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

hopped out of bed,” Al continued, “and looked in the mirror, and, sure enough, I looked like a Zandi.
    â€œAnd you know something?” Al scrunched up her face. “It’s perfect. I feel it in my bones, and my bones never lie.”
    â€œYou’ll be the first in your crowd with that name,” I told her. “That’s for sure.”
    I swung the door back and forth, wanting to tell Al about the rib roast and the asparagus and figuring this wasn’t the right time.
    â€œYou want me to start calling you that now?” I said. “Before your birthday, I mean?”
    â€œThat’s OK,” Al said. “You can wait until the big day. I have to keep saying it to myself to make it seem real, though.”
    And I watched as she walked down the hall and let herself into her apartment, repeating, “Zandi, Zandi,” over and over, until she got the hang of it.

chapter 10
    â€œMy mother’s bringing the horses doovries,” Al announced.
    â€œThe what?” I said.
    â€œYou know, the stuff you eat with drinks before you get down to the serious eating,” Al explained. “She does this thing with pineapple and cream cheese and curry powder.”
    I looked at her.
    â€œThe first time she made it,” Al continued, “I pulled a boo-boo. I pretended I liked it. My mother’s no ace in the kitchen, as you know, and she needs reinforcement when it comes to her culinary efforts.” Al gave me a piercer. “From here on in, kid, take Mother Al’s advice. Tell it like it is. If it’s gross, say it’s gross. Even if it hurts. In the long run, the truth will out. It cuts down on the pineapple and curry-powder jazz.”
    She proceeded to pace, wearing a path on the already worn rug. “So do me a favor, OK? Pretend you like it. Even if it makes you want to barf. So she doesn’t get hurt feelings.”
    â€œSure, Mother Al. Whatever you say. But I thought your name was Mother Zandi.” I couldn’t help giggling. I could see Al dressed in a purple turban, bending over her crystal ball. In a deep, dark voice I said, “Beware the ides of September, Mother Zandi. Watch out for a tall, bald man, smoking a fat black cigar and carrying a teddy bear on his back.”
    Al took it up.
    â€œI, Mother Zandi,” she began in an even deeper and darker voice, “advise on all matters in life. There is no problem Mother Zandi cannot solve. I can tell you the color of your aura and warn of good and bad cycles you must pass through before you come out on the other side without harm.”
    â€œWhat? Color of my aura?”
    Al nodded, looking wise, if weary. “The atmosphere that emanates from any and all bodies,” she said.
    I looked down at myself, at my body. Nothing.
    â€œI don’t think I have an aura,” I told her.
    She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “All mortals have an aura. Perhaps yours is concealed beneath your skin and will show itself only when you reach puberty. Upon the receipt of certain fees, I, Mother Zandi, will reveal to you the color of your aura when the right moment arrives.” Al pulled down her bangs as far as they’d go and glared at me. “When Mother Zandi speaks, the world trembles,” she intoned.
    â€œIt’s a good thing you changed your name,” I said. “Mother Zandi sounds classy, like the real thing, and Mother Al sounds like a new health-food line. Mother Al’s Tofu would be good. Or how about Mother Al’s Bulgar?”
    â€œI’m glad your grandfather’s coming to the party.” Al spun off on another tack. “I think it’s really cool of him to want to come. You didn’t threaten him with anything to make him come, did you?”
    â€œOf course not,” I said. “He likes you. My mother didn’t even think to invite him. He invited himself.”
    â€œThat’s really nice. I mean, a man of his age