Al(exandra) the Great: The Al Series, Book Four Read online

  When I had asked Al to come for potluck last night with me and my father, she’d said she was sticking around every night until she left for the farm. I guess maybe her mother didn’t know Al was going to do that. Stick around, I mean. She must not have known.

  “You want a croissant?” Al asked me. “Vi brought some home from this really classy pastry shop where everything is so expensive it makes your hair stand on end. But delicious.” The stuff is so delicious it practically makes tears come to my eyes. Vi is Al’s mother’s name. Short for Virginia. Al only calls her mother by her first name behind her back. She says she doesn’t think her mother is ready to be called Vi to her face. She’s probably right.

  We each had half a croissant and a cup of tea.

  “She ought to know better at her age,” Al said in a severe voice. “I told her she should know better. Especially when she’s not feeling so hot.”

  Al suffers a lot from role reversal. I think having no father around or any kind of sibling, she sometimes feels as if she’s her mother’s mother and has to take care of her. I guess a lot of kids who live with just their mothers get into that habit. Sometimes, when Teddy is being more of a pain than usual, or when my mother and father have a fight and my mother has to lie down with one of her migraine headaches, I think it would be wonderful if it were just me and my mother. It would simplify life, I figure. This only happens to me once in a while, though.

  Now I could see Al was worried about her mother. And from what she’d said, her mother had stood her up last night. I felt bad about that, but I didn’t say anything. We took our dirty dishes out to the kitchen. There was a pot on top of the stove.

  “What’s that?” I said, bending down to sniff.

  In a flash Al whipped the pot out from under my nose. She hurled it into the sink and filled it with water.

  “Oh, that’s just something I tried out,” she said. “For last night’s dinner. For laughs. It didn’t turn out too well. As a matter of fact, it was a bomb. I could hardly get it out of the pan. I guess I had the heat too high. Either that or I didn’t add enough liquid.”

  She bent over, scrubbing out the pot. Her hair hung down into the sink, almost touching the dirty water.

  “Why don’t you let it soak?” I said.

  She kept on scrubbing.

  “It didn’t matter anyway,” she said in a muffled voice. “It was only me. I had eggs.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “I think what I’ll do is,” Al said. She paused for breath. We came out into the terrible street heat from the cool of the Donnell Library on Fifty-third Street. It was like fighting your way against a strong current as we beat our way uptown. Passersby looked harried and exhausted and as if they wished they were lolling on the sand, the ocean lapping at their toes, and they were eating an ice cream cone and telling their kids not to go out too far.

  “I think what I’ll do is,” Al said again. And stopped.

  “For Pete’s sake,” I said crossly, “don’t do that. I can’t stand the suspense.”

  “I’ll shake hands,” Al said in a rush. “With Brian. If he comes to meet me with Louise and the boys and my father, that is. If he doesn’t come to meet me—well, that’s a different kettle of fish. That’s a whole other ball game. I’ll stick out my hand and say nonchalantly, ‘Hey, Brian. Long time no see,’ and shake his hand. What do you think?”

  “Listen,” I said. “A girl can’t be too careful. You don’t want him to think you’re engaged or anything.”

  “Don’t be wise!” Al snapped. “Either I shake his hand or I could just give him a little playful punch on his arm and say, ‘How’s tricks?’ On the other hand, I don’t want to be too casual. It’s a tough decision.”

  I envied Al. I envied her her trip to the farm, and the fact that she had a boyfriend. Not a real boyfriend but a friend who was a boy, who sent her postcards. It meant she was grown-up. Always before we’d been even steven. Now she was moving on, moving away, doing grown-up things. Things that I had never done. I hadn’t realized I envied her until that very minute. I wasn’t sure I liked envying Al. But there it was.

  “If that’s the toughest decision you ever have to make,” I said, trying to keep the sourness out of my voice, “you’ll be all right. Aren’t you excited? About going, I mean?”

  Al began twisting a strand of hair around her finger, twisting it around and around so that it would be all snarled when she tried to comb it. That was a sign she was nervous. If she was nervous now, what would she be when she finally arrived? Boy, was I glad I wouldn’t be around for that. She’d be such a wreck she’d have to go to the bathroom every two seconds.

