Melanie Martin Goes Dutch (3 page)

Yours truly,

Dear Diary,

Dad let me help paint the window frame in the bathroom. It was fun but hard because he didn't want any brush strokes to show. He wouldn't even
let
Matt help.

The paint we used was called “matte,” which Dad said means dull, not bright (hee hee). It was white Dutch Boy paint and the can had a boy on it wearing wooden shoes. Dad said Dutch chemists figured out how to make really great paint way back in the 1500s.

Well, I've been trying to figure out why Cecily hasn't called (or if her mom is mad at me), so I said, “Dad, do you think Cecily is dumping me?”

“Don't be silly. She's probably away,” Dad said. “Don't worry so much.”

I told him I can't help worrying.

He said, “Mellie, you two have been friends for years. That's not about to change. Now relax. It's not good to be a worrywart.”

Can you believe that?

A father calling his daughter a wart?

Wartily yours,

Dear Diary,

I do NOT get why Cecily hasn't called.

Is she at her father's and forgot to tell me?

Is something wrong?

When she and I became friends back in kindergarten, we used to love to give our Barbies baths. We had lots of Barbies, and we'd give them all baths, one by one, in the bathroom sink. It took hours. We even shampooed their hair with squirts of toothpaste, which is pretty gross now that I think about it.

Once when we were bathing our Barbies at her apartment, Cecily was quiet the whole entire time. Then, when we were down to the very last Barbie, she blurted out, “My mom and dad are getting a divorce.” She had barely said a word all day, then suddenly she
said
that
. I didn't know what to say, so I think I said something really dumb like “No, they're not,” when obviously they were.

And they did.

P.S. If lonelily is not a word, it should be.

Dear Diary,

I am So So So embarrassed!

I called three times this morning. Each time Cecily's mom answered, and since I didn't feel like saying “Hello, Mrs. Hausner, this is Melanie. May I please speak to Cecily?” I hung up. The third time, before I could put the phone down, Cecily's mom said, “For
heaven's sake, Melanie, don't keep hanging up on me. We have Caller I.D., so I know it's you and—”

I felt Sooooo stupid that instead of apologizing like a mature human being, I did something even stupider: I hung up again!

God, I'm an idiot. (I mean, gosh, I'm an idiot.)

P.S. Why didn't Cecily tell me they got Caller I.D.?

Dear Diary,

The phone rang and I was hoping it was Cecily, but Mom answered and after the call, she stuck her arms straight up in the air as if she'd won a marathon.

“I got the grant!” she said.

“What's a grant?” I asked.

She said a grant is when someone gives you money to study something. She said she has asked for grants
before but has never gotten one, and now she was just awarded a small one to study van Gogh.

“The guy who chopped his ear off?” Matt asked. Mom's always talking about artists, so Matt and I know who's who.

“Yes,” Mom said. “He's also ‘the guy’ who painted the flowers on the puzzles we've been doing. Oh, I am so happy! We're going to the Van Gogh Museum!”

“Today?” I asked. I'd never heard of it, so it's not like I've been dying to go or anything.

“Not today,” Mom said. “It's in Amsterdam.”

Mom looked completely happy and Matt looked completely confused.

“In Holland,” I explained. In third grade we learned that, hundreds of years ago, Dutch people had sailed from Amsterdam to a place they named New Amsterdam. Later it got renamed… New York!

Matt asked, “Where's Holland?”

Mom said, “In Europe.”

“Europe,” Matt repeated. “That's a funny word.”

“No, it's not,” I said. “It sounds like ‘syrup’ or ‘You're up!’”

“Or ‘Throw up!’” Matt said.

“Or ‘Grow up!’ and ‘Shut up!’” I added. I thought that was pretty funny, but I could tell Mom didn't, so I asked when we were going.

“Next month,” she said. “During Daddy's vacation week. It's good our passports are up to date.”

Our passports are up to date because of our trip to Italy this spring. Kids' passports last five years—which means I'm practically permanently stuck with my squinty, dorky passport photo.

Mom says grown-ups' passports last ten years because grown-ups don't change as fast as kids. Grown-ups are already grown up. Even if they get grayer or balder or fatter or shorter, you can still recognize them.

Well, Matt started getting as excited as Mom, and next thing you know, he was hopping around like a bouncing bunny. What a weirdo. I'm surprised our neighbors in the apartment downstairs didn't complain.

Mom called Dad at work and said, “Can you believe I got it?” He must have known all about the grant because Mom didn't have to say what “it” was or anything. After she hung up, she put a bottle of champagne in the fridge.

By then, Matt wasn't just hopping, he was also singing—and swearing—at the top of his lungs. He was saying, “Amster Amster Dam Dam Dam!”

And get this: Mom was letting him get away with it!