Thelma turned to me and said, “Does she know this earl person? I mean, is he a personal friend or something?”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“I think that’s a fabulous story, Al,” said Polly. “Very romantic. To give everything up for love. Terrific.”
Al beamed. “You’ve got it, Pol. Me too. I love it. And to think that they got it all together on a blind date. Fantastic. The crowning touch.” She looked surprised, then said, “The crowning touch. Get it? Parfait.”
We all stared at Al.
“She’s a très weird person,” Thelma said.
“Well, I don’t know about you guys,” Al said, “but I can hardly wait for my first blind date. I can see him now, a superstar on a Yamaha, all in black leather, jacket and puttees and helmet, and me in my black leather dress. We’ll ride into the sunset with his chains clanking like an armful of bracelets.”
“That wasn’t kind,” I told Al on our way home. “You didn’t have to say that about the bracelets.”
“O.K., and she didn’t have to say that about me taking some apples for slimming, either,” Al said.
“Thelma’s a bird,” I said. “Ignore her.”
“Yeah, a vulture,” Al said. “I never should’ve had seconds. As a matter of fact, I never should’ve had firsts. I’m bulging.”
When we got off at our floor, I asked Al if she wanted to come in and listen to my new tapes.
“No offense,” she said, “but I’ve got to go weigh myself. If the earl of Wistwick landed me as his blind date, he’d still be single and sixteenth in line to the throne.” She lifted a hand in salute.
“Have a weird day, comrade,” she said.
I had a sudden, perfect thought.
“Hey,” I said, “the earl’s entitled, isn’t he? I mean, if he wants to marry a divorced mother of two, he’s entitled. Right?”
Al did a couple of bumps and grinds and grinned at me.
“You have unexpected depths, o skinny one,” she said and went inside.
I never should’ve had seconds either, I decided.
Two
When Al turned fourteen last month, she went into a tailspin. She decided Al was a babyish name. Plus it lacked class and pizzazz. So we thrashed around for a while, trying to come up with something jazzy: Zandra, Sandy, Alex.
Nothing fit.
Then she wrapped her head in a turban and decided to call herself Mother Zandi. When our homeroom teacher, Mr. Keogh, asked us to visit the old people’s home his father was in, Al told fortunes in a deep, dark, swami-type voice. The seniors loved her. She wowed ’em. My father says you call that a boffo performance. Now, whenever she feels like it, Al turns into Mother Zandi, her alter ego, so to speak.
When I first knew her, Al was a little on the plump side. Then she stopped pigging out and dropped a lot of flesh. Al fights the battle of the bulge constantly. Right now, I think she’s losing it. Again.
I’m not saying a word, but last week I think I saw Al’s behind wiggle. In gym class. I thought I should tell her, then I rethought and kept my mouth shut. If there’s one thing that drives Al bonkers, it’s a behind that wiggles; her own or anyone else’s.
In the early days of our friendship, Al wore Chubbies.
Chubbies, according to Al, are a fate worse than death.
Al’s mother, since she works in Better Dresses and all, is extremely weight and fashion conscious. She thinks if you’re more than a size ten you better shape up or ship out.
Next morning Al was waiting in the lobby with a long face.
“Check this,” she said, pulling up her sweater to show me the safety pin holding her skirt closed.
“Nice, huh?” Al said, glum as could be. “I knew I never should’ve had seconds at Polly’s. My mother will flip. It’s brand new. She’ll probaby send me to a fat farm for my Christmas present.”
“Maybe the fat farm will be near where Brian lives,” I said, trying to look on the bright side.
“You’re a riot,” she said.
“I wasn’t trying to be,” I said. “It just happened.”
“It’s creeping avoirdupois,” Al grumbled. “There’s no sense kidding myself. I could lie, say the skirt must’ve shrunk at the cleaners, except it hasn’t been to the cleaners. I’m headed for the fat farm, that’s for sure. Along with the rest of the cows.”
Al has lots of ups and downs. I’m always cheering her up. Or trying to. Al’s very demanding. I have to stand by her. She’s my best friend. In the long run, she’s worth it. It’s just that in the short run I sometimes run out of steam.
