Melanie Martin Goes Dutch Page 7

  (What I don't get is how my father can refer to children as “mouths to feed”!)

  “I know,” Mom answered. “Poor man, he always had money troubles. He died in debt.”

  “I thought he was famous,” Matt said.

  “He became famous long after his death,” Mom explained. “In fact, he's never been more famous than he is right now. We live in a busy, stressful time, so maybe we need his quiet scenes.”

  Then she told us kids to stay put because she and Dad were going to go look at The Night Watch again. “We'll be back in five minutes,” Dad said.

  Five minutes to look at one painting!

  Well, we started sketching away and trying to feel Vermeer's inner peace and everything, but after about three seconds, Matt said, “I'm done.” Cecily complimented him even though, believe me, Matt's picture was no prizewinner.

  Meanwhile, Cecily and I kept sketching and coloring, and for some reason, I felt like we were in a race. Inner peace was turning into outer war.

  I was trying to get my picture right—the light

  pouring in from the window and the milk pouring out of the jug and the lady's rosy cheeks and the bread's crackly crust.

  I was about to say, “I'm done,” but Baby Matt let go of his baby tooth and said, “Cecily, I like how you're doing her dress.”

  Cecily said, “Thanks,” and kept coloring the green, blue, and yellow folds of the milkmaid's dress. So I kept coloring too. I even stood up to see how Vermeer made the folds by using different shades of color and different thicknesses of paint, and I tried doing that even though all I had was pencils.

  I was about to say, “I'm done,” when Young Mr. Art Critic said, “Cecily, you do skin really well.”

  She said, “Thanks,” and kept shading the milkmaid's smooth strong arms.

  I figured as long as Cecily kept sketching, I'd keep sketching too. But I have to admit, I was having a really hard time with the twisty little stream of milk that caught and reflected sunlight.

  Well, Mom and Dad finally came back, and Mom said, “Oh Matt, that's wonderful,” (when his picture obviously stunk) and “Very nice, Melanie,” (when mine wasn't just very nice, it was excellent).

  Then Mom looked at Cecily's picture and said, “Cecily! That is luminous!”

  She actually said “luminous”! Mom has never once called any of my pictures luminous!

  It made me soooo mad! When I'm with Cecily's mom, I get criticized. When Cecily is with my mom, she gets complimented.

  Even Dad complimented Cecily's sketch. “It looks like that jug will never run out,” he said. “It looks like that milk will keep flowing forever, just like in the real painting.”

  I should have kept my big mouth shut (duh duh duh), but I didn't. I couldn't. I said,

  Then I went running out of the room and down the hall and down the steps and down another hall until I found the toiletten. When I got there, I went into the door for damsels-in-distress and slammed it shut and burst into tears and felt sad and mad and stupid and confused and embarrassed all at the exact same time.

  I would tell you what happened next but Dad says we have to go have dinner right this very instant N-O-W.

  To be continued—

  Dear Diary,

  We're back and Cecily is reading and Matt is coloring and Mom and Dad are in their room and I'm going to tell you what happened.

  This is what happened.

  I was in the museum bathroom and I was

  I was also totally utterly alone. For all I knew, no one even had a clue where I was. Plus, I had to pee and I had a wedgie.

  Anyway, as I was washing my hands, Mom walked in and said, “Honey, what is going on?”

  “I'm washing my hands.”

  “I mean between you and Cecily.”

  “Nothing.”

  “I can see that. I'd like to remind you that she is our guest and—”

  “You don't have to remind me of how special she is, Mom. You and Dad already act like you love her more than you love me.” (I couldn't believe I said that.)

  “For heaven's sake!” Mom said. “We invited Cecily along because we love you.” Mom put her arms around me but I left mine dangling down. “She's far from home and her mom is sick, and she hasn't even been able to talk to her on the phone yet. Of course we're being nice to her! Maybe even extra nice. That's common courtesy and the right thing to do. Besides, I like Cecily. Don't you want me to like your friends?”

