A Girl Called Al: The Al Series, Book One (6 page)

“Last week she wasn't.”

“Wasn't what?”

“I saw her at the movies last week with a couple of other girls. She was real palsy-walsy with them, is all I can say. I don't think you're her best friend. She may be yours, but you're not hers.”

I got Teddy's shoulder in a real hold. I dug my fingers down in that little place that's just made for pinching. It hurts. I know.

“Shut your mouth,” I whispered, because my mother was in the kitchen. “One more word out of you and I'll let you have it right between the eyes. Now shut up.”

Two big tears squeezed out of Teddy's eyes and dribbled down his cheeks. He didn't even bother to wipe them away. He is a real mess.

I let go of his shoulder. “I will go and get you a piece of gingerbread,” I said, “and I will play Monopoly with you for exactly one half hour. No more, no less. Set it up and I'll be right back.”

I did not look at him but as I went out I could hear him snuffling.

“Doesn't that kid know how to blow his nose?” I said.

“People who live in glass houses,” my mother said. “Be my guest.” And she handed me a box of tissues.

Chapter Fifteen

“How's Al?” my mother asked. “Have you had a fight?”

“She's O.K., I guess,” I said, blowing my nose. “Why do you want to know?”

“Well, I haven't seen her in a couple of days and that's sort of unusual. I just wondered if you'd had a misunderstanding or if she was sick or something.”

She started shredding the cabbage for supper. “Ordinarily, you two live in each other's pockets.”

“I have other friends, don't forget,” I said. “You are always saying we see too much of each other. So we have decided to have other friends.”

“Fine,” my mother said. “But why don't you ask her over for supper tonight? Isn't she usually alone for supper? It wouldn't be much fun, I should think, to eat alone all the time.”

“You may not think so, but she doesn't have anyone to tell her to go to bed, stop watching TV, do your homework, stuff like that.”

“I know,” my mother said. “That's what I mean.”

“She is probably over at Susie's house. Or Wendy's.”

My mother put lotion on her hands. She does this all the time but I have noticed that my father does not carry on the way men do in TV commercials when their wives use hand lotion, about how soft and everything their hands are. About how they're as white and pretty as before they got married. Sometimes you have to stop and think about things like that.

“Run down the hall and see if she's there, please, like a good girl. I made too much chili and I've got coleslaw and she loves coleslaw.”

I went but I didn't run. I walked. Very slowly. I rang Al's bell. Just a regular ring, nothing special.

“Hi,” I said.

Al said, “Hello.”

“My mother wants to know if you want to come to supper tonight,” I said.

Al looked like she'd have to think if she had a previous engagement. My mother does the same thing.

“I don't know,” she said. “I have a lot of homework.”

“My mother said to tell you we're having chili.”

“Oh,” said Al.

“And coleslaw,” I said. “And Al, I'm sorry.”

“About what?” Al said.

“About the stupid dumb thing I said the other day. About fathers thinking daughters were a big deal. I could kill myself, it was so dumb.”

“That's all right,” Al said. “I didn't think anything about it.” She smiled. “Tell your mother that I would like to come. Very much. That is very nice of her.”

“O.K.,” I said. “Come at six. See you.”

Chapter Sixteen

We went down to Mr. Richards's to check on our bookshelves. We had put the glue on them a couple of days ago and we wanted to see how they had turned out. They looked pretty nice and Mr. Richards said when we put a coat of shellac on them they would be all set to go.

“It is the first thing I have ever made by myself,” Al said. “I think it's pretty good.”

“You girls should be proud, real proud,” Mr. Richards said. “I never thought you could do such a good job.”

We both smiled.

“Have a shooter?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” Al said. “I have been invited out to dinner and I want to save my appetite.”

“Who invited you?” I said.

“Mr. Herbert Smith is who,” Al said. “He invited me and my mother out to dinner. How about that?”

