The Diary of Melanie Martin (12 page)

Especially today, on the anniversary of Mom and Dad's wedding day.

“I'm lucky. I love my work,” Sophia was saying. “I get to restore masterpieces. I work very slowly and carefully to try to make a cracked or dingy painting look the way it did when the artist finished it. For instance,” she asked me, “did you see the Sistine Chapel?”

I nodded. I didn't want to tell her that I practically had it memorized.

“Well, for a long time the colors were dull,” Sophia continued. “Sort of brownish. But specialists from all over the world removed the centuries of soot and grime and brought back its initial brightness and grandeur. Together, we fixed it and cleaned it, centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch. It took thirteen years.” She glanced toward Dad and sat up straight, all proud of herself.

“Cool,” Matt said.

Traitor. I whispered for him to keep quiet because Mom might be feeling jealous of Sophia.

I was about to say, “Forget it, you moron—you wouldn't understand,” but instead I patiently said, “They used to be boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Matt opened his eyes really wide, like that was about the last thing he expected me to say.

It
is
weird. If Dad and Sophia had gotten married, Matt and I wouldn't be here. We wouldn't have even been born!

My spaghetti came, and before I could stop him, the waiter sprinkled parmesan cheese all over it. And the thing is, it tasted amazingly okay.

The waiter gave Dad his dumplings, and Dad looked up at Sophia and said, “Hey, gnocchi and
occhi
rhyme.” Which means dumplings and eyes rhyme. Which is true, because you say “Nyo Key” and “Oh Key.”

But first of all, that isn't exactly a great poem. And second of all, since when did Mr. Lawyer become Mr. Poet?

I'm
the one who is supposed to be writing thirty lines of poetry.

Anyway, Sophia was telling Dad that art restoration skills used to be passed on from fathers to sons but now more and more women are in on the action. She also told us stories about Michelangelo, only she doesn't call him “Michael Ann Jello.” She calls him “Me Kay Lon Jay Lo.” (She probably thinks her way is cooler.)

Well, however you say it, he had an enemy who insulted his ceiling, so, years later, when Michelangelo painted
The Last Judgment
, he painted the enemy's face right on one of the bad people that Jesus was sending to h—ll!

Dad laughed and laughed about that.

She and Dad were definitely laughing and smiling more than normal.

It seemed like flirting. I was wondering if Mom was feeling jealous of Sophia, and maybe even extra
jealous since Sophia gets to fix up masterpieces whereas Mom only gets to look at them.

I had to do something.

Sophia may like to fix broken things, but I wanted her to know that her romance with my dad was gone for good, over and done with, peeled, cracked, and beyond repair.

I know my mom and dad argue once in a while, but they love each other. Their marriage is built on solid ground, not sandy clay. And even though Dad sometimes gets mad and grumpy, and I sometimes get mad and grumpy back, I wouldn't want him to go off and live in
Roma
or anything.

Mom keeps telling me that at my age, I'm not expected to take care of cars or wallets or even Matt. But she doesn't realize that I want to save the day.

I was a little nervous, but I raised my glass of water and did something I'd never done in my whole entire life.

“I call for a toast,” I said. The grown-ups all stopped talking and looked right at me. “Here's to Mom and Dad on their thirteenth anniversary. To
Marc and Miranda—the World's Best Parents and the World's Best Couple.”

Everyone clinked glasses and toasted Mom and Dad.

“Thirteen!
Tredici!
” Sophia said, pronouncing it Tray Dee Chee. “That's a lucky number in Italy.”

Mom winked and gave me a big real smile.

And I handed Sophia my camera and asked her to take a picture of us—Mom and Dad and Matt and me.

The four M's.

March 28

Dear Diary,

Today is our last whole day in Italy. Tomorrow we go home. It will be a daytime flight, so we won't have to sleep on the plane, but Mom says that when we arrive in New York it will feel like bedtime even though it will be afternoon. I told her it may feel late, but I'll still want to order in beef and broccoli.

I miss Chinese food so much I won't even mind having to set the table and put away the dishes. Matt says that what he misses is cinnamon buns, but I think he just likes saying the word “buns.”

Mom said, “Mean Matt?” which is her teachery way of correcting my grammar.

I said, “Matt
and I
don't want to go.”

But then Mom pleaded and said we'd be quick, and we could go to the gift shop
first
and pick out any postcard we wanted, and the kids could race the parents through the museum to find the subjects of the postcards.

“Like a treasure hunt?” Matt asked.

“Exactly,” Mom said.

“Okay, but let's all stick together,” Matt said. He held Mom's hand and added, “I want us to live together forever and for always.”

Mom said, “We'll always be a family, but someday you and Melanie will probably live on your own.”

Matt said, “I don't want to live on my own. I want to stay with you.”

Mom said, “I don't mean now. I mean someday when you're a grown-up, you might want to have your own home.”

