The Diary of Melanie Martin

by Carol Weston

  Somehow he made friends with an Italian boy his age, and they slid on slides together and played inside the jaws of Monstro, the whale that almost ate up Pinocchio.

  I didn't see anyone my age to hang out with. Even if I had, I probably would have been too embarrassed to say ciao (Chow), which can mean both hi and bye. I was looking at an Italian dad pushing his son on a swing, and an Italian mom walking with her teenage daughter holding the crook of her arm, and Mom and Dad talking on a bench, and Matt playing with his new friend. Suddenly I felt a little homesick, which was strange considering I was with my entire family.

  I started wondering if the four of us stick out more than we blend in. Dad had on his palm-tree vacation shirt with jeans and sneakers, but Italian men, I noticed, wear more formal clothes and loafers. Mom also had on jeans and sneakers, whereas Italian women look all stylish, as if they could be heading off to church or a party. And Matt, in his baggy T-shirt and sweatpants, was a total ragamuffin next to his Italian buddy in khakis.

  I was beginning to feel self-conscious about my own pants and top too. I mean, some Italian teenage girls wear their jeans so tight, I don't know how they even wriggle into them. And they don't wear them with regular long-sleeved shirts and sneakers but with body-hugging sweaters and high-heeled sandals. If we ever moved to Italy, I bet it would take me months just to figure out how to dress right.

  Anyway, my favorite part of Pinocchio Park was when we left, because you have to exit through the gift shop. There is absolutely no other way out. Mom and Dad didn't like that. Matt and I did. He bought an ornament thingy that if you pull a string, Pinocchio's arms and legs go up. I bought postcards—because, after all, Pinocchio is not naked!

  The reason there's a park, or parco (Par Co), about Pinocchio in Collodi is that the author of the book that became the movie that became the video liked the town so much that when he finished writing, instead of signing his name, he signed Collodi.

  Mom said creative people sometimes use different names. Mark Twain and Marilyn Monroe and Ringo Starr and Dr. Seuss are all made-up names.

  Maybe I should call myself

  Or spell Melanie without the e. Or keep the e but dot the i with a flower or a heart.

  Or maybe instead of worrying about how I will someday sign my work, I should worry about doing my Romework homework—writing that stupid thirty-line poem. It's starting to hang over my head like another lavender-gray rain cloud.

  Dear Diary,

  I wanted us to go out for dinner, but Mom and Dad said that it was our last night at the pensione, and Paola wanted to make a farewell dinner, and they had already paid for it. Not only that, but Paola asked Mom if I would help cook it with her, and Mom said yes—without even consulting me.

  Next thing you know, Paola and I were in her kitchen, wearing aprons, up to our elbows in a gooey mixture of flour, water, and yeast. She didn't use a cookbook, measuring cup, mixer, spoon, or anything. She just tossed a bunch of ingredients on a board and let me help squoosh and squash and squeeze the dough.

  While we waited for the dough to rise, we opened a big jar of tomatoes and cooked up tomato sauce. Paola added a little garlic and a tiny bit of basil, but she could tell by my face that I like my sauce plain— with no thingamajigs. We also grated a big ball of mozzarella cheese.

  Once our dough doubled in size, we stretched and pulled and pinched it, then rolled it into four flat circles.

  We went outside to light up Paola's stone-and-brick oven, which is heated by burning wood. It looks like a fireplace with a chimney but no house. Then we spread the tomato sauce and cheese on the dough.

  We put the pizzas on a tray attached to a long wooden pole. Next we put the tray in the hot oven and tilted it so the pizzas slid off. The pizzas rose and bubbled and got all golden. Since Paola couldn't speak English and I couldn't speak Italian, we just pointed and smiled a lot, and then she showed me how to slide the tray back under the pizzas to yank them out.

  I must confess, it was pretty cool. I've made frozen pizza before, and I've put tomato sauce and mozzarella on bagels, but I've never ever made homemade pizza from scratch.