“Mr. Herbert Smith is a friend of Al's mother,” I explained to Mr. Richards. “He takes her out.”

“That so? He must be a mighty nice fella.”

“There's one thing that bothers me,” Al said. “I've been thinking about what I should talk about. I should have an interesting topic to talk about so we don't have big long silences and they'll be sorry they brought me along. It is the first time I have been invited out like this.”

“How about air pollution?” Mr. Richards said. “It is a very good topic. Everybody is interested in air pollution. I have been reading a lot about it in the papers. The stuff you take into your lungs when you go out for a breath of air these days, you wouldn't believe. It is not safe to breathe too much, you coat your lungs with poison. Pure poison. It is very interesting. After all,” he said, “we all got lungs.”

“You are right,” Al said.

“Just sit tight,” he said, “and I will find the story I am talking about.” He scuffled around through a big stack of papers and came up with a long, boring-looking story.

“You read this here,” he said, giving it to Al, “and you'll have them thinking you are a very smart young lady who knows what is going on in the world today.”

“Thank you, Mr. Richards. I don't know what I'd do without you,” Al said.

We said good-by and went out to the elevator.

“I think maybe my father is coming to see me,” Al said on our way up.

“That's nice,” I said. “When is he coming? I would like to meet him.”

“I'm not exactly sure. He said he might drop in. He is at a convention in the city. Either he'll drop in or maybe he'll invite me to a hotel for dinner and maybe go to a play.”

“Will your mother go too?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “My mother and father have a very friendly relationship, you know.”

If they have a very friendly relationship, I do not see why they are divorced, but that is none of my business.

“That's nice,” I said. Al never talks about her mother and father and I have always wanted to know why they got divorced.

“Excuse me,” I said, “I know it is none of my business, but I would like to know why your mother and father got a divorce.”

Al said, “My father is a perfectionist. My mother says no woman can stand being married to a perfectionist.”

“Oh,” I said.

I don't think either my mother or my father is a perfectionist.

I am glad.

Chapter Seventeen

It was snowing when I woke up the next morning. My brother Teddy was over his cold and was acting like an idiot, leaping around and throwing his oatmeal in the dog's dish so he could get outside faster.

The dog does not like oatmeal, so he left it.

I like everything but liver. The dog loves it. His nose quivers when my mother cooks liver. She would not like it if she knew the dog got mine. She would have a fit, in fact. At those prices.

Anyway, my mother came in, and when she saw the oatmeal in the dog's dish, she started hollering at Teddy about wasting food.

He put his hand in front of his mouth and started imitating her. He always gets spoiled when he has a head cold. He is getting extremely fresh for a nine year old. I would not dare to imitate my mother in front of her. I would at least wait until she left the room. Teddy says this is sneaky. He is my mother's favorite. Most girls I know say their brother is their mother's favorite. It is sort of an unwritten law.

I will admit, though, that the last time he came to the table and made a face and said, “What? Pork chops again!” she sent him to his room and he didn't get any supper at all.

She said she would do it and she did. My mother is very consistent. It is one of the best things and one of the worst things about her.

It was a pretty snow, with big, wet flakes.

“This won't last,” my father said. He considers himself an authority on snow and whether or not it will last.

“I hope not, sort of,” I said. “We are just about to finish our bookshelves. We have to put a coat of shellac on them and then they are set. If it's a big snow, Mr. Richards will have to shovel walks and we will not be able to get much done.”

“It's a pity his job cuts into your woodworking,” my mother said. She still does not like me to go down there all the time, but when she found out me and Al were doing something useful she didn't mind so much. She even said, “I suppose you'd like me to invite Mr Richards for tea too.”

I got hysterical thinking about Mr. Richards coming into our apartment and sitting down and saying he'd like a shooter of tea. I laughed so hard I couldn't breathe and she had to thump me on the back.

