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

by Constance C. Greene

  “Well,” Al said slowly, tugging at her skirt, “an all-in-one is …” and she let her voice dangle in midair.

  “I know!” Teddy came screeching around the corner. “Let me tell! Let me tell!” he hollered.

  Al and I rolled our eyes at each other.

  “O.K., Ted,” she said, “tell us.”

  Teddy planted his feet wide apart and locked his hands behind his back as if he were about to recite a long poem.

  “This oughta be good,” Al murmured.

  “An all-in-one,” Teddy explained, “is when a guy hits the golf ball and it goes VROOM!” Teddy is big on sound effects. “It goes flying through the air with the speed of light and it lands smack in the hole. Smack into this tiny little hole with the flag sticking out of it that he’s aiming for. That’s what they call an all-in-one,” Teddy said. He stood back, studying our faces, waiting and watching our reaction to his story.

  A stunned silence fell.

  “So that’s what an all-in-one is,” I said at last.

  Teddy’s eyes darted from Al’s face to mine, then back to Al’s. “How about it, Al?” he asked her. “Isn’t that right?”

  She went over to him and put her hand on his head. “Ted,” she said, her voice filled with emotion, “when they made you, they threw away the mold.”

  Teddy’s lips curved in a tentative smile.

  “That’s right,” he finally said, deciding Al wasn’t pulling his leg. “They made me and they threw away the mold. You said it.” He gave Al a huge thump on the back that made her eyes water.

  “You said a mouthful, baby!” he shouted. “Don’t give me no flak, either, baby!” and he sailed out of the room on his way to conquer the ocean and the undertow and the sharks.

  “All-in-one, hole-in-one, quelle différence?” Al said philosophically.

  When I was absolutely sure he was gone, I said to Al, “Just exactly what is an all-in-one?”

  “A foundation garment,” she told me, “worn by ladies with full figures. To keep them in shape.”

  “Who wears them?”

  “Some of my mother’s customers,” Al said. “Ladies who buy Better Dresses. Who else?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Next morning the doorbell rang. “Who could that be?” my mother said. Teddy beat her to the door.

  We heard a man’s voice say, “Air Mail, Special Delivery. Sign here please.”

  “It’s for you, Al!” Teddy hollered. “It’s a big envelope for you.”

  “Well, bring it here, wimp,” I called.

  Al is one of those maddening people who studies a package before she opens it. She turned this big thick envelope one way, then another. She shook it and put it to her ear. The only thing she didn’t do was smell it.

  “Who’s it from?” my mother said.

  Teddy was breathing down Al’s neck. “Open it, open it,” he said, clutching himself as if he had to go to the bathroom. He probably did.

  “The postmark’s Chillicothe, Ohio,” Al said in a tone of wonder. “That’s where the farm is. Chillicothe, Ohio.”

  “For Pete’s sake,” I shouted, “it’s from your father. Open it before I kill you.”

  She did, but slowly, so slowly I couldn’t stand it. “You must be a real winner on Christmas morning,” I told her.

  She took out something dark blue. “What is it?” she said a few times. She held up something that looked like a huge T-shirt.

  “Cool,” she said in a puzzled way.

  “It has writing on it,” I said. “Shake it out and see what it says.”

  Al stood up so she could get a better look. It was a very large T-shirt. On the front was spelled out AL(exandra) THE GREAT.

  “Not to be confused with Alexander the Great,” my mother said. “That’s terrific. Here’s a note, Al. It fell out when you pulled out your present.” She handed Al a slip of paper. Al read aloud:

  “To Al. This says it in a nutshell. You are great. We love you and will see you soon. Dad and Louise and Nick, Chris, and Sam.”

  “What a nice present,” my mother said. “And they’re right, Al.”

  “Put it on,” I told her. “See how it fits.”

  “It’s gigantic,” she said, giggling Al almost never giggles, so I knew this was a big moment. She put on the T-shirt over what she already had on. She looked really fat.

  My mother went out of the room. “Who in heck was Alexander the Great?” Al whispered. “I know I should know, but I don’t, and I didn’t want to let on when your mother said that.”

