The Diary of Melanie Martin (15 page)

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:

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!

Mom said, “Miss Sands told me she liked your poem.”

(Teachers tell each other everything.)

Mom added, “She said it was quite mature.”

“Mature?” Dad said. “The one about ‘The cats are all cute in Italy's boot’?”

“I wrote a new one,” I said, though to tell you the truth, I still like my old one every bit as much.

Dad sat on my rocking chair, and Mom sat on my bed, and Matt and DogDog sat on the floor. Matt stuck out his hand, and I knew that meant he was ready to give the poem a thumbs-up (for good), a thumbs-down (for dog poop), or a thumbs-sideways (for so-so).

He was giving me a big thumbs-up. DogDog was giving me a big paws-up. “I knew you could do it,” Matt said.

“Melanie, it's good,” Mom said, and I could tell she meant it.

Even Dad seemed sort of impressed. “When did you write it?”

“On the plane.”

“You're a good writer,” he said.

“Grazie,”
I said.

Matt went back to his room, and Mom and Dad tucked me and Hedgehog in and kissed me good night.