A Girl Called Al: The Al Series, Book One by Constance C. Greene

Richards. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Al said.
    We said good-by and went out to the elevator.
    â€œI think maybe my father is coming to see me,” Al said on our way up.
    â€œThat’s nice,” I said. “When is he coming? I would like to meet him.”
    â€œI’m not exactly sure. He said he might drop in. He is at a convention in the city. Either he’ll drop in or maybe he’ll invite me to a hotel for dinner and maybe go to a play.”
    â€œWill your mother go too?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said. “My mother and father have a very friendly relationship, you know.”
    If they have a very friendly relationship, I do not see why they are divorced, but that is none of my business.
    â€œThat’s nice,” I said. Al never talks about her mother and father and I have always wanted to know why they got divorced.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said, “I know it is none of my business, but I would like to know why your mother and father got a divorce.”
    Al said, “My father is a perfectionist. My mother says no woman can stand being married to a perfectionist.”
    â€œOh,” I said.
    I don’t think either my mother or my father is a perfectionist.
    I am glad.

Chapter Seventeen
    It was snowing when I woke up the next morning. My brother Teddy was over his cold and was acting like an idiot, leaping around and throwing his oatmeal in the dog’s dish so he could get outside faster.
    The dog does not like oatmeal, so he left it.
    I like everything but liver. The dog loves it. His nose quivers when my mother cooks liver. She would not like it if she knew the dog got mine. She would have a fit, in fact. At those prices.
    Anyway, my mother came in, and when she saw the oatmeal in the dog’s dish, she started hollering at Teddy about wasting food.
    He put his hand in front of his mouth and started imitating her. He always gets spoiled when he has a head cold. He is getting extremely fresh for a nine year old. I would not dare to imitate my mother in front of her. I would at least wait until she left the room. Teddy says this is sneaky. He is my mother’s favorite. Most girls I know say their brother is their mother’s favorite. It is sort of an unwritten law.
    I will admit, though, that the last time he came to the table and made a face and said, “What? Pork chops again!” she sent him to his room and he didn’t get any supper at all.
    She said she would do it and she did. My mother is very consistent. It is one of the best things and one of the worst things about her.
    It was a pretty snow, with big, wet flakes.
    â€œThis won’t last,” my father said. He considers himself an authority on snow and whether or not it will last.
    â€œI hope not, sort of,” I said. “We are just about to finish our bookshelves. We have to put a coat of shellac on them and then they are set. If it’s a big snow, Mr. Richards will have to shovel walks and we will not be able to get much done.”
    â€œIt’s a pity his job cuts into your woodworking,” my mother said. She still does not like me to go down there all the time, but when she found out me and Al were doing something useful she didn’t mind so much. She even said, “I suppose you’d like me to invite Mr Richards for tea too.”
    I got hysterical thinking about Mr. Richards coming into our apartment and sitting down and saying he’d like a shooter of tea. I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe and she had to thump me on the back.
    â€œWhy don’t you kids give him a hand after school?” my father said. “That old geezer shouldn’t be shoveling, especially a heavy, wet snow like this. He must be getting on for seventy.”
    â€œSeventy’s not so old,” I said. “Gosh, they’re plenty of kings and presidents and actors and all kinds of people who are