Al’s Blind Date: The Al Series, Book Six (8 page)

“I know,” Al said. “Hang a sign on her that says
AFTER
and one on me that says
BEFORE.”

She gave Big Al a piercer.

“What's it worth?” she asked him.

“I'll hafta think about it,” Big Al said.

Twelve

We walked up the fourteen flights of stairs to our floor when we got home, just in case Sparky's mom was hiding in the elevator, ready to pounce.

“Listen,” Al said, breathing hard along about the tenth floor, “we better make up our minds about this darn party before I have a heart attack. I can't take all this exercise. First I do the rowing machine, then the jump rope, then the stationary bicycle. Now this. I'm basically a very weak person. I can't take life in the fast lane. So I'm out of shape. I guess I'm gonna stay that way.”

“Well, let's call her and tell her we'll go, then,” I said. “It might be fun. And if we don't like her nephew, we just split and buzz for the elevator. It isn't as if we've got a long way to go.”

Al dragged her key up out of her sweatshirt and unlocked her door. “Come on in,” she said. “I've got something I want to show you.”

“What?” I said.

Al was about to say more when her mother showed up, dangling one of Al's nerdy new shoes from the extreme tip of one finger. She was painfully distressed.

“Alexandra, what on earth happened?” Al's mother said. “How are you, dear?” she asked me. I used to be scared of her when Al first moved in down the hall, but now I like her.

“I smelled this perfectly foul odor,” Al's mother continued, averting her eyes from the offending shoe, “and I traced it to your closet. Well, of course I immediately sprayed the whole place with Rume Fresh, but it still smells. What happened?”

Al gave her mother a shot of her bilious eyes.

“Sparky bombed me,” she said.

“Who is Sparky? One of your friends?”

“Mom, Sparky is a dog,” Al said. “He cornered me in the elevator and let fly on account of he took a dislike to me and my new shoes. And I hate 'em too. I wish you wouldn't buy me shoes, Mom. Let me buy my own, O.K.? Shoes are an expression of a person's personality and these don't express my personality, they express yours. I am an individual and these shoes offend me.”

Then Al ran out of steam. She was like a balloon when the air goes out of it. She collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Why, Alexandra,” her mother said, “I had no idea you felt that way. I thought they were rather chic.”

“But I'm not chic, Mom,” Al said, only she pronounced it “chick.” “I'm a very down-to-earth person and I like down-to-earth shoes. I saw a pair of orange hightops to die over and I'm saving up for them. I don't want you to buy them for me. I want to buy them for myself.”

Al's mother was a good sport. I saw her wince when Al said “orange hightops,” but she recovered quickly.

“Our shoe department has a new spray they say brings back to life. I think I'll try it on these,” and she waved Al's nerdy shoe around, keeping it safely away from her nose. “Would you girls like something to snack on? Carrot sticks or some celery?”

“How about a shot of tofu?” Al said. “Or a shooter of two percent milk.”

“No, thanks,” I said.

“O.K., come into my parlor so we can discuss something,” Al said. “Begging your pardon, madam,” she said to her mother, “but we need our privacy.”

We zipped into her room and closed the door. Al went to her desk and pulled out a scroungy little piece of paper.

“It's a letter I'm writing to Brian,” she said.

“Oh, no, not again,” I said. A while back, Al agonized a lot about a letter she was writing to Brian. Everybody got into the act. Tempers were short. She finally wound up signing it “Your Old Pal, Al” so he wouldn't think she was getting mushy.

“I might mail it, I might not,” she said. “It depends.”

“On what?” I said. “How about giving Mother Zandi a buzz, seeing what she advises.”

“Good idea,” Al said, and she dashed into her closet and emerged in her Mother Zandi turban, with the length of cloth Polly'd brought her from India wrapped around her sweat suit. Outside of looking kind of lumpy, she looked great. Very swami-ish.

After a suitable period, necessary to get her act together, Al peered into her imaginary crystal ball and said in her dark voice, “Mother Zandi says she who writes letter should mail said letter before postal rates rise. Better now than later, she says.”

“Ask her about the party,” I told Al.