  I sort of half nodded and I was thinking about hugging her back when Cecily herself walked in. Mom said, “I'll give you two a few minutes to work this out. I'll be waiting outside with Dad and Matt.”

  Cecily looked at me as though I should talk first.

  So I did. I said, “I thought you didn't like Matt the Brat.”

  “I don't mind him,” she said. “It may be a pain to have a brother all the time, but it's not so bad for a week. It's even kind of fun.”

  “Fun for you.”

  “What is your problem, Melanie?”

  “My problem is that everybody is acting nice to you and you're acting nice to everybody.”

  “That's a problem?”

  “Yes! You're Little Miss Polite.”

  “I'm a guest. Guests are supposed to act polite. What do you want me to do? Talk back and act rude?”

  “Well, you're not being polite to me.”

  “What?!”

  “You're playing little games with Matt—smelling roses and saying ‘HHHGHHHowda HHHGHH-Howda HHHGHHHowda.’ You even lent him your stuffed animal! And you laugh at my dad's lame jokes and you talk about art with my mom and—”

  “For your information, Melanie, I like games and I like to laugh and I like art. Besides, my mom gave me a big long speech before I left about how I'd better be a good guest and better not leave Matt out. So yes, I'm acting nice. Why is that so hard for you?”

  “Because I feel like a fifth wheel!” I turned toward the sink and splashed my face with cold water to hide the tears in my eyes. “I don't care if you're a good guest,” I said. “I want you to be a good friend.”

  “I want you to be a good friend too,” Cecily said.

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “When I asked you at the windmill if you were mad, you should have answered right then and there instead of giving me the Silent Treatment and getting even madder. And you're always writing—which I don't mind because that's usually when I play with Matt. But then how can you mind when I do play with him? And Melanie, do you really think I want to sit next to Matt every single second? Every time he asks, I look up at you hoping you'll say ‘No, sit with me,’ but you never do, so I sit down because I have no choice.”

  I suddenly pictured Cecily meeting my eyes in the bus and in the canal bike, and I wished I'd been able to read her mind instead of being all caught up in my own feelings.

  “I wasn't giving you the Silent Treatment,” I said. “I just didn't feel like talking.”

  Cecily shrugged.

  “And I thought I started writing after you and Matt started playing,” I added. “Not vice versa.”

  Cecily shrugged again.

  “And I always wanted to sit next to you, but I thought you were mad—”

  “To tell you the truth,” Cecily interrupted, “today I was mad at you for not being nice to me. I know you're all freaked out about whether you'll see your precious Hedgehog again. But, Melanie, I happen to have bigger worries.” I was about to defend Hedgehog, but then Cecily asked, “On that PG-13 beach, didn't it even occur to you that I might be thinking about—”

  “Your mom?” I sort of choked out.

  Cecily could have said “Bingo!” in a sarcastic voice. But she just nodded. Her lower lip started sticking out and trembling a little. I was afraid she might cry. Cecily hardly ever cries. I cry way more than she does and I don't cry all that much (not as much as Matt anyway).

  “I'm sorry,” I said because I could see her point. I really hadn't looked at things her wa
y, only my way. I'd been acting like a horse with blinders on. I'd been worried about whether Cecily and Mrs. Hausner were mad at me, when they were worried about much bigger things. In fact, maybe Cecily has been thinking about life-anddeath stuff all vacation. “Your mom is going to be all right,” I said. “And you'll get to talk to her soon.” Cecily half nodded, but I could tell she was holding back tears.

  “I wish she didn't need an operation at all,” Cecily said.

  “I know.” I gave her a hug.

  Just then Mom came in. “C'mon, girls,” she said, “Dad's getting antsy. Are you ready to look at doll-houses from the 1600s?”

  “Dollhouses?!” I said. “Give us a break!” I looked at Cecily and rolled my eyes.

  She rolled her eyes back and we went and looked at the museum's fancy collection of dollhouses.