With her stomping along, muttering to herself, and me bringing up the rear, you should pardon the expression, we set off for school.
I was right. Her behind did wiggle. Oh, boy. I hoped no one but me would notice. I prayed no one would say anything to her.
When Al gets in the pits, she zones out. Tunnel vision takes over. She started to cross against the light at Eighty-sixth Street and a taxi driver yelled at her. She blinked and tugged nervously at her skirt.
“I thought when I became fourteen I’d have it made,” Al said. “But no, it’s the same old rat race. The same old ugly face in the mirror, the same old head of hair full of split ends. Instead of a face lift, maybe I oughta get a head lift. You know, a whole new head. Something plastic surgeons have not yet come to grips with. Whaddaya think?”
“Well,” I said, “if you keep walking in front of cabs, something’s bound to happen. You might wind up in the emergency room. Where you would then meet a most adorable intern. I understand lots of interns are adorable and mostly unmarried on account of they’re married to their jobs and don’t have time for romance.”
“Who does?” Al said. “Romance is on its way out. Romance is dead. Romance is kaput. People never send other people a dozen long-stemmed roses anymore. Or a box of chocolates. When was the last time somebody sent you a dozen long-stemmed roses or chocolates? When, I ask you.”
She stopped walking and stared at me.
“Me?” I said. “Moi?” Well …” I pretended to think. “Let’s see.”
“You’re such a turkey,” Al sighed. “I bet you never even got a Valentine from a boy.”
“Sure I have. From my father. He’s a boy, isn’t he?”
Al snorted. “I bet Brian’s not sending me a Valentine. Probably he’s ditched me for a girl who plays the tuba in the school band and has this cool uniform with brass buttons and wears little white boots with tassels on ’em.”
“If she totes a tuba, she must be pretty strong,” I said.
Al scowled at me and I could see I’d said the wrong thing.
“Don’t sweat it,” I told her. “Valentine’s Day is ages away. I wouldn’t worry if I was you.”
“Your problem is,” Al said in a cool voice, “you are the kind of person who goes through life blithely without a worry in your pointed little head. You make me sick.”
“Yeah, well, you make me sick too,” I said. “You worry enough for both of us. You should be more like me; fat, dumb, and happy, then you’d …”
If I could’ve bitten off my tongue, I would’ve. What a thing to say to Al, of all people. Fat, dumb, and happy was just an old-fashioned expression I’d heard my mother use. It didn’t mean anything personal. It didn’t mean Al was any of those things. But I knew, from the way she hunched her shoulders and put her head down as she ran up the school steps, that I’d been tactless. One more time.
When I got to our homeroom, Al wasn’t there. Our new homeroom teacher, Ms. Bolton, was at her desk, marking papers. I feel sorry for Ms. Bolton. So does Al. She doesn’t seem to have made friends. The other teachers are polite but not particularly friendly. Once Al and I were on the bus and we saw Ms. Bolton walking with a man. She looked really happy, the only time I’ve seen her look that way.
Ms. Bolton wears big baggy sweaters, full skirts, and red tights. Almost every day she wears the same thing. I think she might change her luck if she chang
ed the color of her tights. I would like to suggest this to her but feel it’s none of my business. Al and I have decided that she must be one of those people who, through no fault of her own, doesn’t relate to others. Al says that, psychologically, Ms. Bolton is the sort others shun. She read about this sort of person in some medical journal and she’s decided that’s Ms. Bolton’s problem. I think we should do something to try to help her. But I don’t know exactly what.
“Hello, Ms. Bolton,” I said. She raised her head and for a minute I don’t think she registered. Her eyes looked blank. Then she came to, said hello back to me, and went on working. She’s not much for small talk, I guess.
I went to my desk and began to clean it out. Even though we’d only been back at school a few weeks, it was already crammed with junk. I’m basically quite untidy. I mean, I can live with a mess. But because I wanted to keep busy, I made a big show of gathering up some gum wrappers and scratch sheets I’d doodled on and carrying them up to the wastebasket.
