Melanie in Manhattan

by Carol Weston

  Praise for The Diary of Melanie Martin:

  “Laugh-out-loud funny.… Weston’s descriptions will have readers wanting to see Italy for themselves.” —School Library Journal

  “Weston clearly knows a ten-year-old’s take on foreign customs. A humorous first novel … likeable, believable.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Charming. A right-as-rain take on the modern girl.” — Family Fun

  “Weston, advice columnist for Girls’ Life, has her finger on that preadolescent girl pulse.… Captures the voice of the bright, excitable Melanie with ease, and the dynamics between the siblings are right on the money.” —The Bulletin

  “Even grown-ups will laugh out loud.” —Journal News

  Praise for Melanie Martin Goes Dutch:

  “A quirky kid pleaser.” —Vanity Fair

  “A breezy, fun, lighthearted read that quite naturally folds in contemporary issues.… Her penchant for using words three times for emphasis [is] so, so, so right for the voice of the character.… Go, go, go, girl.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Achingly real … especially gratifying.” —Booklist

  “A favorite writer of preteen girls, Weston offers the latest installment in the ongoing adventures of a spunky young globetrotter.” —Yale Alumni Magazine

  “Great fun … makes you feel like you’re visiting Amster-Amster-Dam-Dam-Dam too. A winner!” —Discovery Girls

  “Another hilarious look at life with Melanie Martin.” —Girls’ Life

  Praise for With Love from Spain, Melanie Martin:

  “Carol Weston gets girls. The author of With Love from Spain, Melanie Martin, the latest in her globetrotting series, has a loyal fan base that sooo relates to Mel, an 11-year-old with an annoying little brother.” —Parenting

  “Another thoroughly enjoyable adventure … delightful … lively … Weston does a great job of giving Melanie an authentic preteen voice.… Her greatest feat, however, is expertly weaving loads of history and art, as well as Spanish words (with pronunciations), throughout the text.” —Booklist

  “Appealing young heroine.” —Vanity Fair

  “Funny and entertaining.” —Toronto Sun

  “A great children’s book.” —New York Daily News

  “When Melanie and her family go to Spain … Melanie’s trip fills her diary with Spanish words, Spanish customs, museums and—best of all—Spanish romance!” —Boston Herald

  “Weston’s not just any teen-lit writer—she’s also the reigning columnist for GL Magazine.” —Newsweek

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2005 by Carol Weston

  Jacket illustration © 2005 by Marci Roth

  Interior illustrations © 2005 by Ericka O’Rourke

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York.

  KNOPF, BORZOI BOOKS, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Weston, Carol.

  Melanie in Manhattan / by Carol Weston — 1st edition.

  p. cm.

  SUMMARY: Eleven-year-old Melanie records in her diary how she rediscovers her hometown of Manhattan, copes with competing for her best friend’s attention, enjoys a litter of baby mice, and anxiously awaits e-mail from her Spanish friend Miguel.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-82908-5

  [1. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 2. Tourism—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Family life—New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Diaries—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W526285Mc 2005

  [Fic]—dc22 2004015931

  v3.1

  to emme and lizzi—

  my city girls

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  March 31

  Dear Brand-New Diary,

  I can’t believe my eyes!!!

  I am about to be face to face (or girl to statue) with the Statue of Liberty!!

  the Statue of Liberty!!! She is green from her spiky crown to her big flip-flops, and she’s draped in a toga dress that makes her look like a Roman goddess—an American Roman goddess.

  We’re on a boat because Dad’s boss invited us to a party. The invitation said, “Don’t be late—the boat won’t wait!”

  The bad thing is that there are no kids my age. The worse thing is that my brother, Matt the Brat, is acting his age—seven.

  He keeps waving at other boats and shouting “Ahoy!” He’s even ahoying seagulls. And there are lots of seagulls.

  I told him to quit it, but he said, “Ahoy!”

  I said, “I hope a seagull poops on you!”

  He said, “Ahoy!” again.

  Seriously! You’d think Matt would look up at the Statue of Liberty. She is getting closer and and bigger and

  How can he be so clueless? How can he not see what’s right in front of him??

  twenty minutes later

  I couldn’t take it anymore, so finally I said, “Hey, Ahoy Boy! Look over there!”

  He looked, and instead of saying, “Ahoy!” he said, “Awesome!”

  The Statue of Liberty is pretty, but not pretty-pretty. More like: proud. But not show-offy proud. Dignified proud. As though she knows she’s done the exact right thing, welcoming new people to America.

  It feels like she is even welcoming us back home from our trip to Spain.

  Dad came over and took pictures of me sticking up one hand and holding my diary (you) in the other: The Statue of Melanie!

  Matt asked, “Can we have a party on a boat someday?”

  Dad said, “Don’t hold your breath!” So of course Matt started holding his breath—and making a big deal of it. Dad told us that the Statue of Liberty was built by two French guys: Eiffel (who designed the Eiffel Tower) and Bartholdi (who made her look like his mom). Dad also said that her nose is four-and-a-half feet long. I doubt mine is even two inches!

