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

seventy.”
    â€œTrue,” my father said, “but they’re not necessarily out shoveling snow.”
    He has a point.
    I met Al in the hall.
    â€œHow was it?” I said. “Did you have a good time with Mr. Smith?”
    â€œWe went to a fantastic place,” she said. “It had rugs on the floor so thick I went in up to my ankles. And I had crepes suzette for dessert—you know, those pancakes they set on fire. It was pretty cool.”
    â€œHow did the air pollution go?” I said.
    â€œWell, I told them about it and what you breathed when you went out and what your lungs looked like and all. They were pretty interested but my mother changed the subject and we talked about comic strips. Mr. Smith likes “Peanuts” and a whole mess of others and we got along pretty well. He’s not such a bad egg.”
    â€œThat’s good,” I said. “I’m glad you like him better.”
    It snowed all the way to school.
    â€œIf this keeps up,” I said, “I think it would be good if we helped Mr. Richards shovel. So he won’t have a heart attack or something. He must be getting on for seventy.”
    â€œGood idea,” she said. She put out her tongue and caught some snow on it. “It tastes like chocolate,” she said.
    I put out my tongue and it didn’t taste like anything to me except snow. “Mine tastes like vanilla,” I said.
    I have learned to go along with the gag, as Al says.

Chapter Eighteen
    â€œHow do you like my new tie?” Mr. Keogh wanted to know.
    â€œWell,” I said, “it is different.” It was blue and red and yellow in a sort of squiggly pattern. It would be good for Saturdays.
    â€œI’ll tell you frankly, Mr. Keogh,” Al said, “it doesn’t do too much for you. If you know what I mean.”
    Mr. Keogh looked down at his tie. “Indeed I do know, Al. Indeed I do. And I’m a man who needs all the help he can get.”
    He winked at us and we had a good laugh. We are all friends.
    â€œMr. Keogh,” I said, “I thought you might be interested to know that Al and I are practically finished making bookshelves. At home, I mean. Mr. Richards, who is our assistant superintendent, is teaching us on Saturday mornings. We are coming along pretty good.”
    â€œThat’s fine. I’m glad to hear it. How are you coming along on your social-studies project? Just as good?”
    Al and I are doing a project on different countries for social studies.
    â€œMr. Keogh, I have written to all the embassies and information bureaus of all the places I want to find out more about, and I have probably got more stuff in the mail than any other kid in our class,” I said.
    â€œHow’d you manage that?” Mr. Keogh asked.
    â€œWell,” I said, “my father tipped me off. He told me if I wrote for information and just signed ‘Miss’ they would think I was only some little upstart kid. Whereas, if I signed my letter ‘Mrs.’ or put ‘Mrs.’ on the back of the envelope, they would think maybe I would take a trip to their country with all my children and my husband and they would make a lot of money from me. So I put ‘Mrs.’ on the back of the envelope and they sent me everything in sight.”
    â€œExcellent,” Mr. Keogh said. “Tell your father I think he is a very clever man. The only thing is—and he straightened his new tie—“the mailman must be a little perplexed. When he has all this mail addressed to ‘Mrs.’ and he gets a load of you, he must wonder what monkey business is going on.”
    â€œOh,” I said, “we don’t see our mailman all that much. He only really comes around at Christmas time. He starts bringing this big load of mail just about a week or so before Christmas. His feet hurt something terrible but he still brings this mail right to our door instead of dropping it in the