The Diary of Melanie Martin

by Carol Weston

  Dad said he would stay with Matt, and Mom should take me to the hospital since she speaks Italian. Dad sort of rocked me on his lap and held a cold wet washcloth to my eye while Mom called down to the front desk of the hotel and told them to have a taxi ready.

  Next thing you know, Mom and I were in the emergency room.

  Mom started babbling away in Italian, and after a long wait, with me sitting between a wheezing old man and a lady with a broken finger, the receptionist said it was my turn. A nurse gave me a lollipop, and a handsome young Italian doctor said in English, “I am plastic surgeon. I help you.” He had a little accent, and he said, “You are pretty girl—I will make sure you remain pretty girl.” (That was sweet.)

  He gave me three shots right in my eyebrow to make it totally numb, and then he said, “This won't hurt” and sewed seven tiny stitches. I've never had stitches before, but I didn't feel them. (Phew.)

  I was almost glad I didn't speak Italian because I didn't want to have to explain to the handsome young doctor about pretending to be an acrobat.

  I did thank him in Italian, though. I said, “Grazie.”

  Back at the hotel, Dad said he couldn't believe what a good job the doctor did. He said I looked cute as ever. I thought Matt might say I looked like Frankenstein because of the stitches, but Matt didn't say anything, he just hugged me. Mom said we were lucky a plastic surgeon was available.

  Cecily once told me that plastic surgeons are the doctors who give old ladies face-lifts to get rid of their wrinkles and who give big fake Barbie bosoms to ladies who want them. I think it's weird to have surgery if you don't need to, but I'm glad plastic surgeons are also the doctors who repair kids who've been in accidents.

  Mom and Dad made us promise not to do any more acrobatics in Italy.

  Duh.

  P.S. Here's how to say eyebrow in Italian: Sopracciglio (So Pra Cheel Yo).

  March 26

  afternoon

  Dear Diary,

  Matt is lost. Really and truly and forever lost this time.

  And it's my fault.

  Mom and Dad would probably kill me, except then they would have no children at all.

  Also we're in the Vatican, which is where the Pope lives, so it's not exactly an ideal place to kill your kid. Mom and Dad are freaking out because Matt has completely totally utterly absolutely 100 percent disappeared. They said they can find him faster without me. They also said I'm old enough to be alone and to keep an eye out for Matt myself.

  I wanted to argue, but Mom was getting hysterical again.

  I'm sitting in the Sistine Chapel, being good as gold, not moving an inch. Mom and Dad said to STAY PUT and SIT STILL and DON'T GO ANYWHERE. Mom gave me her whole lecture about how if some stranger says, “Come and help me find my lost kitten,” or “Come with me and I'll give you candy,” that I should say, “NO.” I didn't say, “Duh,” or “I'm not five, Mom.” I just nodded. Then Mom taught me the Italian word for “help,” which is aiuto (Eye Oo Toe). And she said not to be scared.

  That's when I started getting scared.

  I mean, I may be double digits, but it's not like I'm a teenager or anything.

  Anyhow, I'm sitting on this bench, behaving, not moving an inch, just staring at Michelangelo's ceiling and looking for Matt and making little bets with myself, like: If I write one more page in my diary, Matt will suddenly come back.

  So far he hasn't.

  I'm not religious, but I keep staring up at God creating heaven and earth, and God giving life to Adam, and God creating Eve, and Adam and Eve getting kicked out of the Garden of Eden.

  And I keep wondering if God is staring back at me.

  I also wonder if it would help if I prayed. And if I promised to be nicer to Matt or something.

  I'm worried worried worried.

  Matt can be an A.L.B., but I still wish he would pop up and say, “Boo!”

  The reason it's my fault is that I wished Matt would get lost. I wished it. I did.

  Early this morning we went to the Trevi Fountain, which has sculptures of men and horses and even of Neptune (who looks like King Triton in The Little Mermaid movie I used to like). Everyone was making wishes and throwing coins into the fountain. Mom and Dad threw Italian coins over their shoulders and gave me an American penny and Matt an American dime.

