The Diary of Melanie Martin

by Carol Weston

March 29

  morning in the hotel

  Dear Diary,

  You know what Matt told me last night after I turned out the light? He told me that even though he doesn't really know how to write yet (well, he can scrawl his name in capital letters), he's sure I can write anything.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. How does Matt know how well I can write if he can't even read, if he can just sound out and guess?

  “I mean,” Matt said, “I'm sure you're a great writer.”

  “You said my poems were stupid.”

  “Mellie,” Matt said in the dark, “all you ever do is write. In the hotel, in the car, on the train, at restaurants, in churches. You're always scribbling. You've practically filled up your diary. If you try, I know you can write a really good poem.”

  “You think so?”

  “I'm positive,” he said. “You'll do it on the plane.”

  “I hope you're right” was all I could say.

  Matt does have a point. I do like to write, so maybe I'm making too big a deal of this poem thing. I'll just get lots of scrap paper and sharpened pencils and do it on the way back home. I've already begun, after all. It may not be a perfect start, but the Leaning Tower of Pisa didn't have a perfect start, and people like it.

  The flight is eight hours. We leave around twelve, but we get to New York at around three. Mom says we'll go right to bed (after the Chinese dinner). She also says that at first we'll be rising and shining with the roosters but that in a few days we'll be back to normal.

  Back to normal? I can't picture ever going totally back to normal. Back to when Matt got on every last one of my nerves. Back to when parmesan cheese grossed me out. Back to when I thought doing acrobatics in the hotel was a bright idea.

  One thing I like about Rome is that new stuff and old stuff are all mixed together. You see ancient ruins next to gelato stores, because cities change little by little, just like people do. So maybe instead of going back to normal, I'll be the old Melanie and the new Melanie mixed together.

  All the best,

  Dear Diary,

  We're in the air. I remembered to go to the bathroom at the airport. Good thinking, right?

  Outside I see clouds clouds clouds. Matt and I are next to each other again, and Mom and Dad are across the aisle.

  I can't wait to get home and order beef with broccoli and turn on the TV and play on the computer and call Cecily and invite her over so we can bake muffins or make potions or microwave marshmallows. Maybe we can even have a sleepover—or a stay-up-over!

  I'm excited to go home, but I can't believe I have school tomorrow, and I'm sorry to leave Italy. I hope I'll go back someday. Next time I'll ride a gondola in Venice and visit the city where Columbus was born.

  This morning while Mom and Dad packed, they let Matt and me watch TV. It was funny to hear Popeye speak Italian. Then Mom said, “Andiamo” (On Dee Ahm Oh), which means “Let's go.” But I couldn't find Hedgehog. Mom opened all the drawers and Dad checked behind all the doors, and he found her, all snug in my closet.

  I held her tight, and Matt held DogDog, and we went down to the lobby. I was hoping to see Giorgio, but he wasn't there. Then we got in a taxi and said, “Arrivederci, Italia!” Ah Ree Veh Dare Chee means good-bye.

  At the airport, signs everywhere said Vietato Fumare

  (Vee Ay Ta Toe Foo Mar Ay), which means No Smoking. But people were smoking anyway. Everywhere there were No Smoking signs and smoking people. Disgusting! People smoke too much in Italy. The restaurants don't even have No Smoking sections!

  I was thinking about reporting the smokers to a nearby policeman, since we're already friends with half the policemen in Italy. But then I noticed that even the policeman was smoking!

  It's pretty ridicolo (Ree Dee Co Lo). That's Italian for ridiculous.

  We checked our luggage and showed our passports, and Dad gave us thousands of lire to spend before the plane took off. Thousands! Over ten dollars each! You see, you can take Italian money to an American bank and change lire into dollars, but banks charge for that, so Mom and Dad figured what the heck, let's just blow it at the airport duty-free shop. Duty-free means no taxes. Like: Everything's on sale! Plus, it was our last chance to buy souvenirs. And Mom says she owes me some back allowances.

