Free Al’s Blind Date: The Al Series, Book Six by Constance C. Greene Page A

thought they were rather chic.”
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œOur 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?”
    â€œHow about a shot of tofu?” Al said. “Or a shooter of two percent milk.”
    â€œNo, thanks,” I said.
    â€œO.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.
    â€œIt’s a letter I’m writing to Brian,” she said.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œI might mail it, I might not,” she said. “It depends.”
    â€œOn what?” I said. “How about giving Mother Zandi a buzz, seeing what she advises.”
    â€œGood 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.”
    â€œAsk her about the party,” I told Al.
    Al was frowning into her crystal ball, charging her batteries, when Polly burst in.
    â€œYour 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?”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œWell, Harry’s got a brown belt in karate,” Polly said. “I’m not too worried about him.”
    â€œFirst, 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.
    â€œI 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