  “Here you are.” My mother plunked down the encyclopedia on the dining room table. “Look him up. This will tell you everything you want to know about Alexander the Great.”

  “Wow,” I said after we’d read Alexander the Great’s credentials. “Talk about being a real winner.”

  It seemed that Alexander the Great, a.k.a. Alexander the Third, born 356 B.C., died 323 B.C. (I always like the way those B.C. dates go backwards), was one of the greatest leaders, not to mention generals and warriors, of all time. He was king of Macedonia and conquered almost all of Asia. When he wasn’t routing Persian forces, he was defeating anything and anyone that got in his way. Old Alexander the Great was a star. From start to finish. A real achiever. And he died when he was only thirty-three.

  “Boy,” Al mused, “if that guy were alive today, he’d be the president of about ten corporations already. Do you think they’re trying to tell me something? Dad and Louise, I mean? Do you think they’re trying to tell me to get off my duff and conquer something?”

  “No,” I said. “I think they’re trying to tell you they think you’re great. That you did something heroic when you said you couldn’t make the barn dance. That’s what I think.”

  Al looked at me in a dazed way. Her eyes glittered as if they were made of bits of glass.

  “You are young but very wise, my friend,” she said. “You are wise beyond vour years.” And she hugged the T-shirt to her chest, smiling.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Al series

  chapter 1

  “If I was pretty, with gorgeous long legs and big bosoms and tawny hair and all that junk,” Al said, “Al might be OK. But with my equipment, Al stinks.”

  All morning we’d been trying to think of another nickname for Al. She’s hitting the big one-four, fourteen, that is, next week, and she says she’s too old to go on being called Al. It’s a baby name, she says.

  “I never knew a baby called Al,” I told her. “Did you?”

  “You know what I mean. I need something with pizzazz. I’m standing where the brook and the river meet, kid, and I want to tell you”—Al shot me a piercer—“it’s a cold and lonely place.”

  “Yeah, and plenty wet, too,” I said.

  Oblivious to my sparkling wit, Al plunged on.

  “How about Sandy? I think Sandy’s kind of a cute name.”

  “Nope,” I said firmly. “Sandy’s out. People would only get you mixed up with Little Orphan Annie’s dog.”

  “You’re right.” Al sighed. “Except he’s much cuter’n me.”

  Oh, boy. Here we go again. Al was headed straight for the pits, a place she’s quite familiar with.

  “Besides,” I said, “who has all that stuff, the legs, the bosoms, the hair, when they’re fourteen? Nobody. Name me one person.”

  “Brooke Shields!” Al shouted. “Elizabeth Taylor! Plenty of people!”

  “Brooke Shields hasn’t got big bosoms,” I said, remaining calm. Sometimes I act older’n Al, although she’s a year older’n me. One of us has to remain calm in a crisis. Hardly a day passes without at least one.

  “And furthermore,” I said, “I read that Elizabeth Taylor has short, stubby legs.”

  “On her, who notices?” Al snapped, then got back to the matter at hand.

  “I still think Alex has the most class.” Al let her eyelids droop, which she always does when she imitates Greta Garbo. “Alex, Alex, my darling,” she murmured in a deep v
oice. Then her eyes widened and she said, “Imagine anyone saying, ‘Al, Al, my darling?’ Absurd, mes enfants.”

  “I bet right at this moment Brian is practicing saying, ‘Al, Al, my darling,’” I told her. Brian is a boy Al likes who lives near Al’s father and stepmother in Ohio. He writes Al postcards. Well, actually, he’s written her one postcard. It just seems like more.

  “Don’t be weird,” Al said, but she perked up considerably at the mention of Brian’s name.

  “Stand over there,” I directed. “And let me see if you could pass as an Alex.”

  Al did as she was told. She had on the red shoes she bought to wear to her father’s wedding. She loves those shoes to death, even though they give her humongous blisters.

  Al posed with one hand on her hip, knees bent in that asinine way models have. She pushed out her lips and dragged a strand of hair across her face so she’d look seductive and sexy. Like an Alex.

