Melanie Martin Goes Dutch Read online

  Cecily said, “He who smelt it dealt it.”

  Matt said, “She who denied it supplied it.”

  I wasn't going to laugh, but I looked at Dad and couldn't help smiling.

  Cecily laughed this morning when Dad said he was going to “shake a tower” (meaning take a shower). He's been using that line since I was born, so none of us ever laughs when he says it. But Cecily had never heard it. You could tell it just made Dad's day to have someone appreciate his ancient comedy routine.

  Cecily might have figured out that I'm mad at her because she asked me if I was. We were standing near some old wooden windmills. One used wind power to grind stuff into mustard and the other used wind power to grind stuff into paint. (Holland has about a thousand windmills.) Well, we all went up and down the musty mustard mill. Then Matt and Mom and Dad went up the paint windmill but Cecily and I didn't because we saw two Dutch children feeding two little goats.

  We walked over and Cecily said, “Aren't they cute?”

  I just shrugged. I felt like saying,

  But I knew that would be immature, so I didn't.

  Even though I did a good job of not being immature, I did not do a good job of being mature because I didn't say anything at all.

  That's when Cecily asked, “Are you mad at me?”

  I was so surprised, I said, “No.”

  After that I didn't know what to say, which is weird since at home we talk nonstop when we're together, and when we're on the phone, neither of us wants to be the first to hang up so we sometimes say “Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!” until one of our moms forces us to put down the phone.

  Well, we just stood there in silence, because I couldn't exactly accuse her of stealing my family or Hans away. After a while, Cecily said “Hallo” to the Dutch children and they said “Hallo” back. Then Mom, Dad, and Matt showed up and Dad said, “Two American kids, two Dutch kids, and two goat kids— this calls for a photo!”

  Mom said, “Smile and say you-know-what.”

  Cecily and I did smile and say you-know-what. But I didn't feel like it and I bet she didn't either.

  P.S. I did not think that we would fight.

  I thought that things would turn out right.

  Dear Diary,

  I just took my first ever horse-and-buggy ride!! (In New York, Mom and Dad always say that it's too expensive.)

  Our buggy had red flowers in the front and big back wheels with long spokes and skinny tires and our horse was black and had blinders and a nice barn smell. His name was Bert. Not like Bert and Ernie, though. More like Bearrrrt. Well, guess what? He understood Dutch! The driver, whose name was Wouter (Vow Ter), spoke Dutch to him and English to us! He told Cecily and me to sit right up front next to him, and he even let us take turns holding the reins! The horse went clip-clopping past churches, down quiet alleyways, on busy streets, and next to canals.

  Going around Amsterdam by bicycle is fun, but going by horse is even funner.

  More fun.

  Whatever.

  It was also fun to be sitting next to Cecily for a change.

  At first, sitting next to her without talking made it extra obvious that we were both feeling uncomfortable (and I don't mean because of the lumpy cushions). But then the driver stopped the buggy at a vegetable stand to buy three carrots for us kids to give to his horse later. He said, “You take care of Bert, ja?” so I nodded.

  Suddenly, two teenage guys with spiky purple hair and shoulder tattoos and eyebrow rings crossed the street in front of us. I thought up a comment, and wasn't sure if I should say it, but then I blurted out, “I think I'm in luuuvvv!”

  “Ja, me too!” Cecily said. “I hof a feeling in my heart that I hof never felt before!”

  I pretended to look worried. “But what of Christopher's heart? Will it not break in two when he finds out?”

  Cecily eyed the spiky-haired teenagers and said, “Christopher? Who is this Christopher?”

  We started laughing and soon I had to wipe my eyes as if I'd been crying. It's not that what we were saying was so funny. It's just that it was soooo nice to be joking around again.

  A pregnant lady walked by and Cecily said, “Remember when I put the basketball under my shirt in gym and pretended to be having a baby?”

  “Ja,” I said. “Remember when I put two green tennis balls up my shirt and pretended to be Miss America?”

  “Ja,” she said. “Remember that piñata at your birthday party and how we had to whack it a billion times? And when it finally cracked open, all the hard candies had broken into tiny bits and all the gooey candies had slimed over everything?”

