A Girl Called Al: The Al Series, Book One (9 page)

“You never heard of artificial insemination?” Al raised her eyebrows so far they disappeared into her bangs. I don't think Al and bangs were meant for each other. She had cut them herself last week and I didn't have the heart to tell her. If she asked me, I'd say what I thought but she didn't ask.

“When a lady can't have a baby they take the sperm of an unidentified male donor and inject it into her and, presto, she's pregnant.”

“You made that up,” I said.

“Could I make up a story like that?” she asked me. One thing about Al, she has a very vivid imagination but she usually tells the truth.

“The only trouble,” Al went on, “is that the kid might turn out to be ugly, on account of its father, the unidentified donor, was ugly or maybe a murderer or a criminal or something like that. I think you take an awful chance. Still, it's a possibility. You've got to admit that.”

“Maybe the unidentified donor turns out to be handsome with a cleft in his chin,” I said. “What then?”

Al looked puzzled. “What's a cleft in his chin?”

I raised my eyebrows, higher even than she could raise hers. “You don't know what a cleft in the chin is?” I asked, incredulous. “It's a sort of cavity, like a giant-sized dimple, smack in the middle of the chin. My grandfather has one. It's really nice.”

“Listen.” Al tugged her sweater down. “Next time your grandfather comes to visit you, let me know.” She picked up her books from the windowsill.

“Have a weird day,” she said and went down the hall.

It was the first time since I'd known her that Al asked the question and I had the answer ready. It was a nice feeling, for a change.

2

After school we went to Al's apartment to do our homework, where we can have peace and quiet. Her mother works in a department store downtown. There is usually a glass jar full of carrot sticks and cucumber slices and green peppers for us to eat. Al's mother is in Better Dresses and is bugs on the subject of not eating fattening things for snacks, so she provides all these raw vegetables, which are supposed to be chock-full of vitamins and no calories.

“Have a carrot stick,” Al said, tossing me one. I caught it and put it in my mouth.

“Every time I eat a carrot stick, I think of Mr. Richards,” Al said. “I miss him.”

Mr. Richards was the assistant superintendent of our building. He and I and Al were friends. He started giving us carrot sticks instead of bread and butter and sugar when Al went on a diet. He tried to teach us how to polish the kitchen floor the way he did. He tied rags on his feet and skated around until the floor shone, but neither one of us ever managed the trick. Mr. Richards died three months ago. Things haven't been the same since.

We were quiet for a few minutes. The sound of water dripping from the kitchen faucet was loud in the room.

“Look at what my father sent me from New Orleans,” Al said. She opened a box and showed me the big, flat pieces of candy full of nuts.

“What are they?” I asked.

“Pralines. They're absolutely delicious,” Al said.

“How do you know? I thought you weren't supposed to eat sweets,” I said.

“The day they came, my mother said I could have one. And you know something?” Al put the box back in the cupboard. “I'm sorry I did. Before I tasted it, I didn't know how good they were. Now I know and it's a heck of a lot harder not to eat one.”

“How come your father doesn't know you don't eat candy?” I said.

“How would he know? He hasn't seen me in years. I think I was eight the last time I saw him. He wouldn't recognize me if he fell over me. Except for that picture I sent him, and I've lost some weight since then.” Al's father and mother are divorced. Her father sends her checks in the mail even when it isn't her birthday. He sends her postcards from all over but, so far, he hasn't come to see her. He keeps threatening but he doesn't show up. It used to bother Al a lot but now I think she's used to the idea.

The telephone rang. Al picked it up and said, “Yeah? Oh, hi, Mom. We're getting a snack. We polished off all the pralines and now we're into the mashed potatoes.” She winked at me. I could hear her mother's voice, sounding high and anxious. “No, that's all right. Have a good time. I'll be fine.”

Al hung up. “That was my mother. She's going out for dinner. She wanted to know if I was all right. She's got this thing about not wanting me to be alone too much. She's got a new boyfriend, in Sportswear, at the same store where she works. She's been out with him three times in the last week.”

“Do you like him?”

Al shrugged. “He's O.K. At least he doesn't ask me to call him Uncle. And he doesn't give me presents to get on my good side. I'll give him that much. He probably hates me.”

“Why does he hate you?”

“How would you like it if you went to take a lady out to dinner and this great big kid is sitting there giving you piercing looks. I feel as if our roles are reversed.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“It's like I'm the mother and she's the kid. I almost said, ‘Don't keep her out too late, and be sure not to drive too fast.'” Al looked at herself in the mirror. “Why am I so hideous?”

“Remember what Mr. Richards said,” I reminded her. “He said you were going to turn out to be a stunner someday.”

“That's right, he did.” Al looked pleased. “Maybe if I ran around thinking beautiful thoughts, it might help. My first beautiful thought for the day would be how nice it would be if Martha Moseley fell down and broke her leg.”

We got a good laugh out of that. Martha Moseley is a girl in our class who thinks she's the world's greatest cheerleader. Martha Moseley was also the first girl in our class to get her period. You might know.

We had a few more carrot sticks and did a couple of math problems.

“I've got to go,” I said. “My mother and father are going out to celebrate their anniversary and I have to brat-sit for Teddy.”

“How long have your mother and father been married?”

“Fourteen years. On account of they'd been married a year and a half before I came along to brighten their life.”

“Some brightener,” Al said.

“You can come and help me brat-sit if you want,” I said. “Probably it'd be all right if you came to eat with Teddy and me.”

