by Carol Weston
“Don't!” I said, and Mom told us that in Spanish, teasing isn't “pulling your leg,” it's “pulling your hair” or tomando el peh (Toe Mahn Dough L Pay Low), which makes even more sense.
I asked the man to write MELANIE MARTIN on my poster so it would seem as if I were afamosa dancer. It didn't take long, and now Matt and I have bedroom posters and Mom has a classroom poster.
Our posters are so cool—and so Spanish. In some ways, the Gypsy and the matador are both saying, “Live your life! Be aware that you're alive!”
We are now speeeeeeeding back to Madrid.
I am aware of olive trees and grazing sheep and dark tunnels.
Dad began reading Don Quixote, which is the fat funny book Miguel mentioned. Dad said Cervantes and Shakespeare both died in 1616.
I said, “1616 was a sad year for writing.”
Don Quixote loved stories about knights in shining armor so much that he started thinking of himself as a heroic knight on a great adventure. But really he was just an almost fifty-year-old on a worn-down horse with a roly-poly friend on a dumpy donkey.
Dad kept laughing, so Matt asked, “What's so funny?”
Dad said, “Don Quixote was really into books, okay? Well, listen to this: ‘From so little sleeping and so much reading, his brains dried up and he lost his mind.’“
“Where does it say that?” Matt asked. Dad pointed.
“Could that happen?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Mom said. “There's no such thing as reading too much—or writing too much.”
Guess who else is on this train? Freckle Girl! She walked by our seats and Matt got up to sit with her. I whispered, “What about Lily?”
“What about her?” He looked at me as if I'd drunk too much sangria. “There's no law that says you can't talk to people.”
He's probably right. But how did my little brother get so comfortable with boy-girl stuff?
Off he went, while here I sit, not even sure whether the glow between Miguel and me means anything or not.
Since Dad is reading and Matt's gone, Mom started singing again, but softly and just for me. She sang, “Madrid, Madrid, Madrid, pedazo de la Espana en que naci” (Pay Da So Day La S Pon Ya N K Na C), which means “piece of Spain where I was born.” She thought I'd like it because it repeats Madrid three times.
Mom knows me well well well.
or aeropuerto (Air O Pwair Toe)
Dear Diary,
We took a bus from the train station to the airport and we've checked our stuff and are ready to fly home.
Just two things left to do:
Say adios to Miguel and Antonio (they're supposed to be here), and
Get on the plane or avion (Ah V Own).
My stomach is flip-flopping. I could say it's fear of flying, but that's not it. I'm anxious about seeing Miguel. I wish it could be the two of us (not the whole family), and for a few hours (not a few minutes), and to say hello (not goodbye).
Dear Dear Dear Diary,
I will never forget today as long as I live.
Miguel and Antonio got to the airport just fifteen minutes before they had to board their flight to Valencia. Antonio offered to take a photo of us four, so we let him, but instead of smiling, we all decided to frown because leaving stinks.
Miguel said, “Matt, I have a present for you.”
“You do?” Matt said, cheering right up.
Miguel handed Matt a black bull. It was so cute that I couldn't help feeling jealous. It has white horns and a red tongue and a long tail and a wind-up knob that makes its tail go round and round.
“That's adorable” (Odd Or Ob Lay), I said.
Then Miguel told his dad he wanted to show me something in a nearby store. Antonio looked at his watch and said, “Okay, but come right back. Be rapid.”
“Rapido” (Rrrah Pee Dough), Mom said, looking at me. “Make it quick.”
I followed Miguel a short distance down the airport hallway and we stepped behind a wall. People hurried by, but it felt as if we were alone.
“May Lah Nee, I am glad you came to Spain.”
“Me too.” He looked even cuter than he did when I first met him. He reached for my hand. He didn't really hold it, though; he sort of laced his fingers through my fingers. I added, “But I'm a little sad to say goodbye.” The word “goodbye” came out wobbly.