  Dimes are small, but since they're worth ten times more than pennies, I said, “That's not fair!” I doubt Matt even knows that dimes are more valuable, so he wouldn't have cared what Mom and Dad gave him. He was so busy scaring pigeons, he probably wouldn't have cared if Mom and Dad hadn't given him any money.

  Dad said, “What does it matter, Melanie? You're not spending it. You're throwing it. Quit whining.”

  Mom said, “All the coins go to the Red Cross anyway—just make a wish and toss it in.”

  You'd think they would be nicer to me now that I'm wounded.

  Well, even though I was still mad about the dumb penny, I did start thinking about what to wish. That Mom and Dad would let me have a slumber party? That Christopher would like me back (or at least be aware of my existence)? While I was thinking, Matt came hopping over on one foot and waved his shiny little dime at me like a big show-off and stuck out his little snake tongue. So I wished I never even had a brother.

  And now I don't.

  The other reason why it's my fault is that Matt and I got into another big fat fight, and I was really mean to him. At the time, I thought he deserved it. Mom and Dad took us to St. Peter's, which Dad said is in The Guinness Book of Records because it's the world's largest church, topped by the world's largest dome.

  It is huge.

  Inside, behind thick glass, is the Pietà (Pee Yay Tah), which Michelangelo sculpted when he was very young. It shows Mary holding Jesus after he died. Mary looks so so so sad.

  Matt was asking why it has glass in front of it, and Dad said that in 1972 some loony person damaged the Madonna's head with a hammer, and they fixed it, but now they want to protect it with the glass shield.

  Matt said, “I don't get it.”

  I said, “Get what?”

  He opened his eyes wide, then scrunched up his face, which made his freckles sort of mush together, and asked, “Madonna's here?”

  I said, “Is your head damaged, Freckle Face? Not Madonna the singer. Madonna the Virgin Mary. You can be so stupido” (Stoo Pee Doe). That's Italian for stupid.

  Matt said, “Stop picking on me.”

  I said, “Stop being stupido.”

  He pinched me.

  I said, “Get lost.”

  And this is the terrible part: He did

  Dad came back. I was right where he left me. “Have you seen him?” he asked.

  I shook my head and felt like I was going to cry.

  It almost seemed like Dad might cry too. He said, “Stay right here. We'll be back. We'll find him.”

  He gave me a hug and said not to worry.

  Then he left, and I kept worrying.

  Besides having stitches in my eyebrow, I have tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.

  I don't want to cry, though. Or look obvious. I don't want some stranger asking me if I'm lost.

  Every time I look up, I have to blink a bunch of times or the ceiling gets blurry. I keep staring at the part of the painting where God's hand almost touches Adam's, and I wish wish wish more than anything that I had never let go of Matt's hand.

  What happened was that when we got on line to see the Sistine Chapel, it was so crowded that Mom and Dad held hands and told us to hold hands too.

  Which we were doing.

  We went through the Candelabra Gallery, the Tapestry Gallery, the Map Gallery, the Raphael Rooms, and about a million other rooms because Mom wanted to take the long way. I was holding Matt's hand the whole entire time.

  Finally, we got to the Sistine Chapel. It is a “must-see.” Dad had his nose in his guidebook, and Mom had her eyes on the ceiling, and I figured we were where we had to be. So I let go of Matt's hand
.

  It truly is my fault.

  Mom just came back in to check on me. I haven't budged from my spot on the bench.

  “No Matt?” she asked.

  I started to cry. Actually, sob. People were staring and it was embarrassing, but I couldn't help it. “Mom,” I said, “I let go of his hand.”

  “It's not your fault, Sweet Pea. We're going to find him.”

  “It is my fault,” I said, even though I didn't tell her about my wish at the fountain.

  “It's not your fault. Matt is your brother, not your responsibility.” I was glad she said that. Dad had made it sound like he was my brother and my responsibility. “You're not supposed to take care of the family—we're supposed to take care of you,” Mom said. “And listen. We're going to find Matt. I just talked to a policeman.”

  Another policeman! We are troublemaker tourists. That policeman in Lucca told us to be more careful, and we were less careful!

