by Carol Weston
Matt still stinks at drawing, but at least now you can tell what he's trying to draw. It's not a total guessing game.
Me, I'm an excellent artist, if I do say so myself. I think I'm as good as Cecily.
Mom thinks I should always carry a sketch pad. I like carrying a diary instead.
Anyway, we sketched and sketched and colored and colored, and then Mom put our work up in the Gallery. That's what she calls the doors of our coat closet.
“These pictures are beautiful,” she said.
I thought mine was and Matt's wasn't, but I didn't say anything. Now that they're hanging side by side, it's pretty obvious whose is better.
Tonight Mom came to tuck me in and said she loved my drawing.
“I bet you said the same exact thing to Matt,” I said. Mom smiled, so I asked, “Do you love me more than Matt?”
I ask her that a lot. I don't know why because the question annoys her and she never says yes.
Tonight, though, she was in such a good mood, she didn't get annoyed. She just kissed me and said, “I love you both with all my heart.”
She was about to leave, but I said, “You took a long time with Matt. Take a long time with me.”
So Mom sort of stroked my hair and said she thinks we're going to have a wonderful time in Holland. Then she said, “You can write a little more, but don't stay up too late, okay?”
I said I wouldn't. And see? I didn't.
Dear Diary,
Mom gave me Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. It was the copy that she had when she was a teenager. She said that I could read it alone or she could read it to me or both. I picked both.
Mom said Anne's story is very sad and very important and that she'll explain it to me as we go along. Anne was a girl who had to hide during World War II to save her life. We will visit the place in Holland where she hid with her family.
Today we read just a few pages. Anne Frank started her diary on her thirteenth birthday (well, two days after) and she wrote, “I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart.”
Diaries are good for that.
Friends are too.
Happy Almost Independence Day,
Dear Diary,
Matt asked, “What color M&M's do you like best?”
I said, “Brown, then red, then yellow, in that order.”
“I like blue.”
“I hate blue!”
“Why?”
“Because food should not be blue, except for blueberries.”
“Blue is my favorite food color! Blue cotton candy and blue jelly beans and blue ice pops.”
“Yeah, well, you're a doo-doo head.” (That sort of slipped out.)
“Well, you're an E.B.S.” (That means Evil Big Sister.)
“Only because you're an A.L.B.” (That means An noying Little Brother.) “Hey, Melanie, how come Cecily hasn't been over?” Matt asked. “Are you guys in a fight?”
Out loud I said, “No.”
But inside, I started to feel… blue blue blue.
Bluely yours,
M&M
Dear Diary,
No wonder Cecily hadn't called me back!
I just found out what's going on.
Cecily finally called and Matt and I both picked up the phone. Matt pretended to hang up, but I could tell he hadn't because I could hear him breathing in and out. “Hang up N-O-W!” I yelled, and he did. (Even Matt knows what N-O-W spells.)
Cecily said she was sorry she hadn't called, but she and her mom have been going to doctors' appointments, and she didn't want to talk yet because she had some scary news that she kept hoping would change.
“What?” I asked. That's when Cecily told me that her mother has a disease. She got a test and they found out she has breast cancer and she might have to have an operation.
I'm glad Cecily called but I feel terrible for her and her mom.
Breast cancer! I've heard of it, but I've never known anybody who had it.
Now I feel kind of guilty that I wrote that Mrs. Hausner has been acting crabby. I mean, she's obviously been stressed and stuff! I wonder how bad it is. I wonder if she looks different.
This sounds really stupid, but tonight we're going to a Fourth of July picnic in Central Park, and I'm going to try not to look at Cecily's mother's chest. It's not like I normally do or anything. But I'm afraid I might accidentally glance at her chest and I wouldn't want Cecily or her mom to catch me doing that.
Once, I was reading the front of a lady's T-shirt because it had all these jokes on it. But then the lady stared at me staring at her. She thought I was a perv when she was the one with jokes all over her chest.
I hope Cecily's mom will be okay!!
I asked Cecily if she'd mind if I told my mom about her mom and she said no. She said her mom is on the phone all the time now with doctors and friends.
Dear Diary,
At the picnic, first there were fireflies; then there were fireworks! Red, white, and blue ones, like giant sparklers in the sky.
Cecily's mom looks the same as ever. If I didn't know something was wrong, I would never have guessed.
When I saw her, I knew that the first thing I should do was apologize for having hung up on her, and the second was say “Get well soon” or “I hope you feel better.” I knew I should do that. But somehow all I could squeak out was a pitiful little “Hi, Mrs. Hausner,” as though things were normal. She said, “Hi,” and acted normal back.
I feel kind of guilty that I didn't do the right thing.
On my first sleepover ever, which was at Cecily's, I got scared and worried. Cecily's mom made me cocoa and told me about her first sleepover and how she got scared and worried too. She helped me feel better.
Being homesick and being sick-sick aren't the same, but still, I wish I had thought of something nice to say.
Well, Cecily and I climbed a tree so we could spy on everyone. She told me some more about the scary news. She said her mom had felt a little surprise lump in her chest.
“Like a pebble?” I asked.