Miguel smiled a sweet smile. “Then don't say adios, May Lah Nee. Say ‘Hastah proximo.’ “(Ah Sta La Proke C Ma). I must have looked confused because he said, “That means, ‘Until next time.’ We will see each other again, yes?”
I nodded. I was afraid to actually speak because if I did, I knew I might cry. All of a sudden, two tears started in my eyes anyway and wet my lashes and drip-dropped onto my cheeks. I hoped Miguel wouldn't notice, but of course he did.
He touched my two cheeks with his two thumbs and wiped the tears away. It was embarrassing, but also, somehow, romantic and sweet and okay.
He handed me a tiny box and said, “Open it.”
I undid the bow and ripped off the paper and lifted the lid and picked up the cotton.
And there was a necklace! A silvery chain with a little Spanish fan. It was shiny and delicate and lovely.
I said gracias, but I think my eyes said more.
He picked up the necklace.
“You permit me?”
I nodded and he put the necklace on me. “Beautiful,” he said.
“Miguel?”
“¿Si, senorita?”
“Do you have e-mail?”
“Electronic mail? Yes.” He smiled. Then he smoothed back a strand of my hair and cupped my chin and sort of tilted my face up toward his. I was looking into his eyes and I didn't want to break away. Ever! But he closed his eyes for just a half second, and leaned forward a tiny bit, and put his lips gently on my forehead, and he … kissed me.
I know Spaniards kiss each other on the cheek all day long (believe me, I know this), but I hadn't seen anyone kiss anyone else on the forehead. So I know it meant something.
I think I even know what.
I didn't kiss back, but I smiled back and said, “I will write you.”
“And I will write you.”
We gave each other our e-mail addresses. I was half tempted to say, “Pinky swear?” but I didn't think I needed to.
We joined the others, and Antonio air-kissed Matt and me and shook Dad's hand and hugged Mom goodbye. It wasn't a clap-on-the-back hug. It was a real hug, but a brief one.
After Antonio and Miguel left (we said goodbye again with our eyes), I wondered if my family could tell anything was different. I doubt I looked different except for the necklace, and it was hidden inside my shirt. I feel a little different, though: older or taller or calmer or something. And my stomach isn't doing flip' flops anymore. It's almost as if I have a toasty warm bonfire inside me now, not big and out of control, but not tiny and going out either. It feels… just right.
P.S. Some girls might not consider my first kiss a first kiss since it wasn't on the lips. But I think it counts way more than a spin-the-bottle kiss because it was full of feelings.
Dear Diary,
Guess what? Our flight was overbooked, so the airline people had to find passengers willing to give up their seats and leave tomorrow instead of today. We still have four days before school starts, so Mom and Dad started talking fast and Dad checked his Thursday schedule to see if he had any urgent meetings tomorrow that are unpostponable (which I doubt is a word). He didn't. An azafata said, “We need four more volunteers,” and said if someone volunteered to be “bumped,” that person would be put up in a hotel and “sent out tomorrow on the next available flight to their final destination” and (this is the best part) would get free round-trip tickets to Europe valid for one year.
Mom could not stand it anymore. She shouted, “We volunteer!”
Get this: The airline thanked us! Mom said we should have thanked them!
Fortunately, I packed Hedgehog and you in my airpl
ane bag.
Unfortunately, the rest of our luggage was already checked, and because of security, they took it off the original plane, so we can't get it until we're in New York. Instead, they gave us each a little overnight travel bag of “toiletries” (Matt's new favorite word).
Well, the airlines do not care if you're a boy or a girl (or both!), they give the same bag to everybody. Here's what's in it: an extra-large white T-shirt for sleeping; big black socks; a toothbrush with a tiny tube of toothpaste; a razor; shaving cream (!); feminine pads (!); teeny bottles of detergent, moisturizer, shampoo, and body wash; a small deodorant; tissues; and a comb.
Mom said this is all part of our aventura.
I said that we will look funny in the airport hotel with our matching T-shirts. Dad's and Mom's might fit okay, but Matt and I are going to look like ghosties.
