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.
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
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!
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?
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 mouse 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.
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!!
They showed me the photos of their Bonding Moment, and I told them they looked great. Which was not easy.
I’m starting to feel like a Big Baby around them.
Suze lives to get attention. Depending on what lunch is at school, she’s either a vegetarian or not, or allergic or not. And it works—she gets attention. Especially from boys. Even nice ones like Justin. Maybe it’s because she has long long long hair. Or because she’s pretty developed for our age. Or because she has a big big big mouth. And cool clothes. Now she has earrings too. She’ll probably have a dozen pairs in no time.
I think she likes Justin. Not that I care.
I know she likes Cecily. And I do care!
Last week they wore matching skirts and were laughing so loudly in the library that they got a detention. Believe it or not, I wished I’d gotten a detention too, even though that’s a stupid thing to wish for.
Confession: When Suze asks, “How’s your boyfriend?” I don’t even know if she’s being nice or making fun of me.
4. Two Fridays; zero e-mail! Need I say more?
and
I realize that even virtual bouquets don’t last forever.
But I didn’t expect mine to just plain disappear.
I wrote Miguel a few times about rain and school and mice. Did the e-mails even get there? If not, wouldn’t they have boomeranged back? Did I write them in disappearing ink???
May 13, 
day but it
should be called 
day
Dear Diary,
Suze phoned looking for Cecily. I said, “She isn’t here.” She said, “What are you doing today?” I said, “Errands with my mom,” then felt like a little kid for admitting that.
Later Cecily called and said, “Suze helped me go through my closet, and I have some hand-me-downs for you. My mom is about to leave them with your doorman, okay?” I said sure because I love when Cecily gives me hand-me-downs. They’re usually jeans and tops and bathing suits that are too tight for her but fit me fine.
An hour later, our doorman Gustavo buzzed and said a bag had been dropped off, so I went down and said gracias and brought the bag up to my room.
Well, life is full of surprises because inside the bag marked Melanie Martin (which had a sweater in it) was a second bag, and inside it was … a bunch of bras! Outgrown bras! I can’t believe Cecily has already outgrown her first bras! And I can’t believe she let Suze go through her clothes and help fill up a bra bag for me.
Talk about humiliating!
“Want to go shopping?” Mom asked, popping her head into my room, even though she hadn’t knocked and I keep asking her to.
I shoved the bras in the back of my sock drawer, slammed the drawer shut, and said, “Sure.”
Out we went. We bought invitations for Dad’s party, then Mom offered to buy me a top at Morris Bros. I wished she’d offered to buy me a bra, but why would she have?
At the store, Mom picked out five tops that I would never wear in a million years. I said, “I can pick out my own stuff,” and Mom backed off.
I chose two tops, but Mom said one looked “trampy” and the other was “too revealing.”
Finally we found one we both liked and Mom bought it. It’s silky blue. And I’m happy about that.
But how can I be truly happy when things are weird with my so-called best friend and my so-called boyfriend?
Here’s how I really feel: like a dried-up Christmas tree.
You know how on sidewalks in early January, there are evergreens everywhere? Tired-out trees lying on their sides waiting to be taken away by garbage trucks? Weeks earlier, those same trees had presents under them, and stars on top of them, and they gleamed with lights, ornaments, tinsel, and candy canes. Each one smelled fresh and piney and made someone somewhere feel joyful and lighthearted.
Then, boom, just like that, it was: Time’s up, party’s over.
Happens every year, but it always comes as a sad surprise.
Well, that’s how I feel. Like a forgotten Christmas tree.
They say nothing lasts forever. But I wish holidays did. And first love! And best friendship!!
In English last week, we learned the word “chagrin,” which is when you feel sad or disappointed. Well, “chagrin” has “grin” buried in it. And now, if I try, I bet I can find something positive buried deep inside all this.
Got it: Deep down, even when used-up evergreens are everywhere, you know, you still know, that Christmas will come again. Because Christmas always does. Year after year.
And deep down, even when it is rainy, you know the sun is up there somewhere shining away. Because that’s what it does, day after day.
P.S. I wrote an unjolly poem shaped like a Christmas tree.
Dear Diary,
Dad took Matt to a little-kid movie, so Mom and I quickly worked on the invitations to his surprise party. (Shhhh!) Mom says doing something creative is “spirit lifting,” and I confess, it was fun to doodle party hats and birthday cakes on all the envelopes.