Al was frowning into her crystal ball, charging her batteries, when Polly burst in.

“Your mother said you were in here,” Polly said. “I decided to swing by when I got out of the dentist's and pin you guys down. Harry's biting his nails. Are you going or aren't you? I've built you up a lot and Harry's psyched out for you to tea-dance with him. But he's getting nervous. I told him if you back out I'd ask Thelma. She's
dying
to go. Her mother told her never to say no to an invite on account of you never know who you might meet. Like, for instance, suppose the son of a king of a remote mountain principality in the Azores happens to be there and he asks you to visit him on his yacht next summer. Can you afford to pass that up?”

“You're telling us you'd throw a nice guy like Harry to the wolves?” Al asked indignantly. “Why, Thelma would eat Harry alive and ask for seconds.”

“Well, Harry's got a brown belt in karate,” Polly said. “I'm not too worried about him.”

“First, we have to tell you what happened to us this afternoon,” Al said. “It was truly bizarre.”

I have to admit we embellished it some, but basically we told the whole truth. Polly was entranced. “Go on, what happened next?” she kept saying.

It
was
a pretty good story. Not your basic, run-of-the-mill after-school special. Besides, Polly was a very satisfying person to tell a story to. She reacted so wonderfully.

“I don't believe it!” Polly shrieked when we described how Ms. Bolton had emerged from the changing room and how Big Al's mouth had dropped open at the sight of her gorgeous bod. How he'd said if she posed in his window he'd pay her, that they'd take one look at her and break down the doors.

“How about if I go with you next time you go there?” Polly suggested. “I could use a little of that body-building routine.”

“If there
is
a next time,” Al said. “We've run out of freebies and he'd probably want us to sign up for six months or something like that.”

“How come you're dressed up like that, Al?” Polly said. “It isn't time to get suited up for Halloween yet, is it?”

“She's Mother Zandi,” I explained. “Al's got another letter in the works to Brian, and Mother Zandi's giving her advice.”

“Yiyiyiyiyi,” Polly crooned, closing her eyes and swaying back and forth. “Another letter to old Brian, eh? I can't handle it, kids. I'm off. What's the word for me to carry to Harry? This is your last chance.”

“Tell you what,” Al said. “I'll get Mother Zandi on the line, and after I check about the party for Sparky's mom's brilliant nephew, I'll get the vibes on Harry's thé dansant.”

Al rearranged her turban and leaned heavily into her crystal ball, and Polly said, “Sparky? Sparky's mom's nephew? What is this, anyway? I hope it's not contagious. You guys must be on something. I'm leaving before I catch what you've got. Who's Sparky?”

Al and I exchanged a long, significant look.

“Should we?” Al asked me. “Tell her, I mean.”

I thought about it.

“O.K.,” I finally said. “But maybe you should leave out the really good parts. She's only a kid.”

So we told her. And the way we told the story, it took quite a long time.

Thirteen

The next morning was chaotic.

My mother had one of her migraines.

My father was tight-lipped, the way he gets when she has one of her headaches. They immobilize her. She stays in bed with the shades pulled for two or three days until the migraine goes away.

I hate it when my mother's sick. The whole house goes topsy turvy.

“Maybe I should stay home,” I started to say. But my father thought he heard her calling and dashed away. Teddy opened his mouth, which was full of half-eaten breakfast, and pushed his face close to mine. My stomach lurched.

“Listen, cretin.” I took Teddy by the scruff of his neck and talked fast and low. “One false move and you're dead meat. It's out the window with you. And I don't think I have to remind you we're fourteen floors up, right?”

I heard my father coming back and let go of Teddy.

“She'd like a cup of tea,” my father told me.

“I'll fix it,” I said. “You want me to stay home, Dad?”

“That won't be necessary. Rest is what she needs. But you'd better come straight home from school to see if you can do anything for her. She may want something to eat by then. I've got an early meeting.” He checked his watch. “I better get going. When your mother is laid low, I expect both of you to behave. No bickering, no horsing around. Think of her, not of yourselves, please. Teddy, are you listening?”

