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

we were properly impressed.
    â€œWhen 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?”
    â€œHow about your father?” Al said. “Was he totally overcome too?”
    â€œWhat’s your poem going to be about, Alexandra?” Martha said in a snippy voice. “Eating popcorn at the movies?”
    â€œActually …” 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.
    â€œAn 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.
    â€œThere’s been talk of making it into a film,” Al said. Even Ms. Bolton looked impressed.
    â€œStarring 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.
    â€œWell done,” I told Al. “That gives you one point for one-upmanship.”
    Ms. Bolton laughed a bit shakily.
    â€œSounds good, Al,” she said. “I’ll be eager to see the final results.”
    â€œActually,” 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.”
    â€œActually, Al, I didn’t think you had,” Ms. Bolton said.

Three
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWho 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.
    â€œMartha Moseley,” I said. That cracked us both up.
    â€œMaybe 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.”
    â€œNo, I think it’s her boyfriend,” I said. “She wants him to make a commitment and he won’t.”
    â€œYeah, 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.”
    â€œNot like us women of the world, you mean,” I said. “Well, whatever’s bothering her, we should try to help. But how?”
    â€œAh, 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?”
    â€œIt’s only a man in a skirt,” I said, yawning. “Big deal. Maybe his mother always wanted a girl.”
    â€œIt’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