Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five Read Free Page B

blocks, without talking to each other.
    There was nothing to say.

chapter 4
    All that night, awake or asleep, I kept seeing the woman’s face. She and her children probably lived in one horrible little room filled with cockroaches, which scuttled under the bed and kept them awake all night. And the hallways were filled with strange, lurking people, with gray faces, making odd noises. And the children cried a lot because their stomachs were empty. It must be terrible to be really hungry. And to have no money to buy food. Sometimes, when I’m hungry after school, I try to imagine how I’d feel if there were no food in the house and no prospect of any. I can’t imagine what it’s really like, but I try.
    So I gave her eighty cents. Big deal. I was ashamed of giving her so little, even though it was all I had.
    In the morning I leaned against the sink and drank my orange juice and watched my mother getting ready to go out. This was her day to work at the hospital thrift shop. They were pricing donations today, she told me, to prepare for the grand opening next week.
    â€œIf I see a dress that might suit you,” she told me, “I’ll bring it home with me. We get some very nice things there.”
    â€œA secondhand dress for the Rainbow Room?” I tried not to sound snotty. And failed. My mother is a scrounge. She can always find a way to beat the high cost of living. My father says she works miracles, but I wish she wouldn’t try to work one on me.
    My mother shot me a dark look. “There are plenty of people who would be glad to be given some secondhand things,” she reminded me. “There are also people who never wear anything but other people’s castoffs. Don’t be a snob.”
    After my mother had given me a cool cheek-brush in farewell and told me to put some potatoes on to boil for potato salad, I was alone. Teddy had gone to day camp. So there I was, sitting in the kitchen, alone with the clicking refrigerator, the dripping faucet, and myself. Being by yourself isn’t always easy, especially if yourself turns out to be a not-so-nice person.
    I’ve gotten much more introspective since I’ve known Al. Before she came into my life, I was a happy-go-lucky slob. Now I tend to brood, though not nearly as much as she does. Al says knowing me has made her much more laid back than she used to be. I guess we’re good for each other, the way friends should be.
    When you come right down to it, though, I’ll be thirteen in September and what have I got to show for it?
    Nada , as Al would say.
    Then Polly called. Boy, was I glad to hear her cheerful little voice!
    â€œYou sound like you’ve lost your last friend,” Polly told me. “And you haven’t. Here I am.”
    She asked me and Al over for supper. “I’m making chicken cacciatore tonight,” Polly said. “The spécialité de la maison.” Polly is a star cook. She’s going to be a chef and have her own restaurant when she’s eighteen.
    â€œSounds good,” I said. Polly and Al and I are all very different. Polly stayed at our apartment when her parents went to Africa, and Al got a little uptight. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, as my mother says in her infinite wisdom. And she’s right. Al flailed around awhile, then she got over whatever was bugging her, and now we all get along fine. We laugh a lot. Mr. Richards said a good laugh was good for the soul. He also was right.
    Mr. Richards died eight months ago. He was the assistant super in our building. He was also our friend. Not a day goes by but that something he said or did doesn’t remind us of him.
    â€œYou go,” Al said when I told her Polly had invited us. “I’m always horning in. Polly’s your friend, after all.”
    â€œDon’t be a klutz,” I told her. “She’s your friend, too. Polly doesn’t ask anyone she doesn’t like. You