Al’s Blind Date: The Al Series, Book Six Read Free

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 changed 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.
    â€œHello, 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.
    â€œ Que passe ?” Al said.
    â€œMaybe 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.
    â€œCan 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œHere.” Al thrust a small paper cup at Ms. Bolton.
    â€œThanks.” 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.
    â€œMs. 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