Matt was quiet. Then he said, “Mom, when I'm a grown-up, if I tell you I want to live by myself in my own home, will you remind me that I really don't?”

Mom just ruffled Matt's hair, and we went to the Capitoline Museum gift shop.

While we were choosing postcards, I overheard Mom tease Dad, “Do you still like her?”

I knew she meant Sophia.

“Not like I like you,” Dad said, and he kissed Mom right on the lips. (Ewwww.)

Dad asked, “How about you? You still have a thing for David?”

Mom snuggled up to Dad and said, “I always will.”

Dad just laughed, because who cares if your wife likes another man if that man is made of marble?

The postcard Matt picked out was of an ancient bronze boy trying to get a thorn out of his foot. Matt showed it to a guard, who showed Matt where to find it.

Matt led the way, and we all liked the boy. Dad said, “I guess kids have been stepping on thorns for thousands of years. Cave men and cave boys probably stepped on thorns.”

“And cave women and cave girls,” I added. “Now let's find my postcard.” I'd picked out a female wolf nursing two human baby boys. I showed it to a different guard, and she pointed the way and we found it. According to Dad's guidebook, the wolf is over 2500 years old!

According to a legend, two baby boys, Romulus and Remus, got dumped by their father, Mars, on the bank of the river Tiber. They would have starved to death except that a mother wolf nursed and adopted them— kind of like what happened to Mowgli in
The Jungle
Book
, and sort of like what happened to Tarzan in
Tarzan
, except that he got saved by monkeys, not wolves. Anyway, Romulus and Remus grew up and founded a city. But they got into a big fight, and Romulus ended up killing Remus. And that's why the capital of Italy is named Rome, not Reme.

Well, Matt and I may have sibling rivalry, but at least we'd never kill each other!

On our way out of the museum, I showed Matt an old statue of a sad man whose nose was chipped off.

“Guess why he's so upset,” I whispered.

“Why?”

“Because look what else is missing.” I pointed to where his you-know-what should have been.

Matt and I cracked up.

Next we went to the bathroom. Mom and Dad didn't have to go, so Mom made me take Matt to the ladies’ room. Matt can get too silly in ladies’ rooms, but he acted normal, and he even taught me his trick for never getting burned with the C-is-for-Hot water. He said to remember that F is for Freezing.

Next stop: the Pantheon. Matt kept saying, “Look up!” and I kept thinking that if I did, he'd laugh and say, “Made you look.” But when I finally did look up, Matt didn't laugh. He just said, “Isn't that awesome?”

The Pantheon is almost 2000 years old, and it has a big wide dome and no windows, and the only light comes from a hole at the top. Dad said it's called the Eye of God. In Italy, it seems as if God is always watching you.

Dad said that we wouldn't be able to see all the sites but that they'd saved one of the coolest things for last. So now we're driving to the
Santa Maria della Concezione
(San Ta Ma Ree Ya Day La Cone Chate See Own Ay).

It doesn't sound cool. It sounds like one more church.

By the way, if my handwriting is sloppy, it's because I'm writing in the car. I'm lucky I can read and write in cars. Matt says he can't even look at a book in a car or he'll throw up all over the place. I don't know if that's true or not, but I don't plan to hand him a book and find out. Could be messy.

same day
back in the

Dear Diary,

Dad was right. We just saw the coolest thing!!!

We visited these rooms that are a cemetery for around 4000 monks. Living monks took the dead monks’ bones, and instead of burying them, they
decorated
with them. They glued them all over the walls in fancy designs. Like a humongous arts-and-crafts project!

There are tons of skulls and a bunch of complete skeletons. Wearing monks’ robes. Staring at you, but with no eyes.

Matt could hardly believe they were actual people bones.

Even the ceilings were decorated with bones bones bones.

In the very last room, there was a sign written in different languages. It said:

I bought five postcards.

It would be so cool to have a Halloween party there, but Mom said it's not for parties. I think it gave my parents the willies, and they were afraid it was too creepy for us. It did scare Matt a little. Not me. I like that it was spooky.

It makes you appreciate being alive, you know? I'm even appreciating my family, which is pretty weird. I mean, I might mention it to Miss Sands, but I won't tell Cecily or anything.

Faithfully,

same day

Dear Diary,

I just looked in the mirror, and I can't believe that besides crooked bangs and crooked teeth, my eyebrow looks crooked because of the stitches.

At least my glasses sort of hide it.

For dinner, we had pasta—surprise, surprise. Matt asked for penne—those little noodle tubes—because he likes to blow through them as if they were baby straws. I ordered spaghetti, and Mom and Dad nearly
fainted when I asked for parmesan cheese on top. Dad said, “Look who's growing up” and gave me a big smile.

That stupid poem! If I have a nightmare tonight, it won't be about skeletons, it will be about poetry.