  They were awesome, like mini-mansions! We had to climb up wooden steps just to peek inside and see the rooms decorated with carved furniture, silk wallpaper, marble floors, and woven rugs. The beds and chairs all looked real, but shrunken. “These must have taken forever to build,” I said, and Cecily said, “The kids must have loved them.” We started talking about how we used to give our dolls toothpaste shampoos. And then we kept on talking talking talking.

  We are now getting ready for bed. Matt just asked Cecily what kind of pillow she likes best. “The hard kind that holds your head up or the soft kind that lets you sink into a land of feathers?”

  Cecily said, “I like both.” She smiled at me and threw her pillow at Matt.

  “Missed me!” he said and threw it back at her.

  We were about to have a big pillow fight (which is way more fun than having a fight-fight) but Mom came in and said, “Night-night! Sleep tight! Don't let the bed bugs bite!”

  “Bugs?” Matt said.

  “Go to sleep!” Mom said.

  I was going to write-write a fight-fight night-night poem but

  Dear Diary,

  Mom and Dad still haven't come in saying “Rise and shine!” so Cecily and Matt are playing cards (Spit and Bloody Knuckles).

  In some ways, Amsterdam is a lot like New York— or New Amsterdam! Both are big cities with split personalities. You could say they are beautiful and artsy or dirty and grimy and either way, you'd be right. When it comes to food, both have all kinds of different restaurants: French, Italian, Mexican, Chinese, Japanese, Greek, Turkish, Indian, you name it!

  Last night, we went to an Indian restaurant with Indian music and Indian incense. Matt ordered a mango drink, Cecily ordered a papaya drink, and Mom and Dad ordered “a couple of Heinies.” I ordered regular water, no bubbles.

  Dad started going on and on about how fresh the beer tastes in Holland and how if we were older, we could all tour the Heineken brewery and learn how beer is made. I said, “Daaad!” and he stopped. Even when I'm a grown-up, I will never like beer. It smells sour and probably tastes worse than it smells, and some people drink too much of it and get big beer bellies. (Even if I did like beer, I would still never ask for a “Heinie”!!)

  Everyone ordered a lot of weird food, and Matt and I ordered lamb. The lamb was completely smothered in spinach sauce, which I didn't like, so I kept wiping it off with my napkin. Matt didn't like the sauce either, so he kept dipping his lamb bites into his water glass and stirring until his lamb came out squeaky clean.

  Well, Mom suddenly noticed our sauce-removal techniques and was totally grossed out and horrified. “Where are your table manners?” she asked, and started fussing at us. (At least she didn't add, “You don't see Cecily using her napkin as a washcloth or her water glass as a sink.”) When she was all done scolding us, Mom said, “Who raised you kids?” which showed that at least she had a tiny speck of a sense of humor about the whole thing. Then she reminded Matt to stay away from hot and spicy sauces.

  I separated the yummies from the yuckies on my plate, but I did not do any food transfers.

  Back at the canal house, Hendrik said our luggage still had not arrived!

  At least we have new pajamas and clean underwear.

  We got in our pj's, and Matt, instead of doing his usual rush-brush, was holding his toothbrush still and moving his face from side to side. He showed Cecily his sickeningly wiggly tooth. He even showed her a little lamb chunk he flossed out from between his back teeth. He is inventing a new game called Disgusting Discoveries: Whoever flosses out the biggest thing wins.

  “Ewww!!” Cecily said. “I'm sorry, Matt, but I don't want to play Floss Show-and-Tell or whatever you call it!” She might be finally finding out that having a brother full-time even for a few days has serious downsides.

  “Hate to break it to you, Newt Brain,” I said. “But face it: You are a major dork.” Matt stuck out his tongue at me, so I added, “I should know because I'm older.”

  “You are older,” Matt agreed, “and that just means you're going to die first.”

  “Does not!” I was about to pummel him when Dad walked in.

  “Lights out,” Dad said and within about two minutes, Matt started breathing all evenly, DogDog or no DogDog.

  For a few minutes, our room was really quiet.

  Then Cecily whispered, “Mel, are you asleep?”

  I almost almost almost was, but I was so glad we were friends again that I whispered, “No.”