Writing in you helped too.
Dear Diary,
I don’t know why Miguel isn’t writing, but I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to keep writing him. Here’s my new rule for myself: I will not write Miguel. I will not write Miguel!
5/14 P.M.
DD,
Dear Diary,
I went online to see if Miguel had written (I’m weak, I admit!), and Cecily had forwarded me a cool e-mail. Usually I get the stupid kind that ends by saying if you forward them to ten friends, you’ll have good luck, but if you don’t, you’ll wake up dead. (You know what I mean.)
I hate those e-mails because I don’t want to wake up dead, but if I keep forwarding them to friends, soon I won’t have any friends.
Her e-mail said:
If the frist and Isat lettres of a wrod are in the rihgt plcae, the odrer of the ohter ltteres deosn’t mttaer. Why? Bceuase poelpe dno’t raed leettr by Itteer. Tehy raed wrod by wrod.
I was just figuring it out when Justin IMed me. He wrote sup. I wrote n2m (for not too much). He wrote r u ok? I was surprised and wrote yes y? He wrote u seemed quiet 2day.
Well, I didn’t want to blame the rain, Miguel, or the bag of bras, so I decided to try to be funny, even though trying to be funny doesn’t always work.
I wrote: a math word problem is bothering me.
He wrote: r u kidding?
I wrote: In March, Melanie Martin had a pair of mice. In April, they became ten mice. Four were given away, but the others kept getting pregnant. How soon will Melanie Martin have one million mice?
Justin wrote: lol
I liked picturing him laughing out loud, so I wrote i am about 2 send u something Cecily sent me.
He wrote k and I cut and pasted the thing about lagnugae. He wrote incerdilbe!
I sent a smiley.
He wrote: i looked up big apple
I typed: u did?
Then he wrote about different ways New York might have gotten nicknamed the Big Apple. It might have to do with the apple that tempted Adam and Eve (even though the Bible never said the fruit was definitely an apple). Or with horse races because winning horses were given big apples. Or with a jazz club and dance club in Harlem called the Big Apple. Whatever the reason, in 1971 the nickname was used for New York tourism and it stuck.
I wrote: I nveer kenw taht!
He sent a smiley.
I wanted to keep writing, but Dad yelled, “Dinnertime!” so I wrote dinenritme g2g and he wrote wut’s deessrt? and I wrote mybae aplpe pi! and we signed off.
P.S. Miguel and I had commas as our inside e-mail joke; do Justin and I have fnuny spelinlg?
P.P.S. New poem:
Dear Diary,
Suze is ruining my life—which has not been 100 percent perfect lately anyway!
Today on the lunch line, she whispered, “I asked Justin if he likes you.”
“What?! Why???” I swear, I almost dropped my lunch tray, Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, carrots, and all.
“Because sometimes it seems like he does.”
“We’re just friends!!” She raised one eyebrow (which she loves to do since no one else in our class can) and smiled an I-know-more-than-you-do smile, so I asked,
“What did he say?”
“He said he might like you a little, or he might like you someday, but right now, he likes a girl from camp.”
I wanted to die. “Suze, I wish you hadn’t asked him!”
“I was curious. You’re not the only one who thinks he’s cute.”
“Who said I think he’s cute?”
“Oh, c’mon, Melanie, he is cute. That’s not even up for debate!”
“You didn’t tell him I asked you to ask him, did you?”
“No! I wouldn’t pretend to be your messenger. I asked because I wanted to know.”
She sat down, so I did too, but part of me wanted to mash my already-mashed potatoes into her face.
“Since he mentioned the camp girl,” she continued, “I told him about your long-distance boyfriend.”
“You didn’t!” I wish she’d never moved here!!
“I did. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or disappointed or if he didn’t care one way or the other. As my dad would say, he has a poker face.”
“I can’t believe you! And Suze, I don’t even know if I have a boyfriend. Miguel hasn’t e-mailed in over two weeks.” Why I was telling this to the class blabbermouth, I have no idea.
“Two weeks?” She took a sip from her milk carton and jiggled her Jell-O. “No offense, but that is pretty long. Think he broke up with you and forgot to tell you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I read that some boys do that. Of course, if he did, then at least you wouldn’t be ‘taken,’ so you could ask Justin out if you wanted to.”
“But I don’t want to!”