Teddy took his finger out of his nose and stuffed it into his ear. He kind of nodded and didn't make a peep.

Stiffly my father bent to kiss both of us.

I fixed the tea and thought about how Al stood by her mother last summer. How she gave up going to the barn dance and everything. She never complained. Never once.

The fact is, I didn't want to stay home. Al and I had plans to swing by the health club after school to see what was up. We liked that place. It was full of oddballs, weirdos we found fascinating. A couple of blondes came in yesterday as we were leaving. They were pretty tough kahunas with big muscles and lots of makeup. I wished they'd come earlier. I would've loved to see them in action, but Al kept pulling on my arm, saying “Don't wear out your welcome, kid.”

I carried the tray to my mother's room.

“Mom,” I whispered. My mother lay with one arm over her eyes. “You want anything?”

“I'll be fine.” Her voice sounded thin. “Just promise me you'll be nice to Teddy. Try not to fight. Try to be friends. Please.”

I promised. Luckily Teddy and my father were gone when I went back to the kitchen. I brushed my teeth and got my books, and when I went into the hall Al was standing by the elevator, waiting for me.

“Teddy said your mother was sick,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

“Sure,” I said. I didn't feel like talking.

The elevator lurched to a stop at our floor. Inside, smiling at us, were Sparky and his mom. Well,
she
was smiling, he wasn't.

“Wonderful! I couldn't have planned it better!” Sparky's mom cried. “I just knew I'd catch you sooner or later!”

The sound of her voice gave me a headache. I wasn't up for polite conversation. We rode in silence. I heard Sparky grunting at me but pretended he wasn't there. One false move from Sparky, I decided, and he'd be dead meat, just like Teddy.

“Sixish on Saturday, girls!” Sparky's mom cried as we crash-landed in the lobby. “Just wear anything!” and she and the mutt sailed out into the street.

“She doesn't know it,” Al muttered, “but that's what I was planning on wearing. We didn't say we'd go to her party, did we?”

“I didn't,” I said. “I don't know about you.”

“Well, she expects us. We don't want to hurt her feelings,” Al said.

“She'd never notice if we did,” I said.

Usually Al walks fast and I trail behind. Today, I was in the lead and she was behind.

“I feel like a million bucks,” Al said. “I sweated like a pig yesterday. I guess that's why.”

“Pigs don't sweat,” I said.

“Actually, man is the only animal that sweats,” Al said. “That's why deodorants were invented.”

“I have to go straight home after school,” I said. “My mother has one of her migraines. I promised my father I would.”

“That's O.K. We can swing by the health club tomorrow,” Al said. “No sweat.”

“You sure have sweat on the brain today,” I said.

Al looked at me but didn't say anything. I guess I could be in the pits as much as she could if I felt like it.

When we went into our homeroom Ms. Bolton was at her desk wearing her usual baggy duds. Plus her red tights. I felt as if I'd imagined yesterday.

But no. “Thanks a million for yesterday,” she said to Al and me. “It was wonderful. I can't tell you how much it raised my spirits to work out again. I'm trying to figure out how I can afford to sign up at the health club for six months. Maybe if I give up eating, I can swing it.” She laughed and, although it was an effort, so did I.

After last bell rang, I got my stuff together.

“You go without me,” I told Al. “Say hello to Big Al for me.”

She shook her head. “I'm going home, too,” she said. “Maybe I can sit with your mother in case you have to go to the store or anything. Maybe I could read to her or something. Maybe she'd like me to read the paper to her if she doesn't know what went on today.”

“Chances are not only does she not know, but doesn't give a darn,” I said. But I was glad Al was coming with me instead of going to Big Al's.

We let ourselves into my apartment. I put my books on the hall table and said, “I'll just go and see …”

A man came out of the living room.

We both jumped.

It was my grandfather. He said, “Hello, darling,” to me. Then he saw Al and said, “How's my gal Al?”

My grandfather often calls me darling. But when he said that to Al, she turned beet red with pleasure. Al doesn't have a grandfather. She thinks mine is the best. For her birthday he gave her a book by Ring Lardner called
I
Know You, Al.
This book was very famous in its day. Al loves it.