  Well, we all had dinner together, and everyone said, “Grazie” (Grot See Yay) to Paola and, “Thank you” to me. We ate up all four pizzas—including the crusts, or as Matt says, the pizza bones. Matt said it was the best pizza and the best pizza bones he ever ate.

  Happily yours,

  March 24

  Dear Diary,

  Matt left teeth marks on my thigh for no reason, and no one even cares. It's so not fair! If I ever bit him, I'd probably be thrown in jail.

  We packed our stuff, hugged Paola good-bye, and are driving south to Rome. I said that it was our fifth day in Italy and I still didn't know what to write about for my poem. Matt said I was being a big crybaby about it.

  I might have complained a few times, but I never once cried. He's the one who was boohooing away yesterday.

  Matt said, “Why are you so worried? You like to write. What do you think is in your diary? Pictures?”

  I said, “It could be a sketchbook. How would you even know, Butthead?”

  “Because I read it.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “You can hardly even read.”

  “Can so. I read it this morning when you were taking a bath.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too. I read that you called me Matt the Brat.”

  “I'm going to kill you!” I said. “You are a brat, and I hate your guts.”

  That's when Matt bit me. Right in the car. I'm surprised there wasn't blood splashing all over the place.

  And did Mom and Dad yell at him? No. Dad told us both to pipe down so we wouldn't have an accident. Then Mom took Matt's side and scolded me! Me!!

  I couldn't believe it! I'm guilty until proven innocent! And Dad is supposed to be a lawyer!

  He said he expects better behavior from both of us if we ever want to go on another family trip.

  Which I sort of do.

  Either that, or open a store with a sign that says Little Brothers for Sale.

  But who would want to buy a little brother?

  I've decided not to say another word for the rest of the vacation. Not one.

  That will make them sorry.

  But what I feel like saying is that there is too much pressure on me to write a poem and take care of Matt and keep track of the car and look out for pickpockets and make sure nothing bad ever happens.

  We've been driving driving driving. Most of the other cars have white oval stickers with a big black I for Italia (Ee Tal Ya) on them. Usually by now Matt and I would have started a game of Sweet & Sour. That's when we smile and wave at other drivers and try to make them smile and wave back. If they do, they're sweet. If they don't, they're sour. But we're not playing because I'm not talking.

  Mom is. She keeps telling us to look at the “light on the landscape” and the “golden glow of the distant towers” and the “silver leaves of the olive trees.” It's like she's in love or something.

  Well, I am looking. Just not talking.

  Dad said that we needed some gas, so Matt said, “I have gas!” and blew on his arm to make farty noises. He's trying to get me to laugh but I won't. Dad said to Matt, “Keep it down in the rear,” but Matt said, “The rear?” and started cackling and snorting even more.

  Not me. I am still—

  same day

  Dear Diary,

  We drove and drove, and little by little the olive groves and apricot trees and rosemary bushes turned into road signs and highways and shopping areas.

  Rome is huge: like Manhattan, except that Manhattan is an island surrounded by water, whereas Rome has a river curving right through it. Also, Rome is much older than New York. It could be New York's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. At least!

  We checked into our new hotel, and Mom and Dad let us order from room service. I love room service. I love t
his hotel, even though I'll bet that nobody here is as nice as Paola.

  Matt and I have our own room and bathroom, and Mom and Dad have their own room and bathroom. A door connects our two rooms.

  Outside our window, we can see a bridge over the Tiber River and lots of people and cars rushing across it to get to whatever side they are not on.

  After lunch, Mom and Dad closed their door because they wanted to take a nap, and Matt was listening to a tape, so I worked hard on my poem because I want to get it done. This is what I've written so far:

  I was really happy, and I copied it over neatly.

  I even decided to start talking again, so I read my poem to Matt.

  That was a BIG mistake. Not counting that last line about him, which he loved, he said the same thing he said last time.

  He said it was stupid.

  So I said the same thing I said last time.

  I said he was stupid.

  We started fighting, and that woke up Mom and Dad, and they came in and got mad at us. I told them I wanted to read them my poem.

