Melanie Martin Goes Dutch (29 page)

Mom wished me good luck and said she'd pick me up ten minutes later.

I rang the Hausners' doorbell. Instead of a
ding-dong
, it has a melody. Like a carillon.

In the middle of the melody (middle of the melody—is that a tongue twister?), Mrs. Hausner answered. She looked the
exact same
as ever. She said, “Come in! Tell me about Holland. And thank you for being such a wonderful friend to Cecily. She had a terrific time.”

I was taking off my sandals and Cheshire Cat rubbed up against me and started purring like a motor. I petted him, got up my nerve, and stood up.

“We all had a good time, but I came to say that I'm sorry about when I kept hanging up on you. Also, I really hope you're feeling better.”

Mrs. Hausner seemed surprised. She looked at me in a proud-mother sort of way, and said, “Melanie, you're a good egg.”

I didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but I figured being a good egg had to be better than being a bad chicken.

I handed her the present. “This is for you, Mrs. Hausner.”

“Oh, how sweet!” she said, then added, “Now that you're getting older, you may call me Priscilla.”

“I'll try,” I said, which was sort of stupid because how hard can it be to call someone Priscilla? It's not like it's tricky to pronounce. Still, she's always been Mrs. Hausner to me, so I wasn't positive I could just
een, twee, drie
make the switch.

Mrs. Priscilla opened the gift. “These are lovely!”

“I know you don't allow shoes inside your home, but I hope you'll make a special exception.”

“I know just where to put them!” She thumbtacked them on their bulletin board.

They looked pretty cute up there if I do say so myself. And having my shoes in her kitchen made me feel like I'm sort of part of Cecily's family—just as Cecily is sort of part of mine.

“Thank you,” she said, and hugged me. Her chest felt the same as always (not that I was paying attention).

“You're welcome.” I would have added “Priscilla,” but I'm going to have to practice saying “Priscilla Priscilla Priscilla” by myself before I can say it out loud in public. I don't think it's going to come popping out on its own.

Dear Diary,

Cecily got home, and we went bowling, and I got my first strike ever!

We each paid our own way. That's called going Dutch.

Dad said the Dutch have a reputation for being careful with their money. If two people go out for dinner, a Dutch person might say “Let's split the bill,” or “Let's go half and half,” rather than “It's on me,” or “My treat.”

Then again, a Dutch person might not say any of those things. When you're sensitive, you realize you can never just assume stuff about other people.

Personally, I think going Dutch is good because everyone does their part.

Double Dutch is good too. That's the jump-rope game when two girls turn two ropes at a time, and if you're the jumper, you have to jump like crazy and really pay attention to what everyone else is doing.

Mom finished her Vermeer puzzle, then sighed this big loud sigh. I think she knows summer is about to be over.

I'm excited about school and seeing friends. But I'm a little nervous too. In fifth grade, I doubt we'll have D.E.A.R. time (Drop Everything and Read). And I doubt we'll get to wear slippers on Winter Wednesdays (I love coming in from the frozen playground and putting on my slippers). And I don't even know if we'll get to bring cupcakes to school. I hope so!

I
do
know that we'll start learning a foreign language. I picked Spanish.

Dear Diary,

Cecily and I came up with the best idea! We were baking a double batch of chocolate-chip cookies in my kitchen (fairly neatly, if I do say so myself) and we decided to have a bake sale. But instead of keeping the money, we decided to give it to the place Dad said teaches kids about tolerance.

We made a sign that said, “Cookies 25 Cents! All Money Goes to the Anne Frank Center USA.”

At first it was embarrassing sitting with Cecily and our sign and our cookie tray on a blanket on the sidewalk next to my doorman Benny. But then my neighbors started stopping by—including some I hardly ever see except on Halloween. Almost everybody was really
friendly. Some asked where we got the idea, and some handed us a dollar for just one or two cookies and wouldn't take any change back. Even a few strangers stopped by.

One old lady with short gray hair and a sweet face gave us TEN DOLLARS FOR ONE COOKIE! She said she escaped from Germany during World War II when she was a young teenager, and that we were “wonderful wonderful girls.” She even shook our hands, mine and Cecily's. Her hand was small and soft and ghosty, and I shook it very gently.

After she walked away, Cecily whispered, “Anne Frank would have been around her age!”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes, she was born in 1929, remember?”

I didn't remember but I did do the math in my head. Cecily was right: if Anne Frank had lived and become a “mumsie,” she might have become a grandmother too. Maybe a nice one with a nice laugh—and nice grandkids.

Well, we were down to the last cookie, so we offered it to Benny for free, but he gave us a dollar and told us to donate the change. (He is sooo nice.) Then we
started sorting out coins, smoothing out bills, and counting it all up.

Guess how much we raised?? Seventy-eight dollars!!!

We
did
feel like wonderful wonderful girls!

We might even do another sale someday. Maybe for breast cancer research or Children's Aid or the Red Cross. Or maybe just for our own selves, though to tell you the truth, it felt good to make money for an important cause.

Dear Diary,

I gave Dad the pile of money, and instead of grumbling about the nickels, dimes, quarters, and crinkly bills, he said, “Good for you, cupcake,” and wrote out a check. I mailed it with a note from Cecily and me.

After dinner, the phone rang, and Mom got on, talked for a while, then handed it over saying, “It's for you. It's Priscilla.”

For some reason, my heart started pounding. Why would Mrs. Hausner call
me
? What did I do wrong
now
? I looked at Mom for a clue, but she just shrugged.

“Hi, Priscilla,” I said. The “Priscilla” part came out a little forced.

“Hi, Melanie. I'm so proud of you and Cecily!” she said. “If you want to have another bake sale, I hope you'll come bake over here.” I didn't know what to say. I wished she could have seen that I was nodding at least.

I said, “Okay, Priscilla, it's a deal,” and then she put Cecily on the phone.

Love,