The Diary of Melanie Martin (7 page)

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?”

“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 this 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: