Melanie Martin Goes Dutch (2 page)

Now all he ever wants to do is play Clue Jr. He lives to shout, “Mortimer Mustard hid the bird in the bank!” or “Polly Peacock hid the turtle in the wig shop!”

It gets old.

Or maybe I'm getting old for junior games.

Last night I mumbled to Dad that I was bored.

“Bored?!” Dad said with absolutely no sympathy. “I can think of plenty of things for you to do.” So he made me put away dishes and alphabetize his CDs and do a million trillion chores.

Chores chores chores! I was going to accuse him of child abuse, but he would have rolled his eyes and said, “Melanie, pleeeease!”

Once, I did say, “Child abuse! Child abuse!” on the subway and Dad got mad and said it's no joke and what if police officers had taken me seriously? He said I should appreciate the parents I have.

Personally, I think my parents should appreciate me—and understand that I need to be with kids my own age.

My own age: ten and a half. Not Matt's age: six and a half.

Later,

Dear Diary, Cecily gets back today!

I just called her but I wish I hadn't. When I said, “Is Cecily there?” instead of saying a simple “No,” Cecily's mom said, “Melanie, it's more polite to say, ‘Hello, Mrs. Hausner, this is Melanie. May I please speak to Cecily?’”

I mumbled, “Okay.” But I felt like saying, “I wasn't calling to get a manners lesson. I was calling to talk to my best friend.”

Cecily's mom is usually pretty nice. I like when she invites me for dinner or to a movie. And I like that she always has big bags of marshmallows and little bags of M&M's just for us. And I like that last week she helped us have a book sale on Broadway and we both made fifteen dollars.

I don't like that she's strict about making us take off our shoes and hang up our sweaters. I also don't like that I have to call her Mrs. Hausner when Cecily gets to call my mom Miranda. (Not that Cecily ever
does. She never really calls her anything.)

Anyway, right now I am trying to write, but Matt found some of that plastic bubbly wrap that Mom uses for delicate objects and he put it on the floor and started driving all over it on his scooter. He says he's not stopping until he has popped every last bubble.

It sounds like firecrackers.

Matt also has tongue twisters on the brain. He made me say “unique New York, unique New York, unique New York” over and over, so I told him to say “I'm a silly little idiot” five times fast. Then I said, “Matt, if you want to be annoying, go into your room.”

He said, “It's no fun being annoying by myself.”

Dear Diary,

I went to Cecily's apartment today and her cat sat on my lap and purred for about an hour. Cecily is lucky she has a cat and a bunny. All we ever have is fish, and half the time they die right away. Like Fluffy and Muffy. And Potato and Chip. And Goldy and Lox. And Wishy and Fishy.

Right now we don't have any pets at all (unless you count Matt).

Cecily's cat is named Cheshire and he always always always purrs. Her bunny is named Honey (short for Honey Bunny) and sometimes she's sweet but sometimes she bites. If you startle her, she actually growls! I think she is part bunny, part tiger.

Today Mrs. Hausner handed us two carrots and we ate two bites each, then gave them to Honey Bunny. We thought that was pretty smart. But later Mrs. Hausner saw the nibbled-on carrot remains in Honey Bunny's cage and said, “I didn't peel those carrots for the rabbit!”

We apologized and went back to drawing pencil portraits of each other (Cecily's a good artist). Then we shut our eyes tight and walked around with our hands in front of us. It's a game called No Peeking. We walked out of Cecily's bedroom, down her hallway, and into her kitchen, where we felt around until we located a big squishy bag of marshmallows. We opened our eyes, opened the bag, opened the microwave, and puffed up the marshmallows one at a time for thirty seconds (no more or they explode).

It was really fun until Cecily's mom started acting crabby again. She asked if we wanted chocolate milk, and I said, “Yes,” and she said, “Yes,
please
.” Then I was telling a story and I said, “Oh my God!” and she said, “Oh my
gosh
!” She even said that I say “like” and “you know” too much, which made me want to tell her that she is correcting me too much. Like, you know???

She never used to criticize me. Why start now? Doesn't she know my own parents already work overtime on that job?

Well, Cecily and I baked oatmeal cookies, and Mrs.
Hausner took the bowl away right when we were about to eat the leftover dough. Then she said that the kitchen looked like a tornado had blown through. I should have kept my mouth shut (duh!), but I said, “It's not thaaaat bad.”

She said, “Girls, I'm coming back in five minutes, and I expect this kitchen to look the way it did when you found it.”

Cecily and I quietly wiped the countertops, scrubbed the cookie sheets, and ate three warm soft cookies each. Then I got ready to go. I was putting on my shoes at the front door, where Mrs. Hausner makes us leave them, when I made a decision. I decided I'm not going to call and say “Is Cecily there?” or “Hello, Mrs. Hausner, this is Melanie. May I please speak to Cecily?” I decided I'm not going to call at all.

I'm going to let Cecily call me.

So there.

Dear Diary,

Cecily didn't call all day.

Mom and I started a new puzzle.

Dear Diary,

Cecily didn't call tonight either. I wrote this poem: