The Diary of Melanie Martin by Carol Weston Read Free Book Online Page B

kid. Mom and Dad are freaking out because Matt has completely totally utterly absolutely 100 percent disappeared. They said they can find him faster without me. They also said I'm old enough to be alone and to keep an eye out for Matt myself.
    I wanted to argue, but Mom was getting hysterical again.

    I'm sitting in the Sistine Chapel, being good as gold, not moving an inch. Mom and Dad said to STAY PUT and SIT STILL and DON'T GO ANYWHERE. Mom gave me her whole lecture about how if some stranger says, “Come and help me find my lost kitten,” or “Come with me and I'll give you candy,” that I should say, “NO.” I didn't say, “Duh,” or “I'mnot five, Mom.” I just nodded. Then Mom taught me the Italian word for “help,” which is
aiuto
(Eye Oo Toe). And she said not to be scared.
    That's when I started getting scared.
    I mean, I may be double digits, but it's not like I'm a teenager or anything.
    Anyhow, I'm sitting on this bench, behaving, not moving an inch, just staring at Michelangelo's ceiling and looking for Matt and making little bets with myself, like: If I write one more page in my diary, Matt will suddenly come back.
    So far he hasn't.
    I'm not religious, but I keep staring up at God creating heaven and earth, and God giving life to Adam, and God creating Eve, and Adam and Eve getting kicked out of the Garden of Eden.
    And I keep wondering if God is staring back at me.
    I also wonder if it would help if I prayed. And if I promised to be nicer to Matt or something.
    I'm worried worried worried.
    Matt can be an A.L.B., but I still wish he would pop up and say, “Boo!”

    The reason it's my fault is that I wished Matt would get lost. I wished it. I did.
    Early this morning we went to the Trevi Fountain, which has sculptures of men and horses and even of Neptune (who looks like King Triton in
The Little Mermaid
movie I used to like). Everyone was making wishes and throwing coins into the fountain. Mom and Dad threw Italian coins over their shoulders and gave me an American penny and Matt an American dime.
    Dimes are small, but since they're worth ten times more than pennies, I said, “That's not fair!” I doubt Matt even knows that dimes are more valuable, so he wouldn't have cared what Mom and Dad gave him. He was so busy scaring pigeons, he probably wouldn't have cared if Mom and Dad hadn't given him any money.
    Dad said, “What does it matter, Melanie? You're not spending it. You're throwing it. Quit whining.”
    Mom said, “All the coins go to the Red Cross anyway—just make a wish and toss it in.”
    You'd think they would be nicer to me now that I'm wounded.
    Well, even though I was still mad about the dumb penny, I did start thinking about what to wish. That Mom and Dad would let me have a slumber party? That Christopher would like me back (or at least be aware of my existence)? While I was thinking, Matt came hopping over on one foot and waved his shiny little dime at me like a big show-off and stuck out his little snake tongue. So I wished I never even had a brother.
    And now I don't.
    The other reason why it's my fault is that Matt and I got into another big fat fight, and I was really mean to him. At the time, I thought he deserved it. Mom and Dad took us to St. Peter's, which Dad said is in
The Guinness Book of Records
because it's the world's largest church, topped by the world's largest dome.
    It
is
huge.
    Inside, behind thick glass, is the
Pietà
(Pee Yay Tah), which Michelangelo sculpted when he was very young. It shows Mary holding Jesus after he died. Mary looks so so so sad.
    Matt was asking why it has glass in front of it, and Dad said that in 1972 some loony person damaged the Madonna's head with a hammer, and they fixed it, but now they want to protect it with the glass shield.
    Matt said, “I don't get it.”
I said, “Get what?”
    He opened his eyes wide, then scrunched up his face, which made his freckles sort of mush together, and asked, “Madonna's here?”
    I said,