Ms. Bolton went on working. I might have been the Invisible Man, for all she noticed.
Then, as I made my way back to my desk, I heard her make a funny noise. “Sorry?” I said, turning to look at her. Her head was down on her desk. Then Al showed up. It was me and her and Ms. Bolton in the room.
“Que passe?” Al said.
“Maybe she’s sick,” I said.
Ms. Bolton’s head stayed down. I think she was crying. Her shoulders moved, but she didn’t make a sound.
Al went to her and touched her on the arm.
“Can we help?” she said. I wish I’d thought of doing or saying that.
Ms. Bolton lost it then. Completely. I mean, she bawled. Really loud.
“You think we should call somebody?” I asked Al.
Ms. Bolton must’ve heard. “No,” she said, raising her head. “Please. I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute.”
Tears streamed down her face. Her hair was wild. So were her eyes.
“I’ll get some water,” Al whispered and she skinned out. I stayed put, not knowing what else to do.
Ms. Bolton took a few gulps of air and shook her hair out of her eyes.
“I’m all right, really,” she said. She blew her nose and smiled weakly at me. “My life just isn’t what … well, it’s hard to explain. It just isn’t what I’d hoped. I’ll get it together soon.”
Al came back, saving me from having to reply.
“Here.” Al thrust a small paper cup at Ms. Bolton.
“Thanks.” She drained the cup and smiled a watery smile. “I’m sorry, kids. Thanks. I don’t want to lay my problems on you. Do me a favor. Don’t say anything about this to anyone, O.K.?”
We heard someone coming. Hastily, Ms. Bolton ran a comb through her hair and her face assumed a somewhat more cheerful look.
Wouldn’t you know. Martha Moseley bustled in, full of herself, as usual.
“Ms. Bolton,” she said, “I know it’s not due until next week, but I did my English assignment early. I got carried away. My poem is about going to a graveyard and studying the gravestones, what they say.” Martha slid her eyes sideways, checking to see if we were properly impressed.
“When I read my poem to my mother,” Martha continued, “she actually cried. She was totally overcome at the beauty of it. The images. My father said I should send my poem to one of the little magazines. The ones that don’t pay much but that, artistically, a true poet should aim for. Do you think I should, Ms. Bolton?”
“How about your father?” Al said. “Was he totally overcome too?”
“What’s your poem going to be about, Alexandra?” Martha said in a snippy voice. “Eating popcorn at the movies?”
“Actually …” Al spoke so slowly I knew she was stalling for time. “Actually, it’s shaping up pretty well. It’s going to be an epic poem. Sort of like the Iliad. It relates a hero’s advantages and accomplishments.” From the rush of words, I knew Al had been inspired. She was really getting into it.
“An epic’s very long, you see, Martha. You can’t just dash it off. It takes a lot of time. Mine’s an epic poem and the hero is Napoleon.”
I gasped. She was going for the gold on this one, I thought. Napoleon was no small potatoes.
“There’s been talk of making it into a film,” Al said. Even Ms. Bolton looked impressed.
“Starring Michael J. Fox as Napoleon. They’re about the same size. So he’d be perfect for the role. Michael J. Fox, I mean. My agent’s working on it now.”
Martha opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and bustled over to her desk. I thought I saw smoke coming out of her ears, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Well done,” I told Al. “That gives you one point for one-upmanship.”
Ms. Bolton laughed a bit shakily.
“Sounds good, Al,” she said. “I’ll be eager to see the final results.”
“Actually,” Al said, frowning fiercely at the blackboard, “it’s still in the planning stage. I’m still thinking it out in my head. I haven’t actually written any of it yet.”
“Actually, Al, I didn’t think you had,” Ms. Bolton said.
Three
“I can’t get over her crying like that,” Al said. We were on our way home, friends again. We never stay mad at each other for long.
“Who does that remind you of?” Al pushed her nose against the butcher’s window. From his window displays, I’d say he’s a very artistic butcher. Last week he had a whole pig with an apple stuck in its mouth. That pig had the saddest little eyes I ever saw. The week before that, a bunch of lamb chops dressed in frilly pantaloons danced in a circle. But today just a side of beef hung out, naked and alone.
