Read Online Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five by Constance C. Greene - Free Book Online Page B

perfect times you remember. Al talked and laughed, and once or twice I caught her just sitting still, looking around the table at all the faces, all of us gathered here in her honor. Maybe she was thinking of her father, wishing he and his gang were all here. Maybe she wished Brian was here, too. Anyway, it was great.
    Polly and I cleared the salad plates. We wouldn’t let Al help. Then we put the presents in front of Al. She looked a little embarrassed to be the cynosure of all eyes.
    â€œThis will give you a chance to work up an appetite for the ice cream and cake, Al,” my mother said. My father tapped a spoon against his glass and said, “Hear ye, hear ye,” and Al opened her presents. Ours came first. She nearly went ape. “I’ve never had one like this!” she gasped, and got up and kissed my mother and father, saying, “Thanks, thanks.” For one awful moment, I was afraid she might kiss me, too. But she didn’t.
    My grandfather gave her a copy of You Know Me Al , a book by Ring Lardner, which he’d mentioned to Al the first time he met her. She loved that. Her mother gave her a birthday card with a check inside. “Oh, Ma, you already gave me the dress,” Al said. Al’s mother busied herself with a handkerchief, careful of her mascara. The long thin package done up in brown paper with Al’s name and address on it turned out to be from Louise and Al’s father and the boys. It was a needlepoint picture Louise had done of the farm, with the family members lined up: Al’s father, Louise, Nick, Chris, and Sam. And Al.
    â€œSee! That’s me, on the right, the tall one,” Al said gleefully. “Louise did it all by herself.” She read the enclosed note. “Isn’t that clever of her! It’s all of us in Ohio. Isn’t that too much!”
    I think that needlepoint picture was her favorite present. Al’s mother was a good sport. If Al’s obvious enthusiasm for the picture hurt her, she didn’t let on.
    Polly not only made Al’s cake, she also gave her a length of material from Africa, which, Polly said, could be worn as a dress or a sarong or anything you chose. She’d show Al how to wind it around herself, Polly promised.
    We put fifteen candles (one to grow on) on the cake. Al blew them out in one breath as we sang “Happy Birthday to You.” Her wish will come true. We had vanilla, as well as mocha chocolate-chip ice cream. I took vanilla because I was afraid we’d run out of mocha chocolate chip. Al ate slowly. Eating slowly cuts down on caloric intake, she told me.
    After, we played charades. My grandfather was hysterical acting out the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Al’s mother stood staring at the ceiling, hands clasped, supposedly Joan of Arc. No one guessed her. My mother acted out Charlie Chaplin as the Little Tramp. My father got to do Marilyn Monroe. He walked around with his mouth half open and his eyes half closed. He was a riot. Polly acted out Julia Child. I guessed her right away. I was Abraham Lincoln. I pretended I’d been shot, and staggered around quite a lot. Al said I should’ve given the Gettysburg Address. I hate know-it-alls, I told her, even if it was her birthday.
    Al got a tough one to act out: the Wizard of Oz. She gazed into an imaginary crystal ball. I was the only one who knew what she was doing. Nobody guessed her.
    My grandfather took Polly home in a taxi. Al and her mother thanked us many times. “I’ve never enjoyed an evening more in my life,” Al’s mother said, pressing cheeks with my mother.
    â€œAll I can say is,” Al said, “this party makes the Rainbow Room look like the Automat.” Then they left. My mother slipped her shoes off and lay down on the sofa. The bell rang. “Who on earth is that?” my mother said, slipping her shoes back on.
    â€œShe forgot this.” Al handed me a tray with a large stuffed pineapple