“Not with the price of food these days,” Al said. “Besides, I've got my tuna fish and my wheat germ. But maybe I'll come over later on.”

“See you,” I said.

“Fourteen years is an awful long time to be married,” Al said. She looked impressed.

3

“Mom, you look pretty good,” I said, “You look like you've been married four, maybe five years at the most. No one would ever guess.”

“How about me?” my father said. He straightened his tie in front of the mirror. “Would they take me for a carefree bachelor?”

“More like the father of about eight kids,” I said. I like my father. He is the least vain man I know.

My mother wore her taffeta dress, the one that sounds like wind rustling through tall grass. She had on her gold earrings and matching bracelet.

“Where can I possibly take you to show off all that youth and beauty?” my father said. “Why don't we just stay home? I think the ultimate anniversary celebration is to stay home with one's nearest and dearest.”

My mother held out his coat. “I've got the hamburgers all set to go and there's creamed spinach and rice, if you want to cook them. The directions are on the package. The number of the restaurant is by the telephone, just in case.” She kissed me. “Be kind to Teddy,” she said.

“How about Teddy being kind to me?” I said. The doorbell rang. “That's Al. She's coming over to do homework.”

“Happy anniversary,” Al said, handing my mother a box done up in paper covered with green-and-red Santa Clauses. “It was all I had,” she explained.

Mom undid the wrapping.

It was the box of candy that Al's father had sent her from New Orleans.

My mother kissed Al on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “I love pralines.”

“They're for you,” Al said firmly. “I don't want any of the kids to eat your present. I want you to make sure you eat them all, both of you.”

Teddy snuffled in the background. He had his hand out, ready to rip one off but Al gave him such a piercing look he scratched his nose instead, pretending that was what he planned to do all along.

“Your mother looks super,” Al said when they'd gone.

“My father looks super too.”

“Your father is a prince.”

I didn't argue with her. I cooked the hamburgers and toasted rolls, so I wouldn't have to cook rice. They got a little scorched. I scraped off the scorched part but still Teddy gagged and carried on.

“Grow up,” I told him.

“I heard a song today,” Teddy announced. “A dirty song.”

“Better run out to the hall and check to see if they're gone,” Al said.

“My bonnie lies over the ocean,” Teddy sang, “My bonnie lies over the sea, My father lay over my mother, and that is how I came to be.”

Al and I looked at each other. I went on eating my hamburger, and Al got herself a glass of water.

“How'd you like that?” Teddy said. “You want me to sing it again?”

Neither of us answered him. We went on eating and drinking. “I think I'll wear my blue sweater tomorrow,” Al said, pushing back her bangs. “It makes me feel so sexy.”

Teddy repeated the song, from start to finish. He didn't miss a beat. “You get it?” he asked us when he'd finished.

“You think he's ready for the other thing?” Al asked me.

“What other thing?”

“You know. What we were talking about in school today. The a-r-t-i-f-i-c-i-a-l i-n-s-e-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n.”

Al is a much better speller than I am.

Teddy's head swiveled on his neck like he was watching a tennis match.

“Spell it again,” he said, “slower.”

“Heck, no, I don't think he's ready for that,” I said. “I'm not ready—how could he be?”

“Sorry, Ted,” Al said. “You'll have to wait a couple of years. Tough luck. Keep on trying.”

Teddy was practically in tears. “A kid told me it was a very dirty song,” he wailed. “Don't you think it is?”

“It'll do until something better comes along,” Al said.

Teddy looked crestfallen. I felt so sorry for him I didn't even make him finish his creamed spinach. It went into the dog's dish, along with the scorched roll. Teddy is a very picky eater, as I may have mentioned before.

“Why don't you go drown your sorrows in the bathtub, kid?” I said to him. “You can take your ark and all the animals in with you, and I'll even let you have a little of Mom's bath salts.”

Teddy cheered up a bit at that. My mother has the pink bath salts that smell like geraniums, which Teddy is a pushover for. “The only trouble is,” he said the last time I let him use them, “it hurts when I sit on it. It sticks me in my rear end.”

I clued him in about letting the hot water melt the stuff, then it wouldn't stick him, and that made things O.K. When you're only nine, getting joy out of life is very easy. It's only as you grow up that it becomes more difficult.

We listened at the door as Teddy filled the tub. He sang “My bonnie lies over the ocean” at the top of his voice.

“That was mean,” Al said. “Here he thought he was such a hotshot bringing home a dirty song, and we didn't even react.”

“I'll get him to sing it next time my mother has a tea party,” I said. “That ought to get a reaction of some sort.”

After a while Al said she had to go. “You didn't say anything about my bangs,” she added.

“I didn't notice,” I said.

“As a liar, you finish last,” she said. She put her hand on her forehead, pushing the bangs down so far they covered her eyebrows.

“Who beat down that brow?” she said, looking at herself in the mirror. Then she crossed her eyes at me, picked up her books, and opened the door.

“Have a weird day, what's left of it,” she said.

“I'll try,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

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I Know You, Al
Now!

About the Author

Constance C. Greene is the author of over twenty highly successful young adult novels, including the ALA Notable Book
A Girl Called Al
,
Al(exandra) the Great
,
Getting Nowhere
, and
Beat the Turtle Drum
, which is an ALA Notable Book, an IRA-CBC Children's Choice, and the basis for the Emmy Award–winning after-school special
Very Good Friends
. Greenelives in Milford, Connecticut.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1969, 1997 by Constance C. Greene

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

ISBN: 978-1-5040-0440-4

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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