Al’s Blind Date: The Al Series, Book Six by Constance C. Greene

for the little bugger,” Al said. “I can’t stand it.”
    â€œNope. She’s throwing a bash for her nephew, who’s not only brilliant, he’s also a darling boy and he’s coming to visit her this weekend.”
    â€œShe wants both of us?” Al said. “And there’s only one nephew. How come?”
    â€œShe says after the refreshments if we hit it off the way she thinks we will, we can go discoing.”
    â€œYou know what this is,” Al said. “This is a blind date, pure and simple. She sets us up, we never laid eyes on each other before, we hit it off, we go on a date. Awesome.”
    I nodded.
    Dramatically, Al stripped off her wimple and stepped out of her red shoes.
    â€œExcuse me,” she said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
    I sat there, thinking about the meaning of life. Of being popular. Of blind dates. Of what the heck this was all about.
    Al returned.
    â€œAre you up for it?” she asked me.
    â€œIf you are,” I said.
    â€œHow tall is he?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe we better call her up and ask.”
    â€œWhat’s Sparky’s mom’s name?” Al wanted to know.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said again. “I always call her Sparky’s mom.”
    â€œYou think she’d be listed in the phone book that way?” Al said.

Nine
    My mother would know. She always knows things like people’s last names, how many times they’ve been married, how many kids they’ve had, where the money comes from. Minutiae, I believe it’s called.
    â€œWhat’s the name of that woman on the top floor?” I asked her, casual as heck, peeling potatoes like a pro. “The one with the scroungy little dog.”
    My mother was making pie crust and didn’t answer. I thought she hadn’t heard, although as I said, her hearing’s first rate. She doesn’t miss a cough or a sneeze, even if it’s midnight and I have a pillow over my face. She never misses the sound of the top of the cookie jar being lifted by experts, which I consider myself and which Teddy certainly is.
    â€œOut of there!” she hollers. “It’s almost dinnertime. You’ll spoil your appetite.” One of the things I look forward to about growing up and moving out is not having my mother’s ears around. I know I’ll miss her like crazy, but the ears I can do without.
    â€œThere,” she said, putting the final crimp on the crust.
    â€œHer name’s Mrs. Olmstead. He was president of a copper company and the money’s his. Third husband, I believe. No children.” My mother brushed the top of the crust with egg white to give it a professional glaze.
    â€œNow she raises funds. Sells tickets for benefits to all her friends, gets the right people to take a table at a charity ball. That sort of thing. She used to be vice-president of a fragrance company. In everyday language, kid, that’s perfume. She’s not friendly. We’ve been in the building almost ten years and I think she’s said hello twice. I can take her or leave her.” My mother opened the oven and shoved the pie in.
    â€œWhy?”
    Just when I’m sure she’s lost the train of thought, she zeros in. She kills me. She really does.
    â€œShe invited me and Al to a party she’s giving for her nephew,” I said. “She’s having lots of young people and refreshments.”
    â€œWell, for pity’s sake.” My mother looked at me with something like admiration. At least, I think that’s what it was.
    â€œWhat did you do to get in her good graces? Or what did Al do? I’m flabbergasted. Flummoxed, you might even say,” my mother said.
    â€œWell,” I said, wondering if I could trust my mother not to tell Al’s mother. “Sparky ruined Al’s new shoe, you see.” I told her about the barf and the pee and how delighted Al was that her shoe was