  I circled her slowly, studying her, pretending I was a world-famous photographer lining her up for a glossy magazine spread.

  “Snap it up. I haven’t got all day,” Al said.

  “Tough. Neither do I.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Do you realize how much time we’ve spent trying to figure out a new name for you? Anyway, I think you’re stuck with Al. It’s you in a nutshell.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Al oozed out of her model’s pose and looked dejected.

  “I’ve got it!” Inspiration had struck me. “How about Zandra? If that isn’t classy and loaded with pizzazz, I don’t know what is.”

  “Zandra? What kind of a weirdo name is that?”

  “I read about a dress designer called Zandra,” I told Al. “She makes outrageously expensive clothes for the very rich. That’s what it said. If the dress she’s wearing is pink, she dyes her hair pink. If the dress is green, the hair is also green. I call that classy. And you’ve got to admit that Zandra would make you stand out in any crowd, n’est-ce-pas?”

  “Zandra.” Al tried it on for size, rolling the name around on her tongue to see if it fit. “Zandra, Zandra.” Al grinned. “My mother would have a cow.”

  “You might get to like it,” I said. I wasn’t going to say anything, but at the moment, Al did not look like a Zandra. In addition to her red shoes, which have big clunky heels and make her walk sort of like Frankenstein, she had on a pair of ratty old jeans and her AL(exandra) the Great T-shirt. Her father and stepmother had sent it to her when Al’s mother got pneumonia and had to go to the hospital. Al stuck by her mother instead of going to the barn dance in Ohio, which she so longed to do. Al wears that T-shirt almost every day. Sometimes she sleeps in it. If she was in a burning building and had to choose between it and her red shoes, Al says she’d take ’em both and Devil take the hindmost. Whatever that means.

  “On second thought,” I said, “maybe you’re not a Zandra. That’s a pretty fancy name.”

  “Yeah.” Al flicked her eyelashes at me. “And I’m pretty plain. Just plain Al, they call me.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” I said.

  “Listen,” she told me.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I read a book about shoes. It says that red shoes are a weapon. That red shoes make men perspire and stammer and pull at their neckties. Did you ever hear that?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, if I ever get to the farm, I’ll wear these beauties.” Al stuck out a foot and we both stared at it. “And Brian will stammer and perspire and tug at his necktie, he’ll be so crazy about me.”

  Al stopped talking. I knew she expected me to say something significant.

  I thought a minute.

  “You think Brian owns a necktie?” I said at last.

  chapter 2

  When I first knew Al, she had pigtails. She was the only girl in the whole entire school who had them. Al is a nonconformist and proud of it. She went to have her hair styled and came out with her pigtails intact. And it was her mother’s hair stylist, working under orders from her mother.

  Al’s a year older than I am, due to the fact that she traveled around a lot when she was little and got left back somewhere along the line.

  Al broods a lot. She spends too much time contemplating her own navel. Sometimes it gets me down. I love her. She’s my best friend. I only wish she had a lighter heart. Last week she said to me, “Someday before I’m through with life, I would like to be three things. I would like to be thin, and delicate and radiant. That’s not asking too much, do you think?”

  I told her no, I didn’t think it was asking too much. If I could be three things, I would like to be voluptuous and blithe and droll.

  That night while I was washing the lettuce and Teddy was hurling knives and forks around in his version of setting the table, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” Teddy hollered. I put out my foot and tripped him. He went sprawling. I let Al in. We stepped over Teddy, who was lying on the rug, sniveling. Al bent down to pat him on the head and he licked her hand, like a dog. She said, “Down, Fido,” and Teddy doubled up, giggling.

  “Hello, Al,” my mother said. “How’s your mother doing?”

  “Fine, thanks. The doctor says she’s almost good as new.” Behind my mother’s back Al waggled her fingers at me. She had something important to tell.

  We zapped into my room and closed the door. I leaned against it, listening. Then I yanked it open, expecting Teddy to fall in. For once, he wasn’t there. Teddy suffers from an advanced case of eavesdropitis.