  Which she does. Big time.

  Anyway, Mom and Dad bought these gross dried-up porcini mushrooms and also this bottle of green liqueur with a fig in the middle of it. Yuck. We'll get home and they'll invite people over for dried mushrooms and fig liqueur. I bet even grown-ups would rather have hot dogs and soda.

  Hot dogs. I almost forgot about hot dogs. I'm glad America has hot dogs. And Chinese food. And chili. And bagels. I wrote another two-liner in my head:

  With the last of the lire, Matt bought three key rings for his backpack. I helped pick them out.

  I bought postcards. At first, to my naked eye, all the postcards seemed to be of Rome. But I looked behind the front ones and saw postcards of other cities too. There were even postcards of the whole Birth of Venus and the whole David, so I bought those to show just Cecily. (Not to show my classmates!!!)

  I also bought chocolate. Cioccolato (Cho Co La Toe). Another important Italian word.

  The chocolate I bought is called Baci (Bah Chee), which means kisses. If you don't mind hazelnuts, Baci are better than Hershey's Kisses.

  Speaking of kisses, Mom and Dad are in a good mood and are drinking airplane champagne again. Last night they said they were happy Matt and I are getting along so well. Well, we're happy they are getting along so well!

  In the airport, Dad even complimented Mom on her Italian and said she sounds better than ever. He said she is good at Romance languages and at romance. Mom just smiled.

  And get this: Mom ended up being glad she met Sophia, because Sophia promised Mom lots of art posters and slides and books that she can use for teaching. Karen said she'd bring them to New York when she returns next week.

  Mom started working on this funny quiz for her students called “Are You Art Smart?” She says she doesn't like to give killer tests because the point of art isn't to memorize facts but to see things in new ways. She says you learn more by making art than by taking tests. So far, here are her questions:

  Michelangelo's most famous sculpture is named

  a. Stu b. Jimmy c. David

  Which Italian artist painted the Mona Lisa?

  a. Lisa Mona b. Leonardo da Vinci

  Leonardo DiCaprio

  Botticelli painted The Birth of

  a. Saturn b. Venusc. Pluto

  We got them all right, but Matt said, “You should make Uranus a wrong answer.”

  Mom said, “Uranus?”

  Matt said, “Not my anus. Uranus!” and cracked up.

  Mom said, “I'm not in the mood, Matt.”

  Matt said, “You should, Mom.”

  Mom said, “I'll think about it,” which means no.

  I'm going to stop writing in my diary now and start writing that poem. Matt's right. It can't be that big a deal. I'll just plain do it.

  Matt asked Dad what Italian tourists like to do in New York. Dad thought about it and said they like to go to the Statue of Liberty, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Wall Street, Fifth Avenue, Central Park, maybe the Metropolitan Opera, maybe Chinatown and Little Italy, and definitely the Empire State Building—which Matt used to call the Entire State Building. Matt said, “Don't we have a bone place?” Dad said, “We have the Museum of Natural History.”

  I really should write that poem. Miss Sands says I'm good at stalling. She calls it procrastinating.

  I'm glad I have the window seat again.

  I checked the map of Europe in my airline magazine. It shows Holland, Spain, France, England, Ireland, and a whole lot of other countries I wouldn't mind visiting someday.

  A lady in front of Matt just got mad at him for kicking the back of her seat. So Matt stopped kicking, but he pressed the button that makes your seat lean way back, and the man behind hi
m said, “Basta!” (Bah Sta), which means “Enough!”

  Poor Matt. He needs to not make a nuisance of himself for eight hours. That's not easy for a little kid.

  And he is a little kid. He can't help it. Just like I can't help being an E.B.S. every once in a while.

  Dad just told him, “Why can't you sit still like Melanie? She's not causing any problems.” (Hee hee.)

  Maybe Matt will fall asleep. If he falls asleep with his mouth open again, I might take a picture. Right now he's coloring on barf bags. Mom showed him a brownish crayon called Burnt Sienna and said Siena is a city in Italy with earth and buildings exactly that color. I'd like to visit it someday too.