  “It may never come to pass,” Al said. “I have this feeling in my bones, you know?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, it’s too good to be true. The whole thing: the barn dance, Brian, the farm, the whole shmeer. I try not to get my hopes too high. To expect too much. Even if I do really get there. I tell myself it’ll be a washout. That way, if something bad happens, I won’t be too disappointed.”

  “Don’t be such a killjoy,” I said crossly. “Why can’t you just relax and enjoy yourself, enjoy the anticipation? You’re doing exactly what you did before your father’s wedding. The exact same thing. Remember? You kept trying to decide if you should go or not. Back and forth, back and forth. If it hadn’t been for me telling you you should go, you might not’ve. Then just think what you would’ve missed.” I glared at her. “You would’ve missed the really big event in your life. You would’ve missed meeting your stepbrothers. You would’ve missed—”

  “Hold it.” Al held up her hand like a traffic cop. “Hold it. I get the idea. You’re right. I agonize too much. I can’t help it. I wish I didn’t agonize.”

  “It will turn out to be beautiful,” I said. “Perfect. The way the wedding turned out to be perfect. This will be the same. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe.” Al kept her head down as if she were looking for money on the sidewalk. “Maybe,” she said doubtfully.

  We crossed Fifth Avenue and walked past this terribly chic Italian shop where the sales people have the reputation of being the rudest in the whole city. Which is saying a lot. One time Al and I went there and she started spieling off her phony Italian to the salesgirl. Al threw her arms wide and went on talking wildly. After a second the salesgirl showed us to the door and said something in real Italian that probably meant “Get lost!” We laughed for about five minutes about that. But we didn’t ever try it again.

  Now we walked slowly up Fifth Avenue, past the blind man and his German shepherd who are always there. We usually put some money into the man’s cup. Today neither of us had a penny so we walked past him and his dog, staring straight ahead, the way people do when they pretend something or someone isn’t there. Then we looked in Tiffany’s windows and decided to go through the revolving doors to look at the jewelry in the cases. There are always some big, burly men wearing brown suits stationed by the doors in Tiffany’s in case someone decides to make off with a diamond necklace or two. Those men stand there, trying to be inconspicuous. Any baby could tell they were security guards. What I can’t figure is why they all wear brown suits. It’s like a uniform. They might as well wear a little sign saying “Guard” on their lapels.

  “You first,” I said as we leaned against the cases. It was her turn. I was first last time. Al always takes a long time to decide what she wants. Not me. I make up my mind fast. We checked everything: rubies, sapphires, pearls. But especially the diamonds. They get me every time. I could feel the eyes of the men in the brown suits on us. There were bracelets and earrings, gold cigarette lighters, even a swizzle stick made of gold. I asked the man what that was for, and he said, “To break up the bubbles in champagne.”

  “Boy,” I said, “that’s for the guy who has everything, huh?” And he said, “We also have one with a diamond on the tip of the swizzle stick for those who want to go all-out.” I told him I’d have to th
ink about it. Tiffany’s is the best place in the whole city to go shopping.

  I went back to where Al was. “I like that one,” she said at last, pointing to a mammoth ring so big it would’ve covered her knuckle. “What is the price of that one?” she asked the clerk.

  When the salesgirl told her, Al recovered quickly. “Our fathers are in oil,” she said in a snooty voice. “We’re from Oklahoma.” The clerk watched us, a little smile on her face.

  “Try Saudi Arabia,” I whispered.

  “Would you believe Saudi Arabia?” Al said. Slowly the clerk shook her head.

  “Oh, well. It’s in rather bad taste anyway,” Al said. “Too gaudy. Thanks anyway,” and we twirled our way through the revolving door, back out onto Fifth Avenue, past the brown-suited men who pretended they didn’t see us, the way we’d pretended we hadn’t seen the blind man and his dog.

