Melanie Martin Goes Dutch (18 page)

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 way, 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”!!)