  Mom held my hand and I didn't let go. But then she said she had to keep looking, so I had to let go.

  This room is jam-packed with people—I keep wishing one would be Matt!

  Instead of the ceiling, I've started looking at the wall. Mom told me that when Michelangelo was an old man, he spent another five years painting the wall of the Sis-tine Chapel. The wall painting is called The Last Judgment, and it shows Jesus after he came back to Earth. He has little holes in his hands and feet where the nails were when he was on the cross. He is surrounded by hundreds of naked dead people sort of swirling around him. Jesus is sending the bad ones to h—ll and the good ones to heaven. Most of the people look scared and miserable.

  I don't know if I'm a good person or a bad person, but I do know that I am scared and miserable.

  I wish Matt would come back.

  I wish Mom and Dad would come back too. I can't go looking for them, because they told me to STAY PUT.

  So here I am, parked on the bench, with God above keeping me company.

  same day

  Dear Diary,

  I looked up at God and sort of mumbled, “Grazie.”

  I guess lots of policemen in the Vatican got on their walkie-talkies and cell phones and started looking for a six-year-old americano (Ah Mare Ee Con Oh) with freckles and a striped shirt and sneakers with Velcro instead of laces. I mean, a lost kid is a bigger deal than a pickpocketed wallet.

  It turns out that Matt had wandered back to the Map Gallery and was slumped under an ancient map of Italy.

  He said he was going to talk to a guard, but he was too scared.

  We all hugged, and Matt was crying, and I reached into my pocket and gave him my very last piece of American gum. New, not A.B.C.

  Dad said, “Let's get out of here.”

  Mom said, “Who wants gelato?”

  Guess what we said.

  same day

  Matt made me promise not to tell, but I don't think it counts as breaking the promise if I tell you.

  He got lost on purpose!

  (He didn't mean to get so so so lost.)

  When he first told me, I was about to say, “Well, that was stupid!” but I'm glad I didn't, because he said he stomped off because Mom and Dad weren't paying attention to him and I was always calling him stupid.

  I was going to say, “Oh, so now it's mmmyyyy fault?” but instead I said, “I just call you stupid because you're my little brother. All fourth graders call their little brothers stupid.”

  “Well, it hurts my feelings,” he said. “And I don't like when you call me Matt the Brat either.”

  I was going to say, “What should I call you? Matt the Gnat?” but instead I told him that I said nice things about him in my diary too. Which is a tiny bit true.

  “Yeah, right.” I could tell he didn't believe me.

  “I do.”

  “Prove it.”

  I showed him where I wrote, “Matt can be pretty cute sometimes.” (I covered up where I wrote, “Or dumb. It depends on my mood.”)

  “See?” I said.

  “Even in school some kids are mean to me.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like Kurt. He laughs at me just like you do. Once I fell in the playground, and he laughed so hard I wanted to kick him, but I couldn't because the principal was there.”

  “Oh, Matt,” I said, “You're a good kid. You're just a brat sometimes.” I even put my arm around him.

  I don't know who was more surprised—me or Matt.

  “You're a brat sometimes too,” he said, and looked at me with his blue eyes and long lashes.

  For some reason we both laughed. I mean, Matt can annoy me and worry me, but I wouldn't really trade him in.

  “Kurt is a twerpy pea-brain,” I said. “You don't like him, so who cares if he doesn't like you?” I was mad at Kurt for being mean to Matt, and I was proud of myself for not being an E.B.S. “When someone says something mean, let it be like a ball that bounces off you instead of like gum that sticks to you,” I said, sounding like Mom. Matt sort of nodded. “What matters,” I said, “is what your friends think of you.”

  “My friends like me.”

  “There you go,” I said. “Like Luke and Lily.”

  “Especially Lily,” Matt said, and smiled.

  “Especially Lily,” I repeated. “Want me to give you a postcard to send her?”

  “Okay,” Matt said.

  If I don't watch out, I'm going to get the P.B.S. award for Perfect Big Sister.

  Then I'll get on P.B.S. with Bert and Barney. (Get it? P.B.S.?)