  “The trouble with Tiffany’s is they have no sense of humor,” Al said. We walked for a couple of blocks, not talking. Then Al said, “I don’t care if Brian makes a lot of money. Money isn’t important. Happiness is.”

  “Who’s talking about Brian?”

  “It’s just possible,” Al said slowly, “that we might get married.” I looked at her in astonishment. She was serious.

  “We’d live on a farm. I’d help him. I’d like that—to go live on a farm. Everything smells good there, I bet. Also, you can live a lot cheaper in the country than in the city. You can grow all your own produce, you have your chickens for eggs, your cows for milk. You live off the land. I think that’d be neat, to live off the land.”

  Holy Toledo. Here she was, not even fourteen, and already she thinks she’s found Mr. Right. Just like the olden days. I couldn’t believe it. One minute we’re checking the stuff at Tiffany’s, having a blast. The next minute she’s talking about marrying a kid she met once and living off the land. I was momentarily shocked into silence.

  We stood on the corner of Fifty-ninth and Lexington, across from Bloomingdale’s, waiting for the light to change. A hot little breeze chased the litter around on the sidewalk and wrapped bits of old newspaper around our ankles like warm bandages. Under our feet, a subway train thundered down the tracks, making the sidewalk tremble.

  “The thing that gets me,” Al said angrily, “is I know I shouldn’t go off and leave my mother. Not at this time of the year. There I am, living it up in the cornfields, picking strawberries still warm from the sun, and there’s my mother, slaving her buns off, making a living for both of us. I feel like a crumb, if you want to know. An absolute crumb, going off and leaving her.”

  “I thought you said she was going on a cruise with Mr. Wright,” I said. “That’s what you told me. They were going on a cruise and having separate cabins and everything.”

  Al shook her head. “That fell through. I think it was too expensive or something. Anyway, she’s not going. If it wasn’t so blasted hot right now, it wouldn’t be so bad. But I can see myself sleeping under a blanket at night while it’s so hot here she can hardly breathe.”

  “You have a good point,” I said without thinking.

  She turned as red as a sunset.

  “Can I help it?” she said, her voice rising. “Can I help it if they ask me to visit in the middle of the summer? Can I help it if that’s when I have a vacation and the boys have a vacation? Besides”—she fixed me with one of her super piercers—“who ever heard of a barn dance in the winter? I ask you that!” She stomped ahead of me, taking giant steps. I let her get way ahead of me. Maybe she’d let off some steam for the rest of the way home.

  When we got off the elevator, we could hear the telephone ringing inside Al’s apartment. She unlocked her door and got to it before it stopped ringing. I waited outside.

  “It was my mother,” Al said, coming out into the hall. “She’s working late tonight on account of they’re taking inventory at the store. I told her she was crazy. You’d think she was a vice-president at least. They don’t even pay her time and a half for overtime when she works late. And her voice sounded lousy, and when I asked her if she felt O.K. she said sure, fine, but she wasn’t telling me the truth. I could tell she wasn’t.”

  “Come to our house for dinner,” I said. “It’s just my father and me. My mother and Teddy’ll be home day after tomorrow.”

  “That would be nice,” Al said. “Thanks a lot. I’d like that. I’ll come over after I take a shower, all right?”

  I zapped into my apartment. It was a good thing we lived so close to each other. That way she wouldn’t have to fix eggs for herself again tonight.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Dad, you look burned out,” I said. My father had gotten home early.

  He nodded wearily. “That’s as good a description of how I feel as any I ever heard.” He settled down with his paper. “I’ll be glad when your mother gets home. And Teddy,” he added as an afterthought. I said I’d be glad when my mother got home too. I pointedly left out Teddy’s name. I don’t think he noticed, though.

  Our doorbell rang. Two, then one, then two. The telephone rang at the exact same minute.

  “You are on the horns of a dilemma,” my father said. “Which one shall you answer?”

  “It’s Al, Dad. I invited her for dinner. Let her in, will you? Hello,” I said into the phone. It was Thelma. Thelma is Polly’s best friend on the West Side. I’m Polly’s best friend on the East Side. And never the twain shall meet.