  “Ja,” I said. “Remember when we buried an ant alive but then we felt bad so we tried to unbury it?”

  The more we remembered, the more we laughed. The buggy driver came back and he looked at us and said, “Fun, ja?” so we smiled and said, “Ja” again. But the truth is, I'd almost forgotten about him and his horse! It was as if Cecily and I were in our own world. Just us.

  After a while, the driver pulled the buggy to the side of the road and we all got out and Mom took a picture of us feeding Bert his carrot snacks (unpeeled, of course). Then Matt pulled a bag of M&M's out of his pocket and said, “Cecily, I have a snack for you,” and spilled a few into her palm.

  “Thanks, Matt,” she said. “Hey, look! All blues— my favorite!”

  “Really?” Matt said. “Mine too!” He gave her a huuuuge hug, and she threw her M&M's in the air and caught them one by one in her mouth, and he cheered every time.

  Well, I hate to even write this, but for some reason, I suddenly felt like the buggy ride had been a beautiful soap bubble… and it had just popped.

  Dear Diary,

  Dinner was , which means rice table,

  which Mom pronounces Rays Tahffle.

  It all started in Indonesia. Dad said that long ago when Amsterdam was the most important port in the whole entire world, the Dutch East Indies Company was always sailing back and forth to the Far East, and next thing you know, people in Holland had Indonesian spices and ingredients to cook with, and they started making up new recipes.

  Here's how works: The waiter puts a

  long, skinny, hot plate on your table, then brings tons of little dishes of food. Everything from fried coconuts, fried bananas, sweet potatoes, cut-up cucumbers, and nuts to chicken kebabs, pork in soy sauce, beef on a stick, and shrimp bread. Fortunately he also brings a big bowl of rice (otherwise, I personally might have starved to death).

  Well, may be a big-deal spe cialty, but I didn't like it.

  Cecily loved it. So Mom and Dad went on and on (again!) about how great she is at trying things. I can't believe I never knew she was an “adventurous eater”— as Dad keeps putting it. Meanwhile, he keeps telling me not to be a “grumble bee.”

  I also can't believe I get jealous whenever Mom and Dad compliment her and criticize me. Maybe I truly am a bad person. Or maybe they're being unfair.

  In Anne Frank's diary, she wrote that her parents “never rebuke” her sister, Margot, and “always” scold her about everything. That's what it's like for me! Precious Matt never gets in trouble, and, of course, Cecily can do no wrong.

  Well, before Mom or Dad could stop him, Matt did something wrong. He tried an Indonesian sauce he thought was ketchup. It wasn't. It was hot peppery sambal (Some Bull). Matt turned red and had to wash the sauce down with about fifty glasses of water. I was about to laugh, but I was afraid we were all going to have to rush to another emergency room.

  Matt kept drinking water until he felt halfway normal again. (I doubt Matt ever feels totally normal.)

  And I wrote a haiku.

  On the way home from the restaurant, we stopped to see the streetlights and bridge lights and boat lights reflected in the dark canal. It was soooo pretty. Cecily said, “Look, the moon is glistening in the water!” Mom just loved that.

  I spotted the first star in the night sky, so I silently made a wish. I wished I would stop being mad at Cec
ily.

  Meanwhile, Matt, Mr. Fifty Glasses of Water, said, “I have to pee!” so we all started walking again.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, about a zillion rollerbladers whizzed by. We stepped back and watched. They were mostly young men, but some were old men, some were women, and some were kids. Not too many were wearing helmets, but some were wearing blades that gave off sparks, like miniature fireworks. It was very cool.

  Matt was wriggling and saying, “Let's go,” but we couldn't cross the street until they finished blurring by. Mom asked a lady what was going on and she said Friday-night rollerblading is a tradition.

  I said, “It's amazing: Dutch people used to clop around in wooden shoes and now they race around on wheels!”

  I thought that was an interesting comment, and Dad would have too—if Cecily had said it. But since I said it, he said, “True. But then, the Dutch have always been expert skaters, and rollerblading is like ice-skating on pavement.”

  Well, it's pure good luck that we got to see them on our second evening in Holland.

  But it's pure bad luck that… our luggage still hasn't come!

  When we got back, the check-in man said it may take another day or two.

