The Diary of Melanie Martin (11 page)

DogDog is back. Matt is happy as can be. A bellhop delivered DogDog in a package, and Matt is holding him so tightly that if he were a real dog, he'd be dead as a doornail.

I don't know how old the bellhop was, but he didn't seem very old at all. He was tall and cute, with brown eyes and hair that was sort of messy, as though he'd just rubbed it with a balloon. He seemed friendly, so I
decided to try out my Italian words on him. First I said,
“Fantastico!”
and
“Grazie!”

He smiled and said,
“Prego”
(Pray Go), which means “You're welcome.” Then he said,
“Parli italiano?”
(Par Lee Ee Tal Ya No), which means “Do you speak Italian?”

So I said,
“Un po,’”
(Oon Poe), which means “A little.”

Then he said,
“Sei americana?”

Well, that sounded like “Say ‘Americana,’” so I said, “Americana.”

Well, duh duh duh, obviously he was Italian, but I couldn't think of anything else I knew how to say!

He said,
“Sono romano,”
which I figured meant he was from Rome. Then he stuck out his hand and said, “Giorgio,” so I stuck out mine and said, “Melanie,” and we shook hands. I was sort of smiling and blushing, and then he said,
“Ciao”
to both Matt and me.

I like how
ciao
means both hi and bye. I hope I'll get to say hi and bye to Giorgio again.

When I closed the door, Matt was still hugging Dog-Dog, so I started hugging Hedgehog.

But here's the weird thing. There was something about Giorgio that seemed really familiar, but I couldn't figure out what. Then suddenly it dawned on me.

Giorgio was tall and brown-eyed with stick-uppy hair—like Norbert!

Could that mean I think Norbert is cute?

But you know what? I will say that as far as dorks go, Norbert is a decent dork. And I don't really
hate
him. After all, he did help me in the cafeteria with my runaway potato. And so what if his shirts are a little bright? It takes time to figure out what clothes people consider normal. As for his accent, the plastic surgeon had an accent in English, and I must have an accent in Italian, and if you say, “Tennis shoes ten issues tennis shoes ten issues,” I guess they really do sound about the same. (I've been thinking about pronunciation ever since we got here. It's complicated! Pizza is an Italian word we say in English, but how do we say it?

“Pete Sa” or “Pete's Za”? There's not always only one right way.)

While I'm writing about Norbert, of all people, I might as well add that although I don't think picking your nose is a wonderful hobby, it's not like I've never ever ever ever done it. I just would never do it in school. And maybe Norbert never did either. Cecily doesn't know
everything
.

When she had a Valentine's Day party, her mom made her invite the whole class, and Cecily sent Norbert's invitation a week after everyone else's. When she told me, I laughed. But now I think that just because he's a little geeky doesn't mean that people should be mean to him. I know Cecily is popular and Norbert isn't, but sometimes people act as if she can do no wrong and he can do no right.

I kind of feel bad for Norbert, and I bet deep down a few other kids do too.

Well, anyway, guess what?

Today is Mom and Dad's anniversary. I want to do something nice for them. But I don't have any money to buy a present, or any clay or feathers or beads to make one.

If I were home, I'd bake a cake.

Mom and Dad are taking an extra long time getting dressed, so I gave Matt one of my postcards of the World's Biggest Church and put Lily's address on it. It's easy to remember her address—it's practically the same as ours because we live in the same apartment building.

Since Matt can't really write, he drew a picture of the Leaning Tower of Pisa with him and DogDog waving under it. Matt was concentrating hard. I could tell because his tongue was poking out of his mouth. The card came out well, though.

Just call me the World's Best Sister. W.B.S.?

I was thinking about working on my poem, but Dad says we have to do some “exploring.”

When my family isn't worrying me, they're hurrying me!

Best wishes,

same day

Lullaby, Dreamer, Romie, Purr Purr, Sunshine, Blacky, and Collie are the names Matt and I gave to the cats napping around the Colosseum. Matt picked Blacky and Collie. I didn't think Blacky was very original, and I thought Collie would be better for a dog, but I did not call Matt
stupido
or Matt the Brat.

I'm trying to be nicer to Matt. So's Mom. She's kissing and hugging him extra. I accused her of kissing and hugging him more than me, and she did not even deny it. She just said, “That's because he lets me, Melanie.”