“Oh, good. That’s what I wanted to find out, because I might ask him out, which I wouldn’t if you and he already liked each other. I mean, I wouldn’t want you to be mad at me.” She looked up and the gold stud in her ear gleamed.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I was already mad at her! Really mad! Furious mad! Boiling mad!
I took a bite of potato, but I couldn’t eat. So I just sat there, trying not to cry and trying to get the potato bite to go down past the lump in my throat. Across the cafeteria, I saw Justin walking toward the exit. Normally I might have looked up and waved and smiled and said hi. But all I could do was stare down and hope he didn’t see me see him. Which I don’t think he did. He was looking straight ahead. Maybe he was trying to avoid eye contact too??
Has Suze messed things up with both Cecily and Justin?
My eyes started burning, and tears blurred up my carrots and potatoes. Somehow I blinked them back. The last thing you want to do in a school cafeteria is cry!!
I took a sip of milk, mumbled, “I’m outta here,” got up, and left.
Suze called out, “What’s the matter? Is something wrong? Hey, what about your tray?”
I didn’t answer, just rushed through the lunchroom. I could feel everyone looking but I made it through the crowded doorway and into the hall—where I practically bumped into … Cecily!
“What’s the matter? Is something wrong?” she asked. They were the exact same questions Suze had just asked, but from Cecily they sounded nice, not horrible. I motioned for Cecily to go with me to the girls’ room. A third grader was inside, but she took one look at me and left in a hurry.
“Cecily,” I said, “Suze asked Justin if he liked me!”
“Omigod! You’re kidding!” She looked shocked—which was better than her trying to defend Suze. “What’d he say?” I told her, and she didn’t even say, “Don’t worry.” Which worried me.
I told her the rest of our conversation too. She listened and said that last week, Suze had asked her to ask Justin who he liked, but she’d said she didn’t want to.
Cecily also said, “You have a little potato on your lip.” I looked in the mirror (I looked awful!!) and wiped the potato away. The least the Oozer could have done was tell me I was wearing lunch!
It is now 8:30 P.M., but I have finished my homework and checked my e-mail and there’s nothing on TV so I’m going to bed pathetically early.
Matt has been singing and jumping around, and I told him to keep quiet. He said he’d try, but that he’s bad at keeping quiet.
I said, “So is Suze.”
He said, “What?”
I said, “Never mind.”
P.S. I just took off my silver fan necklace that Miguel gave me. I’ve worn it for over six weeks straight, which is way longer than I usually wear jewelry.
P.P.S. iwnwm
same night, elevenish
May 17
Dear Diary,
Justin and I are talking a little, but I feel awkward around him, and I think he feels the same way. In math, I asked him to explain something and he did, but without looking at me. If I didn’t already know his eyes are greenish hazel, I’d have no idea what color they are.
In Spanish, he asked me to help him pronounce some words. Like, toes are “fingers of the foot” or dedos del pie (Day Dose Del Pyay). And neck is cuello (Quay Yo). And lips are labios (La B Yose), which for some reason felt embarrassing.
More than help with math and Spanish, I think Justin and I both want things to go back to normal. But what is normal between us? Maybe we have to find a new normal.
Dear Diary,
Owwwww! I fell out of bed. On my head! I’m way too old to do that but I did that.
Mom didn’t have a normal ice pack, so she handed me a bag of frozen peas, which I wore like a cold bumpy hat. Then she sat down to keep me company.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” I said, reaching for my glasses.
“No need to apologize.” Mom kissed me. “I was reading. In fact, I just learned something. Nowadays, when artists depict someone with glasses, they may be saying that the person is smart. But in the Middle Ages, when a subject was wearing glasses, the artist was saying that the person was foolish—that he couldn’t even see with his own eyes!”
I sat there with glasses on my nose and peas on my head, and I think Mom realized (a little late) that I was feeling foolish enough without her new factoid. To tell you the truth, I was about to tell her the truth about how everything is going wrong. But just when I was about to speak up, she stood up.
So here I am, alone again. And here’s what I think: I might give up on Miguel. But not on Cecily.
Your hurt friend,
Mel-A-Moron
P.S.
Dear Diary,
Cecily e-mailed me, so I e-mailed Justin:
Count the F’s:
“Friendship comes from the pleasure of knowing someone well, a mutual sense of fun, and, if possible, the sharing of common interests.”
Fffffffondly,
M.
P.S. Justin is good at math, but will he find all the F’s? I didn’t. Even if he answers wrong, it could still help our friendship.