  Hey, I just thought of another two-liner:

  Out the window I can see mountaintops! Maybe if I look closely I can see that Michelangelo marble.

  Michelangelo lived to be almost ninety. Raphael and Caravaggio died young.

  I admit I'm more curious about them now than I used to be. I might even let Mom take me to the Metropolitan Museum.

  Might.

  Or to the Frick Museum. Mom once said kids are not allowed to go until they're ten years old. Which I now am.

  I hope there are no air pockets up here.

  But maybe when you are going places, there are always pockets in the air or bumps in the road or thorns on the path.

  Man, oh, man, I am a regular philosopher.

  Unfortunately, I'm supposed to be a poet!

  I've been doodling yin-yangs and peace signs and smiley faces, but it's rhyme time.

  Thirty lines.

  This could take hours.

  I have hours.

  I just came back from the bathroom, and I was going to ask Mom to play Hangman. I was going to try to stump her with “gypsy” or “lynx” because she always guesses the a e i o u vowels first. But one look at Mom, and I could tell she didn't want to play any games. She told me to “buckle up and buckle down.”

  So here I go. Ready or not.

  From the one and only—

  Dear Diary,

  Hip hip hurray!

  I did it!

  I came up with thirty lines!

  We've been to Rome. We're going home.

  It's sad that I Must say good-bye.

  And so for now I'll just say, “Ciao.”

  The cats were all cute

  In Italy's boot.

  The Colosseum was cool.

  Each church was a jewel.

  It's good Sistine's ceiling

  Is no longer peeling.

  I walked along narrow streets,

  Italian shoes on my feets.

  I liked the pizza and Uffizi, But waiting on line was not too easy. I liked Lucca's old stone walls. I hope Pisa's tower never falls.

  My family now has a motto.

  It's this: “Who wants gelato?”

  I learned a few Italian words.

  Matt learned to chase Italian birds.

  I'm glad for my father and my mother

  And even for my little brother.

  We're landing now—I'm out of time—

  I better finish up my rhyme.

  I feel lucky to be a Martin.

  It's a fine family to have a part in.

  Here comes the last line of this verse:

  It's not Dante, but it could be worse!

  Poetically yours,

  Dear Diary,

  I showed my poem to Dad. I thought he'd say, “Good job.” But he kind of snickered at some of the rhymes and pronounced the whole thing “Cute.”

  Cute?

  Again?

  I showed my poem to Mom. I can tell what Mom is thinking no matter what she says.

  She read the poem and said, “You finished it. Thirty lines.”

  I knew that meant she thought it was dog doo.

  “Why don't you like it?” I asked.

  “I do like it, Melanie.”

  She stayed quiet, so I said,

  Mom smiled. “Did Miss Sands say it had to rhyme?” “No.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said to write thirty lines and to think about my family.”

  “I'll hold on to this poem. I won't lose it,” Mom said. “But why don't you begin again? Poetry doesn't have to rhyme. It has to speak the truth.”

  “What? I'm not doing a new one! No way! That is ridicolo! I never said I was Emily Dickinson.” I thought Mom would be impressed that I knew the Italian word for ridiculous and the name of a woman poet.

  But Mom said, “Honey, your poem has a lot of charm. But since we still have several hours before landing—”

  “C'mon, Mom. I admit that the word ‘feets’ was lame, and rhyming ‘Martin’ and ‘part in’ was pathetic, but—”

  Mom looked straight at me, her mind made up. I could picture her calmly handing fresh clay or new paper to a student who she thought hadn't done his or her best work.

  “Mom, it's the best I can do.”

  “I think you can do even better,” Mom said. “You have talent. You love to write. And you have a lot to say. Now, I'll take care of this poem while you start a new one.”

  This was so not fair. But how could I argue when she was saying nice things about me?

  I rolled my eyes and mumbled, “I guess I don't have anything better to do up here.”