  Dad said, “Not now.”

  He could have said, “Yippee! Melanie is talking again!” but I don't think he even noticed I'd been giving them the silent treatment.

  If Matt had stopped talking, he would have noticed.

  Mom said we were going to the Villa Borghese (Vee La Bor Gay Zay) park and that first we all had to go to the bathroom.

  Well, this is sort of gross, but whenever Mom says to go to the bathroom, I rush to go first. Why? Because when Matt goes, he either puts the seat up and forgets to put it down or he doesn't put the seat up and he gets sprinkles of pee right on the seat

  Mom and Dad just don't understand how hard it is to have a little brother, because they never had one.

  Very truly yours,

  same day

  bedtime

  Dear Diary,

  The Villa Borghese was a giant parco full of couples, families, strollers, sunbathers, joggers, Rollerbladers, bikers, and people throwing sticks to their dogs. We rented bicycles and peddled all over the place. It was the first time we ever went bicycling as a family. I got my own bicycle, and I kept up with Mom and Dad, no problem. Matt was too young to get his own bike (ha ha), so he sat behind Dad and held on tight.

  I know it sounds unsafe, especially since nobody in the park was wearing a helmet and neither were we. But that's how it is here, and as Dad said, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

  In Florence, Dad was all worked up about safety, but today he was acting like it was no big deal. (Parents can be hard to figure out!)

  Well, guess who ended up falling?

  Hint: Not Matt.

  Me! I tried to swerve out of the way of a bunch of teenagers, and down I went. Not on my head—on my butt! It was pretty embarrassing. But the teenagers didn't laugh; they helped me up (which made it even more embarrassing).

  After we returned the bikes, Mom wanted to go to another museum, but we said no. I wanted to eat Chinese food, but everyone said no. Matt suggested we eat spaghetti, and of course Mom and Dad said sure. So we did. Dad ordered his al dente (Al Den Tay), which means more chewy than soft. He says that even in English, people use that expression.

  I've never heard it.

  Here's the bad thing that happened. Matt just realized that he left DogDog at the pensione. So now Matt is in bed next to me, sniffling pitifully. Mom and Dad said they would call Paola and ask her to send DogDog to this hotel. I hope they do, because Matt says he can't sleep without DogDog to guard him. I considered saying, “I'll guard you,” but I didn't feel like it.

  March 25

  Dear Diary

  We walked our feet off today. Right now we're on top of this high hill that we hiked up so we could watch the sun set over Rome, the capital of Italy. Julius Caesar and Cleopatra used to have dates around here.

  I like having all of Rome at my feet. I've been up the Empire State Building, and it's cool because you're surrounded by other skyscrapers. But what I like about this view is that you're outside the city, so you can sort of take it all in. I mean, Rome has been growing and action-packed for, well, almost forever. Rome was here before people even knew about TV or cars or freezers or Scotch tape or e-mail or vaccines or M&M's or anything.

  Dad said Rome is called the Eternal City.

  Mom pointed out the Vatican and said that tomorrow we'll see the Sistine Chapel—“one of the masterpieces of the world.”

  It took Michelangelo almost five years to paint the whole ceiling, and he had to do it lying down on a bunch of scaffolding with paint dripping on him from above, and he didn't even like to paint as much as he liked to sculpt.

  “Did the paint drip into his ears and nostrils?” Matt asked.

  “Probably,” Mom said, looking sort of sad for Michelangelo. She told us that one reason why Michelangelo sculpted so well was because he had done something illegal.

  “Against the law?” Matt asked, his eyes all big and round.

  “Against the law of the time,” Mom said. “He dissected corpses so he could better understand human anatomy.”

  “Huh?” Matt said.

  “He cut up dead people,” Mom explained, “so he could see how their muscles and bones hung together.”

  Matt didn't say another word. Michelangelo is a lot to think about.

  This morning Mom asked, “Who remembers the David?”

  Dad and Matt and I all said, “Me! Me! Me!” because it's fun to say “Me! Me! Me!”