  “I’m having this party,” Thelma said. “Actually, it’s no big deal. I’ve got these two extra boys. They’re sorta twerpy but they are boys. You want to come.” I wasn’t sure if she was asking me or telling me. “And bring Al.”

  “When is it?” I stalled, making faces at Al as she stood talking to my father.

  “Right now. This minute. We’re having spaghetti.” I know lots of kids who won’t go places for dinner unless they know what’s for eats. Spaghetti’s the safest. Nearly everybody likes spaghetti. And it’s cheaper than pizza.

  “Bring records,” Thelma ordered. “Come over as soon as you can. Wear any old thing.” And she hung up. I hadn’t even said I’d go. That was Thelma for you. She assumed people were dying to go to her party.

  Thelma has a maximum amount of self-confidence. Since she got a shape and had her ears pierced—a dynamite combination, some would have you believe—there’s no holding her. She was bad enough before, but now—wow!

  “Thelma wants us to go over to her house to a party,” I told Al. “They’re having spaghetti.”

  “Why’s she want us?” Al asked suspiciously. She’s always suspicious when it comes to Thelma. “She never asked us before. Boy, she must be hard up is all I can say. How come now? Is she having an orgy?” Then Al blushed and put her hand over her mouth. She’d forgotten my father was there. My father has a way of making himself invisible when he goes behind his newspaper.

  “She says she’s got two extra boys. Twerps but boys. She says wear any old thing.”

  “I usually do,” Al said.

  I could feel my father listening to us. His paper was quivering. He thinks Al’s funny. Amusing, not odd. She makes him laugh. I went over to his chair and peered at him over the edge of the paper. He was. Laughing, that is.

  “You want me to call her back and say we can’t come?” I said.

  “Boy, if Thelma says they’re twerps, you better believe they’re twerps,” Al said darkly.

  “The summer is off to a flying start,” my father said. “I don’t know how you stand the pace.”

  “Do you mind, Dad? If we go? I took the stuff out of the freezer. All you have to do is cook a hamburger for yourself.”

  “Go ahead,” my father said. “I’m happy right here.”

  We zapped into my room. And even though Teddy was in Connecticut, I shut my door. Automatic reflex. Teddy lurks a lot. He also pretends he’s sleepwalking when I have a friend over to spend the night. That way he figures he’s got an excuse for prowling through the hall and eavesdropping.
/>   “Did you tell her we’d go?” Al said.

  “She didn’t give me a chance to say no. But let’s. It might be fun.”

  Al picked at her cuticle. “Those West Side types can be very boring,” she said, frowning. “They take themselves so seriously. Something about living on the West Side makes people take themselves very seriously.”

  “They’re into culture,” I said. “But Polly doesn’t take herself seriously.”

  “Polly is a citizen of the world,” Al said. It’s true. Polly’s father is in the diplomatic service. She has been to a lot of exotic places. Polly plans on being a chef when she grows up.

  “It wouldn’t matter where Polly lived,” Al said. “Polly’s as loose as a goose.”

  “I wish she was going to be at Thelma’s,” I said. “But let’s go anyway. We don’t have anything else to do.”

  So we went.

  CHAPTER 8

  Thelma threw open the door.

  “Oohhhhh!” she squealed. “It’s great to see you!”

  We were off to a bad start. If there’s one thing Al hates, it’s girls who squeal. That and people with wiggly behinds. Those are Al’s two big hates.

  Thelma came at us. It looked as though she was planning on pressing cheeks. The way women do. If she pressed Al’s cheek, she might be sorry. Al might flatten her. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  We sidestepped and landed up in the hall. I could see myself in the floor, it was so shiny. Also, Thelma’s hall was loaded with mirrors. They probably called it a foyer. I’ve noticed if the hall is super-fancy, people tend to call it a foyer. There were mirrors on all sides. You could see yourself coming and going. You could never get out of that joint with your slip showing, that’s for sure. There was a tall vase filled with those stalky flowers I hate sitting on a table. Glads, those flowers were called, although I’m sure I don’t know why. There’s nothing glad about them.