  We were getting really close to the Statue of Liberty, and I couldn’t stop staring. It was like I was under a spell—a spell Moron Matt kept trying to break! His freckly cheeks were puffed out and his blue eyes were wide open and he kept shifting from one foot to the other. Finally he exhaled and asked, “Think she could catch a fly ball?”

  I said, “No! She would never put her torch down.”

  “Think she’s ticklish under her arm?”

  “Ha ha. You’re hilarious.”

  “Think she has B.O. and needs a de-ODOR-ant?”

  “Matt, you immature idiot, stop trying to be funny.”

  “I’m funny without trying.”

  “No, you are so not funny, it’s not even funny. Besides, there are some things you just don’t joke about.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the Statue of Liberty. Duh! Leave her alone!”

  Matt shrugged, then he and Dad left me alone. Alone with the most famous statue in America!

  Seagulls are squawking and grown-ups are talking, but Lady Liberty is serious, strong, and still
. (That’s an alliteration.)

  And sure of herself. She is the opposite of moody!

  What would it feel like to be the Statue of Liberty: to be so solid and so permanent?

  She is now getting farther and and smaller and

  We passed by Ellis Island (where immigrants used to arrive) and are heading toward Lower Manhattan (where the twin towers used to be). Mom came to check on me, but since I was writing, she just put her hands on the railing. I can always tell when she is thinking about the towers because she gets extra quiet.

  A long time ago, before security people started looking at everyone’s shoes at airports, America tried to put out a great big welcome mat for anyone who wanted to come here.

  Then things got more complicated.

  I’m lucky. I’ve traveled pretty much and I’m learning about the world. For some reason, though, I don’t usually think about being American.

  Right now, what I’m thinking is that if I had a flaming torch, I would hold it high and shine it back at the Statue of Liberty. But I really wish I had a magic torch—a torch that could stop time in its tracks! Why? Because I like being in fifth grade and having a best friend (Cecily) and a boy I like (Miguel). I like things exactly the way they are. Life feels …

  P.S. It’s a good thing I put you in my backpack. Normally I keep travel diaries—which I did in Italy, Holland, and Spain. This will be my very first Melanie At Home diary!

  April Fool’s Day

  Dear Diary,

  It’s April Fool’s, but I swear I’m not making this up.

  Over spring break, while I was off in Spain having my first kiss with Miguel, our mice, Milkshake and Pancake, were here having a whole entire family!

  They multiplied!

  We didn’t even know they were pregnant!

  We didn’t even know they were a boy and a girl.

  Now instead of two, there are ten!

  The babies are red, blind, bald, teeny tiny, and somewhere in between cute and disgusting. (To be honest, they are more on the disgusting side.)

  They keep hanging on to the mother to nurse. Poor Milkshake! She must be exhausted. You know the song “Three Blind Mice”? Well, she has eight blind mice.

  Pancake is already trying to make more babies (if you know what I mean). It’s like a TV nature show.

  In the world, mice get eaten up by cats and owls and other predators, so Mother Nature has to make sure that each mouse pair makes tons of babies so that a few can survive to make tons more babies. In Matt’s room, however, there are no predators. (Matt can be an Annoying Little Brother, or A.L.B., but at least he doesn’t eat mice.)

  What are baby mice called anyway? Baby dogs are puppies; baby cats are kittens; baby owls are owlets; baby ducks are ducklings. But baby mice aren’t micies or micetens or micelets or mouselings.

  Whatever they’re called, Matt is excited about them. He said:

  Mom and Dad are not excited. They are the opposite.

  Me, I’m …

  April Fool’s Night

  Dear Diary,

  “It was on the forehead?!” That’s what Suze asked when I told her about my first kiss. I would never have told her at all—except she came over with Cecily, and I was dying to show my best friend the vacation scrapbook I’d just made.

  Suze is new. She joined our class in September. Her real name is Susan, but everyone calls her Suze (rhymes with Ooze). She’s always talking about how popular she was in her old school and blah blah blah. I guess she’s already kind of popular in our school too.

  “It’s not like Miguel and I were alone,” I explained. “We were in an airport.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Suze said. “He’s your mom’s old boyfriend’s son and he lives in Spain??”

  I said yes and showed the photos of the bullfight, gypsy dancers, and my favorites, the ones of Miguel and me at the castle. I’d already put one photo in a heart-shaped frame on my dresser. My hair is blowing all over the place, and my eyes look really happy.

  “Think he’s cute?” I asked.

  “¡Sí!” Cecily nodded. “You two make a cute couple.”

  “He has the best smile,” I said, and that got me smiling.

  “Too bad it wasn’t a lips kiss,” Suze said. “They’re better!” She laughed like a hyena, and I sat there like an April Fool.

  “Have you talked to him?” Cecily asked.