“Martha Moseley,” I said. That cracked us both up.
“Maybe she’s broke,” Al said after we’d calmed down. I knew she meant Ms. Bolton, not Martha Moseley. “Teachers don’t make big bucks, you know.”
“No, I think it’s her boyfriend,” I said. “She wants him to make a commitment and he won’t.”
“Yeah, he’s most likely the divorced father of two, and his kids don’t like Ms. Bolton.” Al gave me a piercer. “I think she must be very gullible and falls for any charlatan who buys her a beer. I don’t think she knows squat about life.”
“Not like us women of the world, you mean,” I said. “Well, whatever’s bothering her, we should try to help. But how?”
“Ah, you ask the cosmic question to which I do not have the cosmic answer,” Al said. Then she grabbed me and hissed, “Look! Up Ahead! Do you see what I see?”
“It’s only a man in a skirt,” I said, yawning. “Big deal. Maybe his mother always wanted a girl.”
“It’s a bagpiper, you turnip,” Al told me.
A man wearing kilts and carrying bagpipes over his shoulder came toward us. His face was wide and red and he had a bristling mustache.
“I bet he’s from Scotland,” Al said. “I absolutely love bagpipes. They sound so sad and desolate and they make me feel as if Laurence Olivier is chasing me across the moors, hollering, ‘Cathy! Cathy!’ at me.”
“Laurence who?” I said.
“Laurence Olivier. Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff.”
“Oh, that Laurence Olivier,” I said, remembering. “Who’s Cathy?”
“Merle Oberon, turd.”
“Oh,” I said again, smiling at the memory. “Trouble with that scenario is, kiddo, you don’t look much like old Merle.”
“You really know how to hurt a guy,” Al grumbled.
The man in kilts must’ve seen us staring at him. As he drew near, he smiled and gave us a little salute.
“Are you from Scotland?” Al asked him. She can be pretty bold when it behooves her, I thought.
“That I am, lassie,” he said. “Do you know Scotland, then?”
“Not really,” Al said, blushing a little. “But I’ve read tons of books about it. I would love to go there someday. Some of my ancestors are Scottish. I’d like to see the moors an
d the heather. And I think I’d like to try some haggis.”
“Ah, yes, haggis,” the man said. “Oh, you make me miss it right this moment. I’m from Glasgow myself. I’m here in your great city for a few days and already I’m homesick and longing for a taste of it.”
“What’s haggis?” I said.
“It’s the Scottish national dish, lass,” he said to me. “It’s the sheep’s intestines boiled in its stomach along with a bit of oatmeal.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Al said to me, grinning. I felt my stomach heave. I rejected the whole idea of haggis. Such a thing couldn’t be true.
“I absolutely love the bagpipes,” Al said, breathless.
In answer, the man blew us a few notes on his pipes. People stopped to listen. It was indeed a sad and lonely sound.
“Now that’s a bonnie sound, isn’t it?” the man said. “You’ll not find a bonnier one if you travel the world over. You must come to Glasgow someday.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Al said. “When I save up enough money. I hear it’s very beautiful and the people are really hospitable.”
Any minute now, I thought, they’ll start exchanging telephone numbers.
“That it is,” the man agreed, and he saluted us again and walked away jauntily, skirts swinging as he shouldered his pipes.
“He has nice legs,” I said, admiring him from afar. “Maybe we should’ve asked him if he was married. Maybe he’s lonely. We could’ve fixed him up a blind date for Ms. Bolton.”
“You’re out of your gourd,” Al said. “You can’t ask a total stranger if he’s married or if he’d like a blind date with your teacher. Suppose he’s a serial killer or something. Just because he plays the bagpipes and has nice legs doesn’t mean his heart is pure.”
I had to admit she had a point.
“Maybe we should’ve warned him about Rockefeller Center,” I said. “In those kilts he might be in tough shape.” Rockefeller Center Plaza is a regular wind tunnel. Lots of folks have lost their wigs and umbrellas, and it can be dangerous once that wind gets under your skirt.
Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five Page 10
