by Carol Weston
Believe it or not, that was not hard to picture.
Matt and I made a toast too. We recited:
Then we gave Dad a cardboard heart that we’d spray painted gold and decorated. He pinned it on his shirt, and everyone clapped.
Anyway, after the party but before bed, Dad and I snuck back into the kitchen in our pajamas for milk and leftover cake.
“So what about you, Melanie? Did you have a nice time?”
“Tonight? Yes!”
“How about during Miguel’s trip?”
The question seemed out of the blue, but I said, “I think he enjoyed it.”
“And you?”
I stayed quiet, and Dad did too, and silence probably worked better than if Dad had started prying, because next thing you know, I was talking and talking.
“I liked seeing Miguel and doing all the New York stuff. But you know how you weren’t looking forward to your birthday and then it turned out fun? Well, I was looking so so so forward to Miguel’s trip that his visit couldn’t possibly live up to my expectations—is that the right word?”
“Yes.” Dad smiled.
“Things didn’t feel as perfect as they did in Spain. But I think I’ve seen too many movies, and I was being dumb because I imagined that a boy and a girl who like each other always just keep liking each other more and more.”
“Oh, Melleroo, nothing and no one is perfect, but don’t go giving up on love! You’re eleven. Boys will soon be lining up around the block, and I’ll be beating them back with a stick. Or maybe with”—Dad imitated a Spanish accent—“a béisbol bat.”
“That’s horrible, Dad! I wouldn’t want you to hit anybody. Especially somebody who liked me!”
“It is horrible. I don’t know why I said it. It’s one of those things fathers are programmed to say to their lovely daughters.”
“Am I a lovely daughter?”
“Honey Bun, some guy is going to be so lucky to have you that it’ll be hard for me not to be jealous. Is that horrible too? Fatherhood isn’t easy for us old men.”
“You’re not old. It’s true that you like old-fogey operas, but sometimes you and Matt are peas in a pod.”
“Really?” Dad looked happy.
“Dad, hate to break it to you, but that is not a compliment. Unless you like being immature.”
“Beats geezerhood.”
“Dad, don’t worry. You’re forty years young.”
“My, my, look who’s telling who not to worry.”
“Whom!”
Dad laughed. “Melanie, when I was a boy, back when dinosaurs prowled the earth, I liked girls like you. The smart, sweet, funny ones got me right here.” He poked himself in the heart.
I could have said, “The boys in our grade like popular girls with big chests,” but instead I said, “You’re still a boy. A big boy. A B.B.”
“I thought I was a Big Pig. A B.P.?” He took his fork and stole a bite of my cake since he’d already finished his.
“Hey!”
“I’m a B.B. and a B.P. And I’m forty! It is a shocker. I even have some gray hair.”
“Not much. And Mom likes it. She calls it silver.”
“Silver.” He nodded. “Your mother’s a keeper. She looked so pretty tonight.”
“Dad, I’m going to ask you something and don’t make a face, okay? Is Miguel the kind of guy I should carry a torch for? Do you think he’s a keeper?”
Dad smiled. “Keep him as a friend. Who knows, maybe you two will meet again when you’re older. But honey, he was the first of many. You’ve got lots of guys in your future. And I’ve got lots of sticks.”
“Dad!”
“Let me tell you something else, Kiddo.”
“What?”
“I’m always here for you. You know what unconditional love is?”
“Not really.”
“It’s love no-matter-what. And that’s how Mom and I love you and Matt. We love you even when you ruin laundry or misplace mouse babies or spill milk or get bad grades or anything.”
“I don’t get bad grades.”
“What I mean is, boyfriends come and go, but Dad Love lasts forever. You’re stuck with me. So when you’re worrying about boys, I want you to know that I’m right here. I’m always here.”
“You’re a little weird, Dad,” I said, because I was too embarrassed to say, “I unconditionally love you too.”
Here’s what I did do: I stuck a candle on what was left of my piece of cake and struck a match (something I’d just learned how to do) and lit the candle and pushed my plate toward Dad and sang, “Happy Birthnight to You, Happy Birthnight to You, Happy Birthnight Dear Daaaaaaaaaad, Happy Birthnight to You!”
Dad beamed. “I’ve been around four decades, and no one’s ever wished me a happy birthnight.”
“Then it’s about time!”
Dad mussed my hair. “Cupcake, you’re a keeper too.”
Since it was fun giving Miguel that surprise airport kiss, I got up, walked over to Dad, and gave him a peck on the cheek. Not a Spanish beso beso, just a daughter-father kiss.
He didn’t say anything. But he smiled like a little boy.
July 1
Dear Diary,
I went online, and justjustin IMed me.
He wrote: sup mialene
I wrote: nm jstuin
u ok
yes. u?
your amigo still there?
he left
oh. how many mice do u have now?
one.
raelly? ur kddiing?
I was thinking how fun it is to get and send IMs! It’s like passing notes. And I was about to explain about the mice when the phone rang. It was Justin! He said, “I figured I’d call instead of wearing out our fingers. So what happened to the millions of mice?”