  “My parents won’t let me. It’s too expensive, and Spain is in a different time zone.”

  “So you and your boyfriend are e-mailing?” Suze asked.

  I’d never actually called Miguel my boyfriend, but I liked the way it sounded, and I liked our first kiss, so I said, “I’ve sent three short e-mails—one for each day since we got home.”

  Suze raised one eyebrow. “He hasn’t answered?”

  I shook my head.

  Cecily said, “He will.” To Suze, she added, “Look at this photo of Columbus’s tomb.”

  “Omigod! Last week we were shopping at Columbus Circle,” Suze said. “And Cecily pointed out the statue of Columbus and told me you were in Spain.”

  Well, it didn’t make me feel good that Cecily was thinking about me. It made me feel bad that she was shopping with Suze. I’d been away less than two weeks and Suze had jumped right in.

  “We got lip gloss,” Cecily said.

  “And bras!” Suze added, then pulled her shirt off her shoulder to reveal a slim lavender strap.

  “I’m wearing mine too!” Cecily yanked out a matching strap.

  “Cute cute cute!” I said. But I was thinking, “Puke puke puke.”

  Two comments:

  1. I wish Suze weren’t oozing all over my friendship with Cecily.

  2. I wish I needed a bra.

  P.S. Most kids in my grade are NOT wearing bras, but Cecily started wearing one when she turned eleven on Halloween, and Suze came to school with one on!

  4/2 after dinner

  Dear Diary,

  Dad and Mom were looking at the boat party photos.

  “I love this!” Mom said. “Lady Melanie carrying a torch. You know that expression, don’t you?”

  “Sounds familiar …”

  “When you’re carrying a torch for someone,” Dad explained, “you care a lot about that person—even if you’re not together anymore.”

  Matt said, “You mean like Mom cared about her old Spanish boyfriend?” During vacation, Mom admitted that even though she’s happily married to Dad, her ex-bf would always be important to her. Which may be legal and normal and allowed. But it’s still surprising coming from a mom.

  “Not exactly, Matt.” Mom laughed. “When someone is carrying a torch, that person is thinking too much about the past. He or she may even be lighting the way for the long-lost love to return.”

  Matt started wadding up pages from the Sunday New York Times and tossing them into our living room trash can. “Hey, Melanie, want to play Apartment Basketball?”

  “Matt, I’m eleven.”

  “Do you, Dad?”

  “Sure.”

  Matt turned to me and said, “Score!”

  But I was still thinking about torches. Am I carrying a torch for Miguel? I decided not to write him today.

  4/4 at 4!

  Dear Diary,

  This morning the fifth-grade Spanish classes all went on a field trip to the Hispanic Society of America. Guess who organized it? Mom!

  Mom was a little nervous, but I was more nervous. It’s embarrassing having Mom stand in front of everyone acting like a teacher. I know she’s not acting—she is an art teacher. But still!

  Mom showed us Spanish paintings, starting with Holy Family by El Greco. Christopher said, “Baby Jesus looks like an old man!” Mom said it took painters a long time to realize that it was okay to paint Jesus as a regular roly-poly baby. Christopher whispered, “Check out His teeny tiny you-know-what.” Suze cracked up, Mom ignored them both, and I wondered how I could have ever liked Christopher.

  Mom asked what we
thought of a close-up by Velázquez of a serious, dark-haired girl with a sweet almost-smile. The girl looks half innocent, half wise. This boy named Justin raised his hand and said she looked like me—but with brown eyes! Everyone laughed, and I tried not to blush—which probably backfired and made me blush extra.

  We tromped downstairs, and Mom said she wanted us to see the “real jewel” of the collection. I thought “real jewel” sounded real dorky, but no one else noticed.

  The “jewel” was a portrait of a proud duchess, a widow. She is a funny-looking Spanish lady with big black eyebrows and black hair under a poofy black veil. She’s wearing a long fancy skirt. Mom asked, “What is she doing?”

  Christopher said, “Pointing down,” then pointed to her pointer finger. He almost touched the painting—and Mom almost had a heart attack!

  Mom told him to move back and told us to look at the lady’s two rings. In tiny shiny letters, one said her name, Alba, and the other said another name. “Who can read it?”

  Cecily raised her hand. “Goya!”

  “Yes! And on the sand,” Mom said, “it says ‘Sólo Goya’ or ‘Only Goya’ in big loopy letters. She is announcing to the whole wide world that her heart belongs to one man, Francisco Goya, whose name appears at her feet. She’s expressing her love and loyalty, and by painting her, Goya is expressing his devotion too. His devoción” (Day Vo Syon).

  On the bus ride back, Suze and I both wanted to sit with Cecily. So we all three ended up sitting together on the very last seat. Cecily said she was glad my mom arranged the trip because she liked it, and she’d never even heard of that museum.

  “Really?” Suze said. “No offense”—I could already feel myself getting offended—“but I think museum trips are boring. My old school had a whale-watching trip.”