I guess she has a point. It's true that when we cross a busy street, I sort of want her to hold my hand but I sort of hate it when she does.

Anyway, the Colosseum is so enormous, it's … colossal! Imagine if Yankee Stadium somehow got dissolved until the only thing left was a stone skeleton of a stadium with different wrecked-up layers. Dad said the Colosseum is where Romans held sports events, like gladiator contests and slaves fighting lions and prisoners fighting wild beasts. Sometimes it got filled up with water for boat battles. Sometimes fifty thousand people came to watch the fights and stuff.

Mom pointed out a section of the Colosseum that had columns that were “fine examples of Corinthian, Ionic, and Doric.”

Matt said, “Dorky?”

Mom said, “Doric!” and looked at Dad to share one of their “Aren't our children adorable?” moments.

But Dad wasn't paying attention, so she said, “Marc, what are you looking at?”

Dad mumbled, “Sophia,” and I saw Mom look over at this lady in a little blue sundress.

She turned around. She was really pretty. Her sundress was cut low up top, and she wore her sunglasses on top of her streaky blond hair like a headband.

She looked right at Dad, and her big brown eyes got even bigger, and she said Dad's name. It came out like “Marc?” and “Marc!” at the same time.

Dad walked toward her, and she walked toward him, and Dad smiled and gave her a big hug. She hugged him right back and kept her hand on his arm.

I didn't like this. I could tell Mom didn't either. Especially on their anniversary.

“You look great!” Dad said. “You haven't changed a bit.”

Sophia giggled and said, “You look great too.” She introduced another lady as her cousin Karen and added, “How long has it been? A dozen years?”

“More,” Dad said. “Miranda and I have been married thirteen.”

“Thirteen
today
.” Mom shook their hands. I could tell she was on her best behavior. As a teacher, she has to be nice to lots of people she doesn't really like. Especially on Parents’ Night and on the first and last days of school. But I can always tell when she's smiling for real.

“Happy anniversary,” Sophia said.

“I've heard a lot about you,” Mom said. “Let's see. My favorite story might be the one about the night Marc bought twenty-one helium balloons for your surprise birthday party and hid them in the back of his car. But then you opened the trunk to get something, and the balloons all flew away.”

“These are my
bambini
.” I was wondering if he was showing off his kids or his Italian.

“We're having a honeymoon,” Matt said, and smiled sort of cutely. He still has all his baby teeth.

“How about you?” Mom asked Sophia.

“I live here.” She turned to Dad. “I've lived in Europe ever since we broke up.”

Broke up? They used to go out?? I tried to picture them together but it was impossible. Im Po See Bee Lay.

Sophia said it was Karen's first trip to Rome, and she was showing her the sights. “She lives in the States,” she said. That's what Italians call the United States.

Mom asked Karen where, and she said New York, and we found out she lives pretty near us.

“Why don't you join us for lunch?” Dad asked.

I bet Mom wanted to slug him.

Next thing you know, we all went to
La Dolce Vita
(La Dole Chay Vee Ta), which means The Sweet Life, which it was before Sophia and Karen started tagging along.

I mean, I liked when it was just our family.

We all sat down, and everyone ordered. Matt and I ordered spaghetti, and Mom ordered risotto (mushy rice), and Dad ordered gnocchi (potato dumplings). The waiter left, and Dad was staring at Sophia, and Mom was staring at Dad staring at Sophia. Karen was asking Matt about action figures and said, “Did you know that the Ninja Turtles—Michelangelo, Leonardo, Donatello, and Raphael—were named for Italian artists?”

“Cool,” Matt said. Cool? I would have told her that Ninja Turtles are totally out.

The grown-ups were dipping their bread in olive oil and saying how good it was. In Italy, people like to talk about virgin things. Like the Virgin Mary. And extra virgin olive oil.

“What do you do here?” Mom asked Sophia, just to be nice.

“I restore paintings.” She started explaining her job. “Some paintings are so old that they chip or peel. Others are damaged by water or dust. Or even earthquakes—like the one in 1997 in Assisi.”

She was looking right at me, and I was trying to be polite and meet her eyes, but I wanted her to know I was on Mom's side. As an art teacher, Mom may have been interested in all this, but as a wife, Mom probably wanted Sophia to take a hike.