I Just Got a Letter from Allyson Pringle Read online

  My sisters, too, both have those less obvious facets. Lynette, who’s always been the family girly girl, once went after a bad guy who was pushing around an old neighbor lady. I’m guessing Lynette might have used the lamp base she was wielding if he hadn’t been smart enough to make a run for it. I wondered if her husband, Josh, had seen that side of her before they got married.

  And Monica, yes, good old Monica. Monica and her husband live in Ann Arbor with their twin baby boys. The sports girl is into nesting mode now and is always fixing up their little apartment and nursery. She’s even into cute, something I never in my life thought I’d see. I miss her—miss them all. Sure, you wish you were an only child when all your siblings are around, stealing your food, getting in your face, picking on you. But then when they’re gone you can hardly stand it. I was happy that I at least had Mom and Dad around during that last year of high school. But after observing them more closely, I realized that even parents have their dimensions. Dad isn’t as “Mr. Business” and tough as he pretends. He has a gentle side, especially when it comes to my mother. And even though Mom’s beyond neat and organized and generally very calm and in control, she tends to take on far more than one human being is capable of, then stresses out to the point of ranting at herself and even throwing things when she finds out that not even she can pull it off.

  That leaves me. What I thought Arnold should have known, and what only my sister Monica was sensitive enough to write on the card she gave me at that family home evening (the only card I saved), is that although I’m basically serious about life, under the right circumstances and with the right people I can be fairly funny.

  So it bothered me that first day of our senior year when Arnold suggested I be the straight man when I dealt with Allyson Pringle. What I really wanted to do was to joke around with Alysse and have some exchange—kind of a wit fest before or after class. I thought a longtime friend like him should know I was capable of that. Or was I? Well, we’d see. At last I was about to have that second chance I’d been hoping for.

  Chapter Three

  The first time I’d had the chance to talk with Allyson Pringle face-to-face hadn’t been under the best of circumstances. The summer before my sophomore year, Dad helped me get a custodial job through a distant relative who worked for the school district. I honestly didn’t mind doing that kind of work—cleaning toilets or even sweeping up strange debris. What did bother me was doing these things at Hollenda. I didn’t complain often, but this time I did. “Dad, I really don’t want to clean at my own school,” I told him. “Practices have already started and really soon all the other kids will be right there in the halls. Isn’t there something open at another school?”

  I thought Dad would make some typical Pops comment such as good hard work is nothing to be ashamed of, no matter where you do it, but he surprised me. “I already asked about that,” he let me know in a quiet voice, “and there’s just nothing else available. Ed said that none of the other schools, even elementary, have an opening and that he felt lucky to get you this job at Hollenda. He promised to let us know if anything else opens up.”

  What could I do? Our family needed the money. The state economy wasn’t in the best shape, and Dad’s electrical supply business was struggling right along with it. It touched me that he had at least tried. Still, I can’t say that I ever felt lucky to have that job, especially after the school year started. Monica had gotten into a fender bender right after she got her driver’s license and wasn’t allowed to drive for a while, and Mom couldn’t very well pick us up right after school and then turn right around and take me back just an hour or two later. So every day after seventh period I studied in the school library until the halls were cleared. Then I rushed into the boiler room, slipped baggy overalls over my clothes, recorded the time on my time card, and, with lowered cap, swooshed that huge commercial broom through the halls with the speed of a brushfire.

  If I moved fast enough, I found I could get out of the main part of the halls and the bathrooms by the time the practices were over and the clubs dismissed. Then, when students came back out into the halls, I hit the individual rooms. There were certain people I took extra trouble to avoid—several members of the football team, for instance. Ren Jensen, the six-foot-something junior varsity captain, had hairy legs and an even hairier attitude. All through junior high he and his friends had harassed me, constantly attempting to stick me in lockers or trash cans. It had started because I’d refused to turn over my science notebook to one of them. I knew if Ren or his friends saw me with that broom, I’d be toast.

  That particular day, I’d gotten a late start because the football team had had a meeting before practice. It wasn’t until after I thought everyone had finally cleared out that I started sweeping, and that was when I spotted Alysse at the end of the hall. Not that I knew it was her at first. She was walking normally for a change and wasn’t pulling faces or doing anything absurd. In fact, she seemed to be studying something intently. I figured that this quiet, studious girl, whoever she was, would probably just pass by without even noticing me. It wasn’t until she was within a dozen or so yards of me that I realized who she was.

  Thanks to the cheer and drill tryouts and the opening assembly, Allyson had already established herself as somebody hysterically funny even by then. Now there I was, dressed in one of the costumes she would have worn as a joke or a spoof: oversized overalls, a too-large cap, holding a gigantic broom—only in my case it wasn’t a joke.

  I transferred the broom to my other hand and moved it behind me. Then, concerned that I looked like a merry-go-round horse with a pole coming out of my head, I pushed the broom to the side and leaned it against a locker. Next I tried to pretend I was opening that locker, a decision I quickly realized was silly and almost pitiful, especially when the broom started slipping.

  Luckily, Alysse seemed oblivious to any of my scrambling. She continued studying what looked like a textbook as she headed straight toward me. When she got within about ten feet of me, I pulled myself up to my full height. Whether she liked it or not—and whether I liked it or not—I was cleaning the school and it was pretty stupid to pretend otherwise. But Alysse remained focused on her book and continued moving right at me. Was she kidding? I smiled hopefully at this point. I’d seen her play this trick on people. She would pretend she was about to run into someone, but then stop at the last second. Relaxing a little, I hoped that that was exactly what she was doing and that there was no way she could have gotten this close without noticing me. But my smile vanished as I realized that this wasn’t a joke and that if I didn’t move out of the way, she’d be plowing right into me. When I jerked back, my foot caught part of the broom base, and the broom handle once again flipped out of my hand, barely missing her.