  Dad blew up!

  “Another day or two! That's outrageous!” he said. “We're here for only a week!”

  Hendrik said nobody was at the baggage office at this hour, but if we don't get our luggage by tomorrow, the company will have to compensate us for our inconvenience.

  “What does that mean?” Matt asked.

  “Give us some money for new clothes,” Mom said.

  “Does luggage ever stay lost?” I asked.

  “Rarely,” Mom said.

  Matt looked at me and I explained that “rarely” is grown-up for “sometimes.”

  Matt is worried about DogDog, and I'm worried about Hedgehog!

  As we walked up the steep stairway of the canal house, Mom and Dad got grouchier with every step. They said that if our stuff doesn't come while we're asleep, we'll go shopping first thing tomorrow.

  I won't mind shopping.

  I like shopping.

  Dad doesn't. He said he didn't come to Amsterdam to go shopping and he doesn't want to spend all day at it.

  Mom said, “Sweetheart, I didn't come for the shopping either. I came for the art, and if nobody objects, I wouldn't mind seeing some paintings, dank u wel.” She wants to see the Van Gogh Museum, Rembrandt's house, the Rijksmuseum (Rakes Moo Zay Um), and the modern art museum, for starters.

  Dad said, “Honey, be realistic. We can't possibly do everything, especially with three kids.”

  Mom said, “I won't have my children growing up thinking that Dutch Masters is just the name of a cigar company.”

  Dad said, “Miranda, they already know better— and this is supposed to be a vacation, for God's sake.” (He said for God's sake, not for gosh sake.)

  It was embarrassing that Mom and Dad were arguing in front of Cecily. Usually they behave better when other people are around. I whispered to Cecily that my parents always call each other sweetheart and honey when they argue, and Cecily smiled a tiny bit.

  Matt started crying—I don't know whether it was because of Dad and Mom arguing or because of DogDog being lost or because of burning the roof of his mouth or because he was about to pee in his pants and it was taking Dad forever to unlock the door.

  Cecily, for once, didn't tell everyone not to worry.

  The funny thing is, I kind of wish she had.

  Dad finally got the door open and Matt ran to the bathroom and Cecily kicked off her sandals and said, “I'm going to shake a tower.” Dad, of course, laughed— ho ho ho like jolly old Saint Nick.

  Then Matt started moaning about DogDog, and Cecily lent him Snow Bear for the night. Matt and Dad and Mom were all touched. I was nauseated.

  Maybe I should never have invited Cecily on this trip.

  But then, I didn't.

  Mom did.

  Maybe Mom thought that having Cecily here would help us all get along. Wrong! (Or partly wrong anyway. Everyone else is mostly getting along.)

  Or maybe Mom really just wanted to help Cecily's mom. I keep forgetting that Cecily's mom is very sick. I bet Cecily hasn't forgotten, though.

  P.S. I wrote Smelly Mellie because I can't believe I'm still wearing these clothes. As for Dad…

  P.P.S. Cecily tried to call home but her mom wasn't there, so she left another message. Right now Cecily is being sort of quiet. I wonder if she wishes she hadn't lent Snow Bear to Matt the Brat.

  Dear Diary,

  What woke me up today was Dad making phone calls about our luggage. He found out that our luggage was definitely on the plane with us. The luggage people's computers were down but now they are working again, so they said they would be able to trace our stuff.

  “Then do it!” Dad said, sounding sort of mean. “We're losing patience.”

  Cecily raised her eyebrows at me. Normally I might have raised my eyebrows back, but I didn't feel like agreeing with her that my dad was mean. It's one thing for me to notice, but another for her to.

  When I didn't make a matching face, Cecily turned her head away.

  Dad slammed down the phone and said, “What a bunch of nitwits.”

  At least he didn't start cursing.

  “What's a nitwit?” Matt asked.

  Dad should probably have been a teacher, like Mom, because as soon as he began explaining, he got in a better mood. “Nitwit means dumdum,” Dad said. “The word may come from when the children of Dutch settlers had to go to school even though they couldn't speak English. When teachers called on them, the poor kids kept saying “‘Niet weten’” (Neat Vay Ten), which is Dutch for ‘I don't know.’ Pretty soon, other kids started making fun of them and calling them nitwits.”

