“Is
your
head damaged, Freckle Face? Not Madonna the singer. Madonna the Virgin Mary. You can be so
stupido
” (Stoo Pee Doe). That's Italian for stupid.
Matt said, “Stop picking on me.”
I said, “Stop being
stupido
.”
He pinched me.
I said, “Get lost.”
And this is the terrible part: He did
Dad came back. I was right where he left me. “Have you seen him?” he asked.
I shook my head and felt like I was going to cry.
It almost seemed like Dad might cry too. He said, “Stay right here. We'll be back. We'll find him.”
He gave me a hug and said not to worry.
Then he left, and I kept worrying.
Besides having stitches in my eyebrow, I have tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.
I don't want to cry, though. Or look obvious. I don't want some stranger asking me if
I'm
lost.
Every time I look up, I have to blink a bunch of times or the ceiling gets blurry. I keep staring at the part of the painting where God's hand almost touches Adam's, and I wish wish wish more than anything that I had never let go of Matt's hand.
What happened was that when we got on line to see the Sistine Chapel, it was so crowded that Mom and Dad held hands and told us to hold hands too.
Which we were doing.
We went through the Candelabra Gallery, the Tapestry Gallery, the Map Gallery, the Raphael Rooms, and about a million other rooms because Mom wanted to take the long way. I was holding Matt's hand the whole entire time.
Finally, we got to the Sistine Chapel. It is a “must-see.” Dad had his nose in his guidebook, and Mom had her eyes on the ceiling, and I figured we were where we had to be. So I let go of Matt's hand.
It truly is my fault.
Mom just came back in to check on me. I haven't budged from my spot on the bench.
“No Matt?” she asked.
I started to cry. Actually, sob. People were staring and it was embarrassing, but I couldn't help it. “Mom,” I said, “I let go of his hand.”
“It's not your fault, Sweet Pea. We're going to find him.”
“It
is
my fault,” I said, even though I didn't tell her about my wish at the fountain.
“It's not your fault. Matt is your brother, not your responsibility.” I was glad she said that. Dad had made it sound like he was my brother
and
my responsibility. “You're not supposed to take care of the family—we're supposed to take care of you,” Mom said. “And listen. We're going to find Matt. I just talked to a policeman.”
Another policeman! We are troublemaker tourists. That policeman in Lucca told us to be more careful, and we were
less
careful!
Mom held my hand and I didn't let go. But then she said she had to keep looking, so I had to let go.
This room is jam-packed with people—I keep wishing one would be Matt!
Instead of the ceiling, I've started looking at the wall. Mom told me that when Michelangelo was an old man, he spent another five years painting the wall of the Sis-tine Chapel. The wall painting is called
The Last Judgment
, and it shows Jesus after he came back to Earth. He has little holes in his hands and feet where the nails were when he was on the cross. He is surrounded by hundredsof naked dead people sort of swirling around him. Jesus is sending the bad ones to h—ll and the good ones to heaven. Most of the people look scared and miserable.
I don't know if I'm a good person or a bad person, but I do know that I am scared and miserable.
I wish Matt would come back.
I wish Mom and Dad would come back too. I can't go looking for them, because they told me to STAY PUT.
So here I am, parked on the bench, with God above keeping me company.
same day
Dear Diary,
I looked up at God and sort of mumbled,
“Grazie.”
I guess lots of policemen in the Vatican got on their walkie-talkies and cell phones and started looking for a six-year-old
americano
(Ah Mare Ee Con Oh) with freckles and a striped shirt and sneakers with Velcro instead of laces. I mean, a lost kid is a bigger deal than a pickpocketed wallet.
It turns out that Matt
your
head damaged, Freckle Face? Not Madonna the singer. Madonna the Virgin Mary. You can be so
stupido
” (Stoo Pee Doe). That's Italian for stupid.
Matt said, “Stop picking on me.”
I said, “Stop being
stupido
.”
He pinched me.
I said, “Get lost.”
And this is the terrible part: He did
Dad came back. I was right where he left me. “Have you seen him?” he asked.
I shook my head and felt like I was going to cry.
It almost seemed like Dad might cry too. He said, “Stay right here. We'll be back. We'll find him.”
He gave me a hug and said not to worry.
Then he left, and I kept worrying.
Besides having stitches in my eyebrow, I have tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.
I don't want to cry, though. Or look obvious. I don't want some stranger asking me if
I'm
lost.
Every time I look up, I have to blink a bunch of times or the ceiling gets blurry. I keep staring at the part of the painting where God's hand almost touches Adam's, and I wish wish wish more than anything that I had never let go of Matt's hand.
What happened was that when we got on line to see the Sistine Chapel, it was so crowded that Mom and Dad held hands and told us to hold hands too.
Which we were doing.
We went through the Candelabra Gallery, the Tapestry Gallery, the Map Gallery, the Raphael Rooms, and about a million other rooms because Mom wanted to take the long way. I was holding Matt's hand the whole entire time.
Finally, we got to the Sistine Chapel. It is a “must-see.” Dad had his nose in his guidebook, and Mom had her eyes on the ceiling, and I figured we were where we had to be. So I let go of Matt's hand.
It truly is my fault.
Mom just came back in to check on me. I haven't budged from my spot on the bench.
“No Matt?” she asked.
I started to cry. Actually, sob. People were staring and it was embarrassing, but I couldn't help it. “Mom,” I said, “I let go of his hand.”
“It's not your fault, Sweet Pea. We're going to find him.”
“It
is
my fault,” I said, even though I didn't tell her about my wish at the fountain.
“It's not your fault. Matt is your brother, not your responsibility.” I was glad she said that. Dad had made it sound like he was my brother
and
my responsibility. “You're not supposed to take care of the family—we're supposed to take care of you,” Mom said. “And listen. We're going to find Matt. I just talked to a policeman.”
Another policeman! We are troublemaker tourists. That policeman in Lucca told us to be more careful, and we were
less
careful!
Mom held my hand and I didn't let go. But then she said she had to keep looking, so I had to let go.
This room is jam-packed with people—I keep wishing one would be Matt!
Instead of the ceiling, I've started looking at the wall. Mom told me that when Michelangelo was an old man, he spent another five years painting the wall of the Sis-tine Chapel. The wall painting is called
The Last Judgment
, and it shows Jesus after he came back to Earth. He has little holes in his hands and feet where the nails were when he was on the cross. He is surrounded by hundredsof naked dead people sort of swirling around him. Jesus is sending the bad ones to h—ll and the good ones to heaven. Most of the people look scared and miserable.
I don't know if I'm a good person or a bad person, but I do know that I am scared and miserable.
I wish Matt would come back.
I wish Mom and Dad would come back too. I can't go looking for them, because they told me to STAY PUT.
So here I am, parked on the bench, with God above keeping me company.
same day
Dear Diary,
I looked up at God and sort of mumbled,
“Grazie.”
I guess lots of policemen in the Vatican got on their walkie-talkies and cell phones and started looking for a six-year-old
americano
(Ah Mare Ee Con Oh) with freckles and a striped shirt and sneakers with Velcro instead of laces. I mean, a lost kid is a bigger deal than a pickpocketed wallet.
It turns out that Matt
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