  “When my mom first told me she had cancer, she tried to make it sound like it was no big deal,” Cecily said. “But then everyone started phoning and sending cards and stopping by, so I knew it was a big deal. And now the thing I'm worried about most is that my grandmom died of breast cancer.”

  I didn't know what to say, but finally I asked, “Did you know her?”

  “Yes. Her name was Florence—my middle name— and she died when I turned five.”

  “Was she nice?”

  “Really nice. She always wore bangly bracelets and the tops of her arms were all jiggly and flappy and soft. You know?”

  I nodded, but then I realized it was pitch-black in our room, so I said, “I know what you mean.”

  “Whenever she came to visit,” Cecily said, “she brought homemade brownies.”

  I was so tired, I think I started dozing and half dreaming about chocolatey brownies. But when I heard Cecily say, “I also remember that—” I turned and propped myself on my elbow. “—Grandmom Flo had a really nice laugh,” Cecily continued. “When she laughed, you felt really happy, and you tried to say or do something that would make her laugh again.”

  “What was it like when she died?”

  “Sometimes my mom would cry in the middle of washing dishes or listening to the radio or when I didn't expect it.”

  “I wish I could have met your grandmom,” I said. “But it's good you have her middle name.”

  “It's old-fashioned, but I like it.”

  “And it's good you have her laugh.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your laugh makes people happy too.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. And you know what else is good?”

  “What?”

  “It's good that medicines are better today than they used to be and doctors know more.” I was glad it occurred to me to say that. Cecily probably was too. She didn't say anything, though, so I added, “My mom told me that a lot of women get breast cancer, but not so many die of it. She said most women get better because nowadays doctors usually find out about it early enough to, you know, fix it.”

  Cecily stayed quiet but I knew she was awake. Then she said, “The operation is tomorrow morning—which I guess means tomorrow afternoon here.”

  “Your mom will be okay,” I said. “Don't worry.” (I can't believe I told Cecily not to worry!)

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  She didn't say anything after that and I was wondering if she was upset because I heard her make a snuffly sound. But then I heard her breathing as evenly as Matt the Brat and I realized she was fast asleep.

  P.S. I'm crossing my fingers fo
r Mrs. Hausner! Before bed, Mom took me aside and said that tomorrow we'll have to think positive and stay busy.

  (Ba Hhhain Hof)

  Dear Diary,

  At 9:30 A.M. Holland time, our luggage still hadn't come. Dad called, and the man said they were “searching it right now.”

  “I thought you've been searching for it!” Dad said. The man explained that they were searching it not searching for it—in other words, they found our luggage and it's going through customs! So now they will deliver it to us very soon.

  If and when it truly comes, I'll write hip hip hurray!!

  All we kids really wanted to do was stay inside and wait for our stuff. But Dad said he was starving, so he dragged us out for a breakfast buffet. Next thing you know, he and Mom were eating salmon and herring and cheeses and Matt was having a ham sandwich— for breakfast! Cecily and I just had fruit salad and pastries. There were also little boxes of chocolate sprinkles on the buffet table, so Matt made himself a sprinkle sandwich for dessert, and Cecily and I sprinkled sprinkles on our hot chocolate.

  We were talking about middle names, and Cecily said, “My grandmother was named Florence and my grandfather was named Lawrence, but nobody called them Florence and Lawrence. Everyone called them Flo and Lo.”

  Mom and Dad laughed and I did too.

  Matt went to the toiletten, and when he came back, he announced, “I have toilet paper on my shoe.”

  Cecily said, “Here, let me step on it and get it off for you.”

  “No!” Matt said. “I like it!” He started walking around our table with a bright white half-square of t.p. trailing behind him.

  Ordinarily, I would have told him not to be an idiot. But I was so happy that Cecily and I made up and that our luggage got found that instead of calling Matt an idiot, I said, “Go faster!”

  Matt started circling the table faster and faster and faster, and Cecily and I started laughing and laughing.

  Dad said, “Sit down this instant, young man!”

  Mom said, “Children, you are being very disruptive!”