  “That's not very nice,” Matt said.

  “Children sometimes aren't,” Mom said as she walked into our room. I couldn't tell if she meant any of us. “Ready to go shopping?” she asked.

  “Well, we're dressed!” Cecily said. Everyone laughed because we're always dressed. We go to sleep dressed and we wake up dressed.

  Mom said, “Cecily, I'm impressed that your shirt still looks so clean. Can you imagine if Matt had worn white?”

  Matt looked down and smiled as though three days of food stains and a big elbow hole are something to be proud of.

  We went down to the canal house kitchen for breakfast. There were different kinds of cereal and I started remembering how Mrs. Hausner used to help Cecily and me make Froot Loops necklaces with licorice strings. It was a nice memory, but it made me feel sad. Now Mrs. Hausner is sick (and probably disappointed in me) and Cecily and I act like we're hardly even friends.

  I poured myself a bowl of Rice Krispies. The box had Snap, Crackle, and Pop, and some Dutch words on it. Mom studied them as if she were doing a puzzle, then guessed that “Een goed begin van de dag” (Ayn Hooot Buh Hin Fun Duh Dahhgghh) might mean “A good beginning of the day.”

  Today did begin okay. We got on our rental bicycles and peddled past the Floating Flower Market, which Mom said is usually bright with flowers. Since it's August, though, there were mostly just flower bulbs. Trillions of little brown bulbs that looked like baby onions but with pictures of flowers next to them. I thought it was amazing how something as pretty as a flower could come from something as plain as a bulb. Mom bought a few and said, “Some bulbs make flowers that bloom and die and bloom again.”

  Maybe my friendship with Cecily is like that. Maybe it's not really over.

  Knowing Mom, she probably said the thing about bulbs so I would think the thing about friendship. Teachers can do stuff like that!

  We bicycled to a department store on a street that doesn't allow cars, and we locked up our bicycles. Mom said we could each buy underwear, pajamas, a bathing suit, and a new outfit—courtesy of the luggage people.

  Well, we started trying on clothes a mile a minute so Dad wouldn't get impatient. Cecily and I did n
ot share a dressing room, but we did model all the clothes for each other. She looked great in almost everything and I looked not great in almost everything.

  We are now all back in the canal house changing. I can't believe how happy I was just to change.

  Mom too. She threw out Matt's old shirt and said she'd been afraid we'd be wearing the same clothes in every one of our vacation photos.

  Even though I'm glad to be wearing a new top and new shorts, I'm mad because no one said anything about them. Mom complimented Cecily on her new clothes and went on and on about how pretty she looks in blue. Mom even said, “Royal blue is a wonderful color on you, Cecily.”

  Every color is a wonderful color on Cecily.

  Every color is a royal color on Princess Cecily.

  Doesn't anyone think red is a wonderful color on Mediocre Melanie?

  If I don't say something soon to Mom or Cecily, I might explode.

  Anne Frank wrote, “I'm boiling with rage, and yet I mustn't show it.”

  I can relate.

  Dag. (That means bye.)

  Dear Diary,

  All aboard! Cecily and Matt are playing Uno, Dad is reading, and I am writing. Mom isn't with us because we split up for the afternoon. She's going to the history museum and modern art museum with a Culture Pass she bought that gets her in everywhere. Since today is beauuuutiful, Dad is taking us to visit a nearby city, Haarlem, and a nearby beach.

  Dad said that New York's Harlem was named for Holland's Haarlem and was started by a peg-legged Dutch guy named Peter Stuyvesant. But Holland's Haarlem has two a's and New York's has only one. Mom added that New York's Harlem was a center of jazz and art and the home of the poet Langston Hughes. She and Dad always like to tack on extra facts.

  Uh-oh, I can't believe we're already pulling into the Haarlem station!!

  on a pew in St. Bavokerk in Haarlem

  Dear Diary,

  Matt was walking really slowly and Dad kept saying “Hurry!” and Matt kept saying “Wait up!” Finally Cecily said, “Hey Matt, what do you get when you cross a turtle and a porcupine?” Matt shrugged his shoulders. “What?” Cecily said, “A slow poke!” and we all laughed. Even me.