  Mom smiled a half smile.

  Believe it or not, I'm back in my seat. At square one. Above the Atlantic. Between Europe and America. With the pressure on.

  Wish me luck.

  Yours,

  Dear Diary,

  Whew! I kept writing and writing and counting and counting, and I copied over thirty lines right before landing. I don't know if my poem is any good, but Mom didn't ask to see it, so I didn't show it to her.

  I did notice that Matt was gone for a long time, so I asked Mom and Dad, “Is Matt lost?”

  Dad said, “How can you get lost on an airplane?”

  Just then Matt came back. It turned out he had gotten stuck in the bathroom. He kept trying to turn the knob to open the door, but he forgot he also had to push the latch to unlock it.

  We're going to land soon. Outside, the houses and bridges and buildings are getting bigger bigger bigger.

  Yours,

  3:30 on 3/30

  Diary,

  I just got back from school. In the morning I gave Miss Sands my poem, and in the afternoon she let me show my postcards and tell about my stitches and describe the Sistine Chapel, the Colosseum, and the bone church. I also talked about the pizza, pasta, and ice cream. And I gave everyone an Italian coin.

  Everyone said, “Thank you,” except Norbert. He said, “Grazie.” I was surprised that he knew any Italian. The other kids started to make fun of him by repeating, “Grazie” sarcastically, but I looked right at him and said, “Prego,” for “You're welcome.” I think that over vacation he must have gotten his hair cut or something because it wasn't sticking up as much. Someday I'll have to ask him if he has a cousin who works as a bellhop in Rome.

  Miss Sands handed me back my poem and asked if I would please read it out loud.

  I said, “I'd rather not.”

  She said, “I'd like you to,” in that same teacher tone Mom used on the airplane.

  “It's embarrassing,” I whispered.

  Miss Sands whispered back, “This isn't about your reading it. It's about everyone else's hearing it.”

  It is so hard to argue with teachers!

  “Go ahead,” Miss Sands said. “Nice and loud.”

  My heart started pounding and my hands were sweaty and my throat got dry. I looked up at Cecily, and she mouthed, “Don't worry,” and that made me feel a smidge better.

  But I still said, “I don't know if I can.”

  “I know you can,” Miss Sands said, waiting calmly.

  Just like Mom.

  There was no way out. So I read my poem aloud:

  I have been far away

  But now I'm home.

  I may look the same

  B
ut I am different.

  I went to a country where

  I didn't know anyone

  And what I found was

  My own family—

  The ones I thought I knew,

  The ones I took for granted.

  What if my dad hadn't married my mom?

  What if my brother had gotten lost for good?

  What if all we ever did was fight,

  When if we try

  We can help each other,

  Not hurt each other?

  I saw skeletons in Italy.

  I know I won't live forever.

  But while I'm here,

  I will try to work hard,

  Like Michelangelo,

  Because in some ways,

  He never did die.

  I will also try to be kinder

  To the people

  I hardly know and

  The people I already love.

  And I really hope I can

  Keep taking trips and

  Keep coming home.

  At first no one said anything, and I could feel my face get beet red. But when I finally looked up, Miss Sands was beaming at me. Norbert, who is usually quiet, raised his hand and said he liked my poem.

  I smiled and said, “Grazie.”

  Nobody laughed.

  Miss Sands beamed at the whole entire class.

  March 31

  bedtime

  Dear Diary,

  I can't believe I'm on the very last pages of this new diary. I could call it Melanie Martin's Month of March. Or How I Survived Matt the Brat, Michelangelo, and the Leaning Tower of Pizza. I might even ask Mom for a new diary. My family just came to say good night.

  Nobody was in a hurry. Which was nice.

  Dad was actually in an excellent mood because some honest Italian man found his travel wallet and mailed it to him. The money and cards were gone, but Dad's driver's license was in it (that's how the man knew our address) and so was the photo Dad likes of me holding baby Matt. Yippee!