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

she’d hardly ever been in despair. It makes me ashamed of myself when I read that. Doesn’t it make you ashamed?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “She wrote that diary to keep herself sane. I’m sure of that. If it hadn’t been for those creeps that gave her away, the Nazis never would’ve found her hiding place.”
    â€œThe world is full of creeps,” Al told me. “I know I agitate too much about trivial things. Like, am I popular, am I pretty, am I a winner? And we all know the answers to those, right?” Al began to pace. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I can’t help it. I think about those things. Am I an achiever? Heck, no. But I’m smart.” She turned to look at me, and I saw tears in her eyes. Reading Anne Frank did that to us, me and her. “Chalk one up, for me. Am I gorgeous? Heck, no. But I might be someday. Am I a winner? Heck, no, but someday my name may be a household word.”
    â€œWhat’s the household word?” I asked because I knew she wanted me to.
    â€œTry Comet,” she said. “Or how about Listerine?”
    â€œWould you settle for Pepperidge Farm?”
    â€œI have often been in the pits,” Al said, “but never forever. Do you ever wonder what you’d do if you were in Anne Frank’s shoes?”
    As long as I’ve known Al, I’ve never gotten used to the way she switches subjects.
    â€œThat’s like saying do you know what you’d do if somebody pulled a knife on you,” I said. “You can’t know until you’re actually faced with something terrible.”
    â€œIt just so happened that Anne Frank and Joan of Arc had the strength and the inner fortitude to face death without flinching.” Al stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself.
    â€œIs that the face of someone with inner fortitude?” she asked her face. Then she answered, “Heck, no, it’s the face of an abject coward.”
    Then, switching to her swami voice, Al said, “Mother Zandi detects the odor of dead fish. The fish stinks from its head. Evil is everywhere. ‘To thine own self be true’ and bad luck will take a different road. The one you love will love you back.”
    â€œYou’re full of it, Mother Zandi,” I said.
    â€œWe’ll wow those senior citizens, kid,” Al told me. “I know we will.”

chapter 22
    Mr. Keogh’s beat-up station wagon was almost full when he picked us up promptly at ten Saturday morning. Two seventh-grade twerps were in back and two girls about our age from Mr. Keogh’s neighborhood were in front. Al and I climbed in the middle. Mr. Keogh introduced us. Nobody spoke as we rattled our way up to the Bronx. I looked over at Al. She was staring out the window and biting her nails. Let me out of here, I thought.
    What if they were handicapped? Or had goiters, those things old people got that looked as if they had rubber tires around their necks. Maybe they were losing their marbles, or didn’t know what year it was or what their names were. I didn’t know if I could cope.
    The home was U-shaped and painted a pale, sickly green, with aluminum awnings and dusty geraniums lining the path to the front door. Above the door a sign said Sunlight Manor. Across the street a used car lot advertised Super Buys! and Cream Puffs for Sale.
    Maybe it wasn’t a used car lot, I thought; maybe it was a bakery disguised as a used car lot.
    An attendant in a white coat met us and said, “They’re waiting for you,” in what seemed to me an ominous tone. Mr. Keogh led the way up a flight of stairs.
    â€œDon’t forget, kids,” he said nervously, “we’re all feeling our way here. I’m new at this, too. Remember: if it’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing well. Hold the thought.”
    He stopped outside a door at the top of the stairs. “Well, here we are,” he said. The door