  What’s up?”

  Al’s mouth curved upward. “Are you busy Saturday night?” she asked me in a happy voice.

  “Sure. The opera, the Russian Tea Room, then on to Elaine’s or perhaps Mortimer’s.” These are very “in” places in New York, where if you don’t get a good table, you go home and shoot yourself. These are places were luminaries congregate. I’ve never been to a luminary place. Neither has Al. She goes to restaurants for dinner lots more than I do, though. Her mother’s various beaux take her, in an attempt to buy her affections, she says. My mother doesn’t have any beaux. She has only my father.

  “How about going to the Rainbow Room for dinner?” Al said casually. The Rainbow Room is a fancy dancy place atop the RCA building in Rockefeller Center. The view is fantastic, I’ve heard. Needless to say, the Rainbow Room is very expensive.

  “So long as it’s your treat,” I told her.

  “Well, it just so happens my mother’s new beau, Stan, is treating.” Al smiled at me. Her teeth are very nice and she doesn’t wear braces. I tell her to smile more often, but she says life is a serious business.

  “I thought you were joking,” I said. “Stan must have megabucks. How come he asked me? He doesn’t even know me.”

  “If he did he might not’ve asked you,” Al said, poking me to show she was only fooling. “He asked my mother to dine. She said she’d promised to take her daughter out to celebrate her birthday. And her daughter’s little friend was coming, too.”

  “Is that me?”

  “He said, ‘Bring the little friend along, too. We’ll make it a real party.’ So how about it? Want to come?” Her eyes were very bright.

  “I’ll have to ask my mother. What happened to Mr. Wright?” Mr. Wright was Al’s mother’s beau before Stan showed up.

  “Oh, he was so cheerful all the time she was in the hospital, she said he depressed her, so she told him to take a walk,” Al said.

  “I don’t have anything to wear to the Rainbow Room,” I said. “What are you wearing?”

  “Lord knows.” Al’s eyebrows disappeared underneath her bangs. “My mother might buy me a black satin strapless number if she can find one on sale. I plan to wear my red shoes with it and maybe get some red lace stockings to add the final touch. Really make those bozos at the Rainbow Room sit up and take notice, huh?” Al did a little belly dance and a few bumps and grinds to show me she was still in shape.

  Teddy’s voice came through the keyhole, ann
ouncing, “Dinner is served, folks.” Al flung open the door and almost knocked out Teddy’s teeth. “Scusa, scusa,” Al said, planting a big juicy kiss on Teddy’s cheek, thereby stopping him from hollering and claiming damages. Then she disappeared with the speed of light, and we sat down to dinner.

  “Dad,” I said, “did red shoes ever make you stammer and pull at your necktie in confusion?”

  “No, I can’t say they ever did,” my father said. “But I once had a pair of brown shoes that did exactly that. They were too tight. How did you know?”

  “I meant red shoes on a lady,” I said.

  “In my day no lady would be caught dead wearing red shoes,” my father said.

  “Quel bummer. I heard red shoes were a secret weapon and make men go cuckoo pots over a girl who wears them.”

  “My friend Hubie has red sneakers,” Teddy put in his oar, “and nobody goes cuckoo pots over him.”

  “Al asked me to go to the Rainbow Room Saturday night,” I said, ignoring Teddy. “Her mother’s new beau is taking us to celebrate Al’s birthday.” My mother and father raised their eyebrows in unison. They’ve been married so long they tend to react to startling news in identical fashion.

  “The only trouble is,” I said, playing it cool, “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  Teddy lined up peas on his knife.

  “Your Easter dress will be perfect,” my mother said.

  “You mean the blue one?” I said, choking just a little.

  “I love that dress on you.” My mother smiled at me. Teddy dipped his head, keeping a close eye on the peas.

  “That’s enough.” My mother spoke from the corner of her mouth, which she does very well. Teddy let the peas slide off, pretending he hadn’t known they were there.

  I’m talking Rainbow Room here, Ma, I thought, not Easter bunnies.