Read The Diary of Melanie Martin Online
Authors: Carol Weston
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.