Dear Diary,
None of us minded having an extra evening in Spain because we all like Spain. Mom even got to race alone through a hard-to-pronounce museum near the Prado. We kids refused to go, so Dad stayed with us, but he did give Matt and me each a business card from the hotel just in case we got lost or per dido (Pair D Dough). In Spanish, of course, if two people get lost, they get losts or perdidos (Pair D Dose)!
Anyway, later, when Mom met up with us, we said, “Close your eyes!” Matt took one of her hands and I took the other and we led her to a place called the Museo deljamon (Moo Say Oh Del Hhhahm Own) or Ham Museum. It's actually a bar with hhhundreds of hhhams hhhanging by their hhhooves—from the ceiling. They look like dark pink chandeliers. We figured Mom would think it was funny that we took her to a museum.
And she did! She even raised her glass of wine and said a famous Spanish toast to us. Here is the translation: “Love, health, money, and time to enjoy them.”
Since it was my last evening in Spain, I tried to be extra observant.
You know how you have five senses? Not you, Diary, I mean people. Not to rub it in or anything, but I assume you can't see or hear or taste or smell or feel. Not the way people can anyway. Or maybe you can feel? Can you feel me writing in you right now? Does it tickle?
Whoa—I must be in a really weird mood!! Good thing diaries are private!!
What I wanted to say is that we all have five senses, but sometimes we use some of them more than others. Like Mom uses mostly her eyes in museums. And Dad uses mostly his ears at the opera. And we all used our eyes and ears at the flamenco show. Well, in Spain, I think my sense of smell has been paying extra attention. I've been smelling open fires, salty air, orange trees, and lots of delicious garlic sizzling in olive oil.
Funny thing is, I didn't think I even liked garlic.
The other sense I have been extra aware of is touch. I can still almost feel Miguel's fingers in my fingers and hand on my chin and lips on my forehead.
Who knows? Maybe I'm more aware of all my feelings—of being alive.
Well, our airline hotel ran out of four-person rooms and adjoining rooms, so Dad and Matt took one room and Mom and I took another. Dad said, “Male bonding,” and Mom said, “Female bonding.”
To tell you the truth, which I obviously do anyway, Matt and I like when we get to sleep by our parents even though it's not something we go around admitting.
I am hereby admitting that it was fun to female-bond with Mom.
Right now, she is reading. She's using a Murillo postcard as a bookmark. It's of a mother and child.
I think Mom wanted to talk because she asked, “Did you and Miguel get a chance to say a nice goodbye?”
“A really nice goodbye.” I tried not to have a goofy smile.
“I'm glad for you and for him,” she said. “I'm even glad for Antonio because it's a blessing to have a good kid.” She squeezed my hand.
“I'm a kid, but in less than two years, I'll be a teenager.”
“True, but enjoy these years. Don't wish them away.”
“Do you think I'll see Miguel again?”
“Would you like to?”
“Si.”
“Then I think you will, though maybe not very soon.”
“We'll e-mail.”
“What a nice idea. Maybe in Spanish and English.” (Leave it to Teacher Mom to think of love letters as educational.)
“But what if I don't see him again?” I asked. “And what if I never meet anyone else I like as much?” My dumb voice started wobbling—which I had not expected. “I mean, I already miss him and we haven't even left Spain! Will I get totally miserable and heartbroken like the Gypsy dancers?”
“No, honey bun, you won't.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
For some reason, maybe because Cecily wasn't there to talk to, I showed Mom my necklace.
“I was going to ask,” she said. “It's very pretty.”
I told her about my first beso too. Mom didn't seem toooo shocked, but then, it's not as if I was describing an R-rated make-out scene.
“So that must mean he likes me, right? I mean, like-likes me.”
“Sounds like a reasonable assumption,” Mom said. “Besides, he's smart. And you're likeable.” She touched the little fan around my neck. “But you know what, pumpkin? He's the first boy you've felt this way about, not the last. And that was your first kiss, not your last— though as your mom, I hope you'll take your sweet time on all this. Your second kiss may be a long way off. And you're way too young for serious kissing.”
“My first kiss was a serious kiss.”
“True. But you know what I mean.”
I had to admit that I did. “Do you think it was love?”
“Love?” Mom held the word in her mouth as though it were an M&M. “You know what a poet named Pablo Neruda wrote about love?”
“No.”
“‘Love is so short and forgetting is so long.’“ She stared into space for a second.
“So was it love?” I asked. “Is it?”
“‘Love’ is a very big word,” Mom said. “I think it was lovely—is lovely.”
“And you don't think I'll get lovesick—and lovelorn?”
“I think you'll get busy with school and friends and activities. And I think you'll check your e-mail more than ever.” She wiggled my big toe as though I were five. “I also think this is a colorful chapter in the book of your life.” I didn't say anything, so Mom continued. “But you know who is the main character of your life ?”
“Who?”
“You! And you're just eleven, so keep ahold of that big heart of yours, okay?”
I said okay in Spanish, which is vale (Ba Lay). Then I said, “You know how you said there are many different kinds of love ?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think there are many different kinds of kisses too.” I was thinking about single kisses, double kisses, cheek kisses, lip kisses, little bird kisses, spin-the-bottle kisses, even forehead kisses.
Mom kissed me. “I think you're right, precious.”
“What about you and Antonio?” I said. “Did you get to say a nice goodbye?” It seemed only fair to ask.
“You were all there to witness it!” Mom smiled. “Yes, it was a nice goodbye. It was wonderful to see him again.”
“Wonderful?” I like mom-daughter girl talk, but I was hoping Mom wasn't going to confide that she was thinking of using her free ticket for a one-way trip back to Spain.
“Mellie, he wasn't just my boyfriend a long time ago, he was also my friend. To never see him again would have been a shame. Of course, it also would have been bad if we'd seen each other and thought we were awful, or if we had not been able to speak each other's language, or if we'd started wishing we'd never broken up in the first place. But none of that happened. Seeing Antonio just felt good and somehow settling. Now I'm hoping Antonio and his wife get back together—and from what he told me, it sounds like they might. I bet she's a nice woman because she's the mother of a nice boy, right?”
“Right.”
“And because, after all, Anto
nio has always had excellent taste in women. Like father, like son, right?”
“Right,” I repeated.
“To be honest, during all those years when I hadn't seen Antonio, he was still sort of there in the very distant background, like that fifth leg in the painting. That ghost leg?”
“Pentimento,” I said.
“Exactly.” Mom smiled. “I think that if someone makes it all the way into your heart, that person stays with you forever—one way or another, mostly for better and occasionally for worse. A past love is part of the big picture of your life. Dad would say the same thing— he and Sophia were happy to see each other again in Rome, remember? So when that poet wrote that forgetting is so long, maybe it's because some of us never do forget. Maybe we don't even want to.”
“Do you think Miguel and I will remember each other forever even if we never see each other again?”
“I think so, yes.” I could tell Mom was really trying to get this right. “But just because an old sweetheart gets to have a little corner of your heart doesn't mean he or she gets to take up the whole space.”
“But at least it won't be like it never happened.” My stupid untrustworthy voice got all high and quivery again.
“Don't worry, honey. People remember their first kisses—and yours was very special.” I halfway nodded. “You know how I like visiting paintings? Well, you can visit your memories. Everyone can. Experience stays with you. Memories last. They may fade but they never really go away.”
Maybe Mom's right. Like when people go to a lot of trouble to make a Thanksgiving turkey and it gets gobbled right up, or when people go to a lot of trouble to make a falla and it gets burned right down. It's not a waste or as if it never happened because everyone remembers it. Forever.
I was still wishing I had more of Miguel than memories when I realized that I do. I have the necklace. And soon I'll have photos.
“Melanie, you and Miguel will always remember each other, at least in a pentimento-y way. Or who knows? Maybe you and he will feel as if you each have a perfect marble in your pocket. A beautiful secret tiger-eye marble. No one else will know you have it, but you two will always know it's there.”