I told him, and he laughed but listened too, then told me that he’d gone kayaking with his sister and they almost got stuck in a thunderstorm.
He’s really easy to talk to.
He said, “Hey, we have an extra ticket to go to a musical because my dad can’t come. Want to go? My mom and sister and I would have to pick you up in about forty-five minutes.”
“Let me find out.” I asked, and Mom said yes. I think she likes that Justin’s mom is also a teacher (of math, not art).
I said, “I can go! I’m free.”
“Good, because I barely saw you at Suze’s.”
“Did you have fun at her party?”
“It was okay, but Suze is Suze, you know what I mean?”
I laughed because I knew exactly exactly exactly what he meant. “Well, it was nice of you to call.”
“I’m a nice guy.”
I laughed again. “Listen, we better hang up so I can get ready.”
“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t hang up, so I didn’t either. And then we both did.
Some relationships happen fast, but I guess it’s good when they build slowly. After all, we’re not mice that become great-great-grandparents in two seconds! We’re people, and even though some say “Life is short,” I think it’s long if you’re eleven.
I am learning that nothing stays the same. And that that’s okay. But I want to be careful with my heart because I don’t want to get it all bruised up again. I mean, I just got my balance back!
From now on, I’m not going to about boys and stuff.
Then again, I don’t want to be toooooo careful either, because hearts are for sharing. And feeling. Plus it’s fun when a guy you like likes you back!
I wonder if today will feel like a date. A teenage date—but with chaperones. Mom walked in with folded pants, tops, and bras. I asked, “Do you think I’ll be impossible when I’m a teenager?”
“Impossible?” She laughed. “No, honey, I think you’ll always be possible.”
“Really?”
“Not all teens are terrors. I should know. I teach them.”
“But some are?”
“Well, sure. Just as some kids are.”
Matt th
e Brat burst in hopping on one foot. “What has three legs and barks?” I stared at him. “A three-legged dog!” He continued, “What has two legs and barks?”
“What?”
“A weird kid!!” He barked twice and hopped away.
“Mom, hate to tell you, but you have a very weird son.”
She didn’t disagree, just asked what musical we’re seeing.
“Wonderful Town.”
“That’s great! New York is a wonderful town!”
It’s true. Some people say, “New York is a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.” Well, I live here and I love it! In fact, it’s almost as if I’ve been writing a whole travel diary about it! Instead of a Melanie Abroad diary, this really was a Melanie At Home diary!
And even though my brother can be pretty dorky, I guess I’m realizing that deep down I love my whole family—and whole city.
I even love myself. Loving yourself is extra smart because you’re always there.
Of course, I still love traveling too! But even when we’re not going anywhere, we’re all traveling in our own lives.
We’re not stuck or trapped like the Statue of Liberty or that Goya boy or those puzzle people or even Winnie-the-Pooh. We’re alive!
I mean, think about it. The Statue of Liberty is cool, but no one ever gives her a necklace or invites her to a matinee!
Then again, she probably appreciates what’s right in front of her four-and-a-half-foot nose: all of New York City!
Well, I better stop writing and start changing. The world is waiting, and I have a date!!! (Sort of.)
Emme, Elizabeth, and Robert Ackerman: wonderful travelers and ruthless editors. Os quiero un montón.
My mom, Marybeth Weston Lobdell; stepniece, Olivia Lobdell; and brother, Mark Weston, for their suggestions and encouragements.
My mom-in-law, Gene Ackerman, for knowing gorillas from monkeys.
All the Squam Lake Cousins, especially Andy Bird, Matt Bird, Stephanie May, Sarah Jeffrey, and nephew Felix Ackerman, owner of The Original DogDog.
Nephew David Weston for letting me steal his jokes.
Matty Reategui for everything always.
And Cousin Bonnie Landes Beer for her insightful comments and for sharing the story of her sweet little bird who made the mistake of flying into a dishwasher. (R.I.P. Sparky!)
Maureen Davison, Patty Dann, and Cathy Roos, who read all my pages and made me reach higher and dig deeper. Your friendship is such a gift.
Tom Klingenstein, for being an expert on the Empire State Building.
The inspiring and enthusiastic students at Trinity, North Street, Friends, Colonial, CSG, Spence, and other schools.
Our many Spanish friends, including Javier Muñoz-Basols and Nuria Martín.
Julia Black and omg, owg! (That’s you, Livi!)
Carol Weston is the author of The Diary of Melanie Martin, which School Library Journal called “laugh-out-loud funny”; Melanie Martin Goes Dutch, which Vanity Fair called “a quirky kid pleaser”; and With Love from Spain, Melanie Martin, which Booklist said is “another thoroughly enjoyable adventure abroad.” She is the well-known advice columnist of Girls’ Life magazine and the author of For Girls Only, For Teens Only, Private and Personal, and Girltalk: All the Stuff Your Sister Never Told You. Carol met her husband in Spain, and they live in Manhattan with two daughters, one cat, one bunny, and one hamster.
Visit www.melaniemartin.com.
