Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five (14 page)

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Authors: Constance C. Greene

BOOK: Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five

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“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, âCathy! 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 and 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.

“It's got so I can't let you out of the house alone,” Al said, glaring at me. “You're becoming very bold, know that?”

“Look who's talking,” I said. “You're the one who picked him up, not me. I wonder if his underpants are plaid too, to match his kilt. I'd sure like to find out.”

Al shook her head and
tch-tch
ed at me. “You have to admit he was pretty cute,” she said. “A true Scottish gentleman. I dig that lassie routine, but I'm not sure he's Ms. Bolton's type. I bet she'd go more for the pretty type, like the guys in the Ralph Lauren ads.”

“That type is very, very boring,” I said. “They never smile and you know why? Because they're worried their tie is crooked or their socks don't match. Or their hair isn't on straight. They're not interested in you, their interested in them.”

“How about if we suggest to Ms. Bolton she put one of those ads in the personals column in the paper?” Al suggested. “You know, âcaring nonsmoker, into sunsets and red setters.'”

“Talk about blind dates! That's about as blind as you can get, I figure,” I said.

“They usually say âphoto a must,'” Al went on. “That's so you know what you're getting into. But suppose you're ugly as sin, your nose is all over your face, and you're snaggletoothed. What then?”

“You send in a photo of your beautiful sister,” I said. “And the guy falls into instant love with her and writes back saying âHow about Saturday night?' What then?”

“Problems, problems,” Al said airily. “Let's cross here. I want to check out the puppies in the pet shop. If my mother would let me, I'd take the brown-and-white one with the curly tail.”

But the pet shop was gone, along with the puppies. In its window a big sign said

FREE OFFER! SEE INSIDE! TIGHTEN YOUR BOD!

FURM, TONE, IMPROVE YOUR SHAPE!

JOIN AL'S HEALTH CLUB.

FREE OFFER! SEE INSIDE!

A man with a big belly stood in the doorway, yelling at the moving men.

“Watch it! Break that and it'll cost ya!” he hollered.

“That must be Al,” Al said. “Not only is he an entrepreneur in the fitness game, he's also a heck of a speller. Check âfirm.' Should we tell him?”

“I like it that way,” I said. “Check the abs and the gluts,” I whispered. “How about the pecs?” Al whispered back. That cracked us up.

The man with the big belly wandered over to us. “Let us in on the joke, girls.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Al said.

The fat man's lips moved in a twitchy way. Was he smiling?

Al has this theory that if you address people as âsir' they immediately like you because they think you respect them.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” she said again. She'd been reading
The Return of the Native;
that's the way they talked in Thomas Hardy's day.

Sure enough, I noticed that every time she called him sir he looked a little less threatening. His was a face that only a mother could love. That was one of my mother's expressions, some of which are quite good. Al gave them another shot of “Begging your pardon, sir,” which I figured was overdoing it. By the time she'd finished with him, he wore a big smile; probably a first for him.

“What's on your mind, girlie?” he asked Al.

“What happened to the pet shop?” Al said. “It was here only last week. We came to see the puppies, sir.”

That was it for the sirs. The guy was soft as a grape by now.

“Gonzo,” he said gruffly. “The guy can't handle the rent raise. He's gotta pack up his pooches and split. It's no skin off my nose. I'm in for a bundle, all this high-class machinery. Borrowed from my mother-in-law. She gives me a break, charges ten percent interest instead of her usual twenty. What a sweetheart.

“Hey!” he hollered as the moving men carried a big machine across the sidewalk. “That's a cross-country ski simulator,” he told us proudly. “All that and more is what you're gonna find inside. You want a free tryout, you got it. You from around here?”

We nodded, although it wasn't really our neighborhood.

“Inside we got our tanning machine, you wanna glow all year long,” he said. “We also got available shiatsu and Swedish massage. Not to mention an Olympic weight room complete with a roto curl bar and a squat rack.”

“Hey, neat,” Al said.

“What's a squat rack?” I asked but got no answer.

“Sounds good, sir.” Al dealt the coup de grace with her final sir. He was hers.

“Come by tomorra, why dontcha? Just ask for me and you'll try our equipment, then spread the word that Al's is the best of the best.”

“All right, boys.” He turned his attention to the moving men. “Let's see if the two o' youse can handle this one here.”

“What's a squat rack?” I said again as we headed for home.

“How do I know. A rack you squat on, I guess,” Al said.

“You think we should take him up on it?” I said.

Al shrugged. “Why not. What've we got to lose.”

Buy
Al's Blind Date
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 Awardâwinning 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.

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

ISBN: 978-1-5040-0444-2

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

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New York, NY 10014

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