“More like a pencil eraser, I think,” Cecily said.
Cecily's mom got it x-rayed, then another doctor gave her a needle test. He said she has cancer, so now she's asking a different doctor for a second opinion. But she will probably have to have an operation. Cecily says cancer is when bad cells in your body multiply and have to be cut out or poisoned with chemicals or both.
While Cecily was talking to me, Cecily's mom was talking to my parents. Cecily and I usually talk a lot, but our parents usually don't.
We all left the picnic together. Cecily's mom kept stopping to throw away empty bottles that other people had littered. Mrs. Hausner is a big cleaner-upper. She loves Central Park and she hates trash.
After we said goodbye, I asked my mom, “Is she going to be okay?” Mom said she thinks so and Dad told me not to worry.
Dear Diary,
We fly to Europe on August 11. That's in exactly
Dear Diary,
Cecily came over and Mom took us to Riverside Park, and Matt made us play Who Can Spit Watermelon Seeds the Farthest. Matt is good at it and Cecily is great at it and I stink at it. I don't know why I can't do it. Even when I concentrate and curl my tongue and spit them up and out, the seeds still land just a foot away.
Mom asked Cecily how her mom is doing. Cecily said, “Okay, I guess.”
Mom put her arm around her.
Kind of sadly,
Dear Diary,
You will never ever believe this!
It is too good to be true!
Guess who is going with us to Amster Amster Dam Dam Dam?
Cecily!
Cecily's mom scheduled her operation for when we would be away, because Mom said that while it might be hard for her to take care of Cecily during all the hospital stuff, it would be easy for our family to take care of her and we'd love to—in Holland! Mom got the idea when we were spitting out watermelon seeds,
but Cecily's parents had to talk on the phone about it. Now they're buying Cecily a plane ticket!
Instead of a family of four, we'll be a family of five!
Cecily and I will be sisters!
I'm so
At dinner Matt said, “It's not fair that Melanie gets to take a friend and I don't.”
He sort of had a point, so I just stared quietly at my meatballs.
“Matt, Cecily's mom is sick,” Mom said.
“If Lily's mom got sick, could Lily come with us?” Matt asked. He was eating his spaghetti in a really disgusting way. He doesn't twirl it, he loads up his mouth and then bites off all the extra noodles. He always looks like a mama bird with a beak stuffed with worms.
“Matt,” Mom said, “let's be glad Lily's mom is not sick. We're taking Cecily along because it will help her mom, and it won't be that hard for us.”
“That's what you think,” Matt said. “You have Dad, and Mel has Cecily, and I'll probably get lost again. Remember the Sixteen Chapel?”
“The Sistine Chapel,” Dad corrected, then added, “This time we'll stick together.” (It was pretty bad when Matt got lost on our last trip.)
Anyway, I just kept minding my own business, watching my meatballs. I have to admit, though, I'd probably be mad if Matt got to take someone and I didn't.
Oh well! That's the way the meatball bounces!
The rest of dinner was a big fat lecture from Dad about how we are privileged children and how we should appreciate our health and good fortune and not take it for granted and not get spoiled, etc. etc. etc.
We promised we'd try.
When Dad was done lecturing, Mom started in about table manners and how Matt should twirl his spaghetti or at least take smaller bites—like Melanie (hee hee).
Your privileged friend,
P.S. That's one of Dad's nicknames for me.
P.P.S. Three weeks until Holland!
Dear Diary,
Matt got hurt today. It was really scary. We were playing softball in the park. Matt was catcher and I was pitcher and the second grader who lives across the street was batter and his baby-sitter was keeping an eye on all of us. Well, the second grader kept taking practice swings and I guess Matt must have been standing too close to him because suddenly the bat bonked Matt right in the nose. He started to wail.
At first I thought Matt's nose had gone flying off or something! Blood was gushing all down his face. None of us knew whether his nose was broken or his teeth were bashed in or what.
The baby-sitter took us right home. Matt was crying and bleeding, but by then at least I could tell that his nose was still on his face and his teeth were still in his mouth.
It turned out that he got hurt right between his nostrils. That little piece of skin that sort of holds noses down got ripped.
Fortunately, Mom was home. She cleaned Matt up and stuck big cotton balls in his nostrils. (I have to say, he looked pretty weird.) Then she called the doctor, and next thing you know, all three of us were in a taxi.
Matt said, “I can't breathe. Am I going to die?”
Mom said, “No, sweetie! You'll be fine. Just breathe through your mouth,” and cuddled him extra close.
Matt looked relieved. It was as if mouth breathing had never occurred to him.
The doctor sewed in three stitches (Matt's first) and said Matt would have swelling and bruises but he'd be fine.
When we got back home, Dad was already there. He even had a stuffed animal—a walrus—for Matt.
Dad never gives me anything unless it's my birthday.
Since you're my diary and I can tell you anything, I have a terrible awful confession. At first I was all worried about Matt, but now I'm already getting sick of hearing him tell everyone on the phone about his life-or-death accident.
When I hurt my eyebrow, my family didn't make this much fuss.