  Matt and I both think Barney is stupido. So I started singing that song you can't get out of your head, and Matt joined in:

  I hate you,

  You hate me,

  We're a stupid family

  With a bang! bang! bang!

  Barney's on the floor— No more purple dinosaur.

  I'm about to turn off the lights in Matt's and my room. I'm also about to say to him, “Don't ever get lost again.”

  That'll be pretty mushy—for me.

  Dear Diary,

  I went to the bathroom and fell in because Stupid Matt left the stupid seat up. I was going to wake him and yell at him, but he's fast asleep, his mouth flopped open like a fish, and he still doesn't have DogDog. So I'm leaving him alone. This time.

  March 27

  DogDog is back. Matt is happy as can be. A bellhop delivered DogDog in a package, and Matt is holding him so tightly that if he were a real dog, he'd be dead as a doornail.

  I don't know how old the bellhop was, but he didn't seem very old at all. He was tall and cute, with brown eyes and hair that was sort of messy, as though he'd just rubbed it with a balloon. He seemed friendly, so I decided to try out my Italian words on him. First I said, “Fantastico!” and “Grazie!”

  He smiled and said, “Prego” (Pray Go), which means “You're welcome.” Then he said, “Parli italiano?” (Par Lee Ee Tal Ya No), which means “Do you speak Italian?”

  So I said, “Un po,’” (Oon Poe), which means “A little.”

  Then he said, “Sei americana?”

  Well, that sounded like “Say ‘Americana,’” so I said, “Americana.”

  He laughed and pointed to me and said, “Americana?”

  I smiled and said, “Si” (See) and added, “New York.”

  Then I copied his question and asked, “Sei italiano?”

  Well, duh duh duh, obviously he was Italian, but I couldn't think of anything else I knew how to say!

  He said, “Sono romano,” which I figured meant he was from Rome. Then he stuck out his hand and said, “Giorgio,” so I stuck out mine and said, “Melanie,” and we shook hands. I was sort of smiling and blushing, and then he said, “Ciao” to both Matt and me.

  I like how ciao means both hi and bye. I hope I'll get to say hi and bye to Giorgio again.

  When I closed the door, Matt was still hugging Dog-Dog, so I started hugging Hedgehog.

  But here's the weird thing. There was something about Giorgio that seemed re
ally familiar, but I couldn't figure out what. Then suddenly it dawned on me.

  Giorgio was tall and brown-eyed with stick-uppy hair—like Norbert!

  Could that mean I think Norbert is cute?

  But you know what? I will say that as far as dorks go, Norbert is a decent dork. And I don't really hate him. After all, he did help me in the cafeteria with my runaway potato. And so what if his shirts are a little bright? It takes time to figure out what clothes people consider normal. As for his accent, the plastic surgeon had an accent in English, and I must have an accent in Italian, and if you say, “Tennis shoes ten issues tennis shoes ten issues,” I guess they really do sound about the same. (I've been thinking about pronunciation ever since we got here. It's complicated! Pizza is an Italian word we say in English, but how do we say it?

  “Pete Sa” or “Pete's Za”? There's not always only one right way.)

  While I'm writing about Norbert, of all people, I might as well add that although I don't think picking your nose is a wonderful hobby, it's not like I've never ever ever ever done it. I just would never do it in school. And maybe Norbert never did either. Cecily doesn't know everything.

  When she had a Valentine's Day party, her mom made her invite the whole class, and Cecily sent Norbert's invitation a week after everyone else's. When she told me, I laughed. But now I think that just because he's a little geeky doesn't mean that people should be mean to him. I know Cecily is popular and Norbert isn't, but sometimes people act as if she can do no wrong and he can do no right.

  I kind of feel bad for Norbert, and I bet deep down a few other kids do too.

  Well, anyway, guess what?

  Today is Mom and Dad's anniversary. I want to do something nice for them. But I don't have any money to buy a present, or any clay or feathers or beads to make one.

  If I were home, I'd bake a cake.

  Mom and Dad are taking an extra long time getting dressed, so I gave Matt one of my postcards of the World's Biggest Church and put Lily's address on it. It's easy to remember her address—it's practically the same as ours because we live in the same apartment building.