  Allyson pulled back in surprise. “Oh my gosh, where did you come from? I didn’t think anyone else was down here.” After I’d gotten control of the broom, our eyes met for the first time. Actually she’d looked down into my eyes, because I didn’t get my growth spurt until my junior year.

  “My fault,” I said, trying to move the broom out of her path.

  Now, at this point, Allyson could have snubbed me. She could have dismissed me as a nameless nobody—a pitiful squirt not even worth talking to—but she didn’t do that.

  “It was totally my fault,” she said sincerely. “In fact, how are you doing? I mean, other than the fact that I just about knocked you over.”

  “Not bad,” I squawked out, touched that she would even bother to ask. Clearing my throat, I glanced at her for a fraction of a second, looked back down, and tried once more. “I mean, I’m pretty good, thanks.” And then I surprised us both by adding her nickname, “Alysse.”

  It was almost as if the sound of that name reminded Allyson of who she was or thought she was supposed to be, and she quickly moved into her comic persona. “Glad to hear that!” She started one of her routines with some kind of a fancy handshake. Hoping the broom was tucked safely between m
e and the biology lab room door, I followed along, all the while trying to think of something clever to say. Nothing came.

  Ignoring my tongue paralysis, Alysse did a little twirl, curtsied, and said, “You take care now!” As she walked away, grinning over her shoulder and sashaying for my benefit and mine alone, I couldn’t help myself, and I laughed.

  It wasn’t until a few minutes later, after I’d calmed down and was sweeping again, that I thought about the contrast between how she had approached—so serious and studious—and how she’d left. I guessed very few, if any, knew that Allyson was more than just a clown and that she, like the rest of us, had another facet or facets. I was pretty sure this more serious side wasn’t something many knew about and suspected I was in on a secret. Soon I was whistling happily as I swept, partially because of this discovery, but also because, even though my tongue had failed me again, Allyson had treated me like I was somebody worth talking to.

  For months after that event in the downstairs of Hollenda High—and I say “event” because, to a sophomore boy, having a girl as well liked and in the limelight as Allyson Pringle say hi to you is an event—I looked for Alysse every afternoon in hopes she would appear again at the end of that long hall. At night I practiced in our basement bathroom mirror what I would say should she ever show up again while I was working. I even brought some older jeans that were still semi-decent so I wouldn’t be wearing the baggy overalls. But Allyson never did come down that downstairs hall again after school.

  I did spot her often during school hours, in the front hall and so forth. But she was always busy with friends, talking, laughing, and, of course, performing.

  By my junior year, I wasn’t cleaning our school anymore. Dad had had to let a couple of his employees go, and I was helping him more at the warehouse. I’d given up hope of ever talking to Alysse face to face, anyway. I just joined the many others who watched her from a distance—your average fan. Unlike the others, however, I was watching for more than her antics and jokester moments. I was looking for hints of that other, more serious side of her that I had witnessed. And every once in a while, when she didn’t think anyone was watching, I caught her quickly reviewing material or reading something or jotting down a note to herself, an earnest expression on her face. By the end of our junior year, I felt I knew Allyson Pringle a little better than most.

  Now, at the beginning of my senior year, the prospect of finally having a second chance to make a better impression on Allyson had me practicing again. This year as I mouthed words into the mirror, somebody taller and more physically buff was looking back at me. I had changed so much that past summer that even my Aunt Betty hadn’t recognized me when she stopped by after her European ballroom dance tour. But I’d grown up in even more significant ways as well. Just gaining experience through day-to-day living, such as the part-time bookkeeping I’d started doing for Dad’s business (which included dealing with other businesses and even the IRS), and of course a lot of Church-related stuff, had helped me gain a little confidence. Okay, I had a ways to go, but I could see that, line upon line, I had made and was making progress. Being involved in the peer tutoring program and just reaching out to the people who seemed to need my help at our school had boomeranged and made me stronger and smarter as well. I’d figured out better what life was all about and didn’t care quite as much what others thought. By my senior year, I was maybe still just as conscientious, but I wasn’t the fearful and self-conscious little kid I’d once been.

  But nobody’s confident all the time, and that was why I was trying to come up with a clever way I could introduce myself to Alysse the following day. I have to say that in the past I’d succeeded in thinking up some pretty good one-liners there in our basement bathroom mirror. Down there, I was hilarious. But I was also well aware, thanks to past experience, that much of “funny” is in the presentation and that too often, planned-out funny doesn’t hit the mark. I’d found out the hard way that it’s generally a lot easier to be funny at home than in a real situation. Still, as usual, I felt the need to be completely prepared.

  My dog grunted. “You’re right, Lucky Duck, I worry too much. But have I told you I have two classes with Allyson Pringle and that I’m going to be sitting by her in Spanish? How’s that, mutt? Huh?” When he realized I was talking to him, Lucky Duck let out a tiny woof and happily beat his tail on the throw rug. It doesn’t take much to please a dog. I reached down to rub his ears, and then stood again to check myself. The slightly crooked tooth was still there, but at least last year’s zits were pretty much cleared up and my face had filled out and was definitely looking better. I huffed out a sigh. Maybe I looked a little better than I had, but I still looked nothing like some of the GQ guys Allyson normally associated with. I lowered my eyebrows and leaned back, one eyebrow raised. “What’s your line, Valentine?”

  Negative. I made a gargling sound, shook my head, and lowered my eyelids. “Pretty pitiful, bloke,” I said, adopting some of Arnold’s Aussie slang. Okay