Not one friend or relative telephoned. (We were in Italy, but still.)
And I got seven stitches. Not three.
I should probably not think like this, right?
Well, maybe I'm not as good a person as I should be.
I mean, most of me is very nice.
But maybe a tiny speck of me is not so nice.
Or maybe a small chunk?
I can't believe I'm admitting this. Even to you.
Dear Diary,
Cecily and I were playing with her Magic 8 Ball. It tells fortunes. We like to ask it questions like “Will I be famous when I grow up?” or “Will there be a lot of homework in fifth grade?” or “Will I marry Christopher?” It gives answers like “Cannot Predict Now” or “Outlook Good” or “Don't Count on It.”
I was thinking of asking “Am I a good enough person?” but I didn't want to say that out loud. Since Cecily hadn't said anything about her mother, I asked if she wanted to ask about her mom.
“I don't even want to do this anymore,” Cecily said. She put the 8 Ball back on her shelf under her collage of magazine celebrities. Then she started brushing her hair and looking at herself in her mirror.
I looked too, and her reflection sort of caught me by surprise. Cecily has gotten taller. And prettier. She's even developing a little.
I'm still the exact same as always. I think.
Anyway, I can't believe my family is about to temporarily adopt my BFF—Best Friend Forever!
P.S. Matt's face is still greenish-bluish-purplish, but the bruises are fading. At the grocery store, the cashier joked, “Did you slug your little brother?” I answered, “No, but sometimes I feel like it!” She laughed laughed laughed, but Mom looked unamused.
Dear Diary,
I just beat Dad at Hangman. I hanged him with the word “phlegm.” I almost hanged him with the word “diarrhea.”
I can't believe I hanged Dad! He didn't mind, though. I think he was impressed. He said my vocabulary was expanding. He didn't know I knew that phlegm is the gross stuff people cough up.
Speaking of disgusting substances (like phlegm and diarrhea), yesterday Matt stepped in dog doo and today a bird pooped on his arm. A runny little white-and-black poop landed right on him! Yuck! (And hee hee!)
I never knew my little brother was a doo-doo magnet!
Matt washed his arm the second he got home. He said it wasn't fair because everyone knows you're supposed to check the ground for dog doo, but no one ever says you're supposed to check the air for bird doo. He said he was mad at that bird.
“It's not like it pooped on you deliberately,” I said.
He asked what deliberately meant.
I said, “On purpose,” and then I wrote a poem.
English is tricky. Bird, turd, and word all rhyme even though they have different vowels. Isn't that the weirdest thing you ever heard? (And isn't Matt a little nerd?)
Creatively yours,
P.S. Matt's stitches are out and his face is back to normal (if you can call Matt's face normal).
Dear Diary,
We're going bowling. YAY! Dad said that bowling goes back to ancient times and that Dutch settlers introduced it to America. It used to be called ninepins because it had (duh) nine pins. But some people started betting on who would win and so ninepins got outlawed. Well, guess what? The people added a pin and started playing tenpins because tenpins was not illegal!
Guess what else? Dad and Mom now consider bowling an educational activity. Works for me!
A perfect game is twelve strikes XXXXXXXXXXXX. I'd be thrilled with just one strike X or two strikes XX.
XX (Get it?),
P.S. Holland Countdown: Ten Days Till Takeoff!
Dear Diary,
Mom and I have been reading Anne Frank's diary. Anne always starts out “Dear Kitty” and usually ends with “Yours, Anne.”
I wonder if I should name you.
Anne Frank was really brave. Here's what happened. Adolf Hitler was the leader of Germany and he was not just a bad person, he was evil. Like a monster. And crazy! He wanted everyone to be blond when even he wasn't blond. Well, he hated
Jews (which made no sense) and he got the Germans to take over Amsterdam and kick Jewish people out of their homes and send them away to terrible places called concentration camps!
Instead of waiting to be caught and sent away, Anne's family decided to “disappear”—to go into hiding until World War II was over.
But since Jews no longer had the freedom to go wherever they wanted, the Franks couldn't just load up their suitcases and leave. So you know what they did? They put on “heaps of clothes”—pants, vests, jackets, coats, probably even underwear—and waddled out dressed as if they were going to “the North Pole” (that's how Anne put it). Anne also packed a small bag and the first thing she put in it was her diary.
I would have done that too.
Well, they all hurried into their hiding place, which was the attic apartment above the office of Anne's father, Otto Frank. It became their new home. At first, Anne was scared, but she wrote that it didn't feel like hiding—“more like being on vacation in a very peculiar boarding house.”
No one knew they were there except the friends who snuck them in and brought them food. No one else could know—not even all the people who cleaned or worked in the office right beneath them.
It's hard to imagine having to stay in a hiding place for years. I mean, it wasn't a game of hide-and-seek. If you got found, you would be taken away. During the day, the Franks could not even look out the window, and when people were working downstairs, they could not run water or cough or stomp around or make any noise at all. Even at night they couldn't make much noise, but at least they could flush the toilet and listen to the radio if they kept the volume down.
But they could never go out. Not even to see a doctor. Not even to see a friend.
Dear Diary,