“Why don't you kids give him a hand after school?” my father said. “That old geezer shouldn't be shoveling, especially a heavy, wet snow like this. He must be getting on for seventy.”

“Seventy's not so old,” I said. “Gosh, they're plenty of kings and presidents and actors and all kinds of people who are seventy.”

“True,” my father said, “but they're not necessarily out shoveling snow.”

He has a point.

I met Al in the hall.

“How was it?” I said. “Did you have a good time with Mr. Smith?”

“We went to a fantastic place,” she said. “It had rugs on the floor so thick I went in up to my ankles. And I had crepes suzette for dessert—you know, those pancakes they set on fire. It was pretty cool.”

“How did the air pollution go?” I said.

“Well, I told them about it and what you breathed when you went out and what your lungs looked like and all. They were pretty interested but my mother changed the subject and we talked about comic strips. Mr. Smith likes “Peanuts” and a whole mess of others and we got along pretty well. He's not such a bad egg.”

“That's good,” I said. “I'm glad you like him better.”

It snowed all the way to school.

“If this keeps up,” I said, “I think it would be good if we helped Mr. Richards shovel. So he won't have a heart attack or something. He must be getting on for seventy.”

“Good idea,” she said. She put out her tongue and caught some snow on it. “It tastes like chocolate,” she said.

I put out my tongue and it didn't taste like anything to me except snow. “Mine tastes like vanilla,” I said.

I have learned to go along with the gag, as Al says.

Chapter Eighteen

“How do you like my new tie?” Mr. Keogh wanted to know.

“Well,” I said, “it is different.” It was blue and red and yellow in a sort of squiggly pattern. It would be good for Saturdays.

“I'll tell you frankly, Mr. Keogh,” Al said, “it doesn't do too much for you. If you know what I mean.”

Mr. Keogh looked down at his tie. “Indeed I do know, Al. Indeed I do. And I'm a man who needs all the help he can get.”

He winked at us and we had a good laugh. We are all friends.

“Mr. Keogh,” I said, “I thought you might be interested to know that Al and I are practically finished making bookshelves. At home, I mean. Mr. Richards, who is our assistant superintendent, is teaching us on Saturday mornings. We are coming along pretty good.”

“That's fine. I'm glad to hear it. How are you coming along on your social-studies project? Just as good?”

Al and I are doing a project on different countries for social studies.

“Mr. Keogh, I have written to all the embassies and information bureaus of all the places I want to find out more about, and I have probably got more stuff in the mail than any other kid in our class,” I said.

“How'd you manage that?” Mr. Keogh asked.

“Well,” I said, “my father tipped me off. He told me if I wrote for information and just signed ‘Miss' they would think I was only some little upstart kid. Whereas, if I signed my letter ‘Mrs.' or put ‘Mrs.' on the back of the envelope, they would think maybe I would take a trip to their country with all my children and my husband and they would make a lot of money from me. So I put ‘Mrs.' on the back of the envelope and they sent me everything in sight.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Keogh said. “Tell your father I think he is a very clever man. The only thing is—and he straightened his new tie—“the mailman must be a little perplexed. When he has all this mail addressed to ‘Mrs.' and he gets a load of you, he must wonder what monkey business is going on.”

“Oh,” I said, “we don't see our mailman all that much. He only really comes around at Christmas time. He starts bringing this big load of mail just about a week or so before Christmas. His feet hurt something terrible but he still brings this mail right to our door instead of dropping it in the box.”

“Hm,” Mr. Keogh said, “we must share the same mailman.”

Chapter Nineteen

By the time we got out of school the snow had stopped.

My father was right.

“I wonder if Mr. Richards will have to shovel any of this,” Al said. “I should think those lazy old tenants could do a little work themselves. Mr. Richards is much too fine a man to be at their beck and call. You know something?”

Al stuck her hands on her hips and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

“No. What?” I said.

“Mr. Richards is a prince. He is the nicest man I know. Outside of Mr. Keogh.”