW. TELL ME IF THEY CHANGE, OKAY?
HASTA LA PRÓXIMA,
MIGUEL
P.S. I AM HOPING TO TELL YOU GOOD NEWS SOON.
At first, I didn’t get it. I started looking for an attachment or enclosure or link or instructions. Then I realized that with e-mail, you can send pretend presents. If someone is upset, you can offer a virtual tissue or a cyberhug.
Confession: I like the visible commas as much as the invisible bouquet!
Why? Because the commas are like a secret shorthand, an inside joke that’s private between Miguel and me. And I like punctuation; I especially like semicolons.
Until today, though, I’d never thought of commas as romantic!
I still wish he’d write more. I write him way more than he writes me. I probably think about him more too.
What could the good news be?
April 28
Dear Diary,
Maybe Suze the Ooze is right about the “perfect” thing. Maybe it is easier to think everything’s perfect when you never see the person, like when it’s an Internet (or international) relationship. Or both.
When girls in our grade meet boys at camp or parties or other schools, they always say they’re “perfect.” When kids in our grade go out with each other, though, things get imperfect really fast, and they dump each other in two days.
I called Cecily because I actually wanted her to say, “Don’t worry.” She did. But she also said something I didn’t expect. She said Suze says I talk about Miguel too much. I was about to say, “It’s none of her business!” but Cecily continued, “And I kind of agree. No offense.” When Cecily said, “No offense,” I wanted to hang up on her!! I didn’t, though; I listened. “Melanie, you don’t know if you’ll ever even see him again, so you should try not to obsess. You’re driving yourself a little crazy. You know?”
What I knew was, I did not like Cecily and Soozy Floozy talking about me behind my back.
What I said was, “Want to sleep over tonight?”
“I can’t,” Cecily said. “I have plans.”
“Plans?”
“Suze’s sister is having a birthday party at Benihana and Suze is allowed to bring one friend.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, don’t worry about what I said about Miguel.”
“I won’t.” But we both knew I would.
Are they right about Miguel? And are he and I doomed as a couple? He’s over twelve and a half and I’m just eleven; he’s Spanish and I’m American; we’re too young to visit each other alone; and there’s an ocean between us with whales and sharks and minnows and octopi in it. And squid. And algae. (Not that the contents of the ocean make a difference.)
What about my friendship with Cecily? Is it doomed? Between us there’s no OCEAN, but there is an OOZER. Which may be worse!
Have I been worrying about the wrong relationship? Do I have everything backward?
Saturday night
Dear Diary,,,
Dad has been listening to Puccini and acting grumpy. Mom says he’s feeling old because of his “milestone” birthday coming up. “Milestone” birthdays usually end with 0 and 5, like when you turn 40 or 50 or 75. Mom is planning a surprise party for Dad but told me not to breathe a word—not even to Matt. (I did tell Cecily.)
The opera is called Turandot, and a sad fact is that Puccini died before he got to finish it. It’s about a man who is madly in love with a lady named Turandot. At first she is not very nice. But eventually they kiss and she gets a little nicer. The kiss warms her up a little.
I wonder what the average age of a first kiss is. The average age to start your period is around twelve or twelve and a half. But what about kissing? Is there an average age? Does anyone study that stuff? What about bras? Is there an average first bra age??
My first kiss came last month—the forehead kiss. Age eleven. When will my first lips kiss be?
By the way, I wrote Miguel back and told him the tulips had turned pink, which I hope isn’t too lovey-dovey. I started the e-mail with “Dear Miguel,,,” and I was going to add a fourth comma but decided not to. (What if his commas were typos? No, no, they were on purpose, so I’m not going to worry about that! No one accidentally writes things three times!)
P.S. I wish Cecily were here.
Dear Diary,
Cecily called this morning and said, “I’m free today. Are you?”
I said, “Yes,” but I thought, “YESSS!!!”
Mom was going to an all-day art conference, so Matt begged Dad to take us to the Bronx Zoo, and amazing but true, he said okay. Dad likes the zoo. He said the first time he went was in 1899, when it was founded. Matt asked, “Really?” and Dad said, “No!” and Matt started hopping around singing the Raffi song about going to the zoo-zoo-zoo-how-about-you-you-you? It was tempting to smack him, but I was too happy.
On the way to the zoo, we wanted to listen to Z100 on the radio, but Dad wanted to listen to opera and he won. So Cecily, Matt, and I sat in back and took turns mouthing opera songs and making big dramatic arm gestures. We were laughing, but I was worried that Cecily might like being with Suze’s big sister, who is probably mature, more than with my little brother, who is definitely NOT.
In the Congo Gorilla Forest, we watched baby gorillas copying their parents—even though their parents were doing gross things like scratching their privates, banging their chests, picking their noses, and eating with their mouths open.
After that, we went to see snakes, and Matt pressed his face to the window and stuck his tongue out to see if they’d stick their tongues out back. Some did, but it was coincidence.
Get this: He told Dad to try and Dad did! (Dad can be pretty immature for a grown-up.)
I whispered to Cecily that in monkey families, children learn bad habits from the parents, but in my family, the dad learns bad habits from the kid. She laughed. Which made me feel good. I like her laugh.
Here’s what we didn’t talk about: Suze. Or Miguel.
Anyway, we also saw lions and tigers and bears (oh my!) and then we dropped Cecily off at her apartment.
Now I am on our sofa and Matt is standing next to me, watching me write. He has a white mouse in his pocket—he showed me. He says mice are natural hiders; that’s how they keep safe from birds of prey.
I said, “Cool.”
“Did you write about the dried-up gorilla poop?”
“No way.”
“Why not? That was awesome!”
“Keep your own diary, Matt!”
He mentioned gorilla poop because at the zoo, we saw a movie about a woman who studies gorillas. She came upon a clump of dried-up gorilla poop and broke it with a stick so she could learn what the gorillas had been eating.
Yeah! Right! Like I’m going to write about that in my diary!
Stupid Matt, now I realize I just did!!!
“I hope you’re happy, Little Science Boy,” I announced. “I just wrote about gorilla poop.”
“Lemme see!”
I let him read what I just just just wrote.
“You called me Little Science Boy?”
“It’s my diary. I can call you anything I want.”
“Put in that you’re an E.B.S.”
“1. I am not an Evil Big Sister. 2. Why would I?”
Matt shrugged, and the little mo
use peeked out of his pocket, wiggled its whiskers, blinked its teeny red eyes, and rubbed its nose with its front paws. It was so cute that we both laughed. Matt said, “Put in that I have MouseMouse in my pocket.” So I just did.
P.S.
May 12
Dear Diary,
Sorry I haven’t written in almost two weeks. First I lost you, which was terrible. (You were under the bed—as you must know!)
Then I felt too awful to write. Four things are bothering me, so I’ll write them in order of badness, less bad to most bad.
1. Outside, it’s done nothing but rain. Not a fine magic mist that makes things sparkle. No. A nonstop soggy downpour.
Here is a rain rectangle:
2. Inside it stinks too. Literally.
Our mice are not adorable anymore. They smell and they’re gross. They’re constantly trying to make babies with each other, even though they are all related! The original mom, Milkshake, is pregnant again. Her little belly keeps getting big and bumpy.
Matt has a new joke. Question: How do you make babies? Answer: Drop the y and add ies!
He showed me a book that says mice are “prolific breeders” and start breeding when they are just six weeks old. Female mice can have a litter every single month. Females who live with males are almost always pregnant. And a healthy female in captivity (meaning in a cage with no cats, owls, or hawks) can have around a hundred babies in a year.
This could be a problem!!!
Mom and Dad made us give four of the not-so-little-anymore baby mice back to the pet store. The owner said he’d try to sell them, but I’m worried he’ll sell them as snake food.
3. Cecily and Suze got their ears pierced. Together! On May 5. Cecily knows my mom won’t let me until I’m twelve, but she could have asked, or waited, or at least invited me along!!