  So Mom said, “Let's go see two more of his marble sculptures,” and we followed her around like a bunch of art students from one big musty church to another.

  The first sculpture was of Moses carrying the Ten Commandments. Moses has funny little horns popping out of his head. Mom said they symbolize rays of light.

  The second sculpture was of Jesus carrying the cross. After Michelangelo made it, some religious people thought it was inappropriate to see Jesus’ you-know-what, so they added a big bronze loincloth.

  Matt said, “It looks like a metal diaper.”

  Mom agreed they should not have changed his work: “You don't tamper with genius.”

  We also walked around and took photos of this big old column and visited a place called Trajan's Market, which used to be a giant shopping center like an ancient A&P or Zabar's, but now it's just mounds of red bricks piled up on each other. Lots of stray cats and kittens seemed curious about us, but they wouldn't let us get too close. (I wish we'd brought salami!) Dad told us to forget the cats and try to picture people from biblical times bustling around and buying oil and spices.

  Matt said he was a “Starvin’ Marvin” and he didn't want to picture dead people buying food, he wanted to eat food. So we went into the nearest pizzeria and ordered lunch. While we were waiting, I figured it would be an excellent time to show Mom and Dad my poem.

  I took it out of my pocket. It was a little wrinkled, but I started reading it out loud, all eight lines.

  When I was halfway done, Matt took his gum out of his mouth and put it on the tip of his knife and held it over the candle on our table as if he were toasting a marshmallow.

  Dad told him to behave.

  I kept on reading my poem, and when I finished, I was sure everybody would compliment me.

  But Matt put his finger down his throat as though he were about to throw up, and Mom scolded him but didn't say one word to me.

  Finally Dad said, “It's cute,” then made about a million suggestions.

  I was hoping Mom would defend me and say, “You don't tamper with genius.”

  But she didn't. She just agreed that my poem was cute.

  “This poem is not supposed to be cute! I worked hard on it!”

  “Simmer down,” Dad said. “No one expects you to be Dante.”

  “Who's Dante?” I asked.

  “A famous Italian poet,” Mom said.

  “You didn't work that hard on it,” Matt said. “You whipped it off because you wanted to get it
over with.”

  “You don't get it!” I said. “I hate you!” I couldn't believe I said “I hate you!” right at lunch.

  Dad said, “Don't talk that way, young lady.”

  “It's okay,” Matt said. “I'm used to it.”

  “Melanie, I know you're angry,” Mom said, “but apologize to your brother.”

  I mumbled, “Sorry,” but I felt like kicking him under the table. Or pushing his tiny heinie right off his chair.

  Mom said, “You're off to a good start with your poem. I'm sure you can do even better.”

  “I agree,” Matt said. Little turd.

  “Rome wasn't built in a day,” Dad added. “More like a couple thousand years.”

  Lunch came, and Matt grabbed a big slice of pizza and ate it right up, and no one even realized that I was still mad.

  Which I was.

  Or maybe Mom did realize it, because after a while she put a slice in front of me.

  I was going to let it sit there and get cold, but Dad said,

  Melanie, dear, you've written quite wittily.

  Now eat your pizza and let's enjoy Italy.

  Mom laughed, and you could tell Dad thought he was the poet of the world.

  I didn't feel like pizza. I felt like punching someone's guts out.

  Matt's, for instance.

  P.S. The sun is now setting and Rome looks all rosy, and you can sure tell that it wasn't built in a day.

  same day

  Matt is still upset because DogDog isn't back, even though Paola promised to send him. To cheer Matt up, I started playing circus and doing acrobatics on the hotel bed with him. I was getting really good until by mistake I flipped upside down in the air and landed on the floor on my face. My eyebrow rammed into the frame of my glasses, and my glasses didn't break, but my eyebrow got a gash in it and was all bloody.

  Mom and Dad came in, and I could tell Mom was trying not to get hysterical. She kept saying, “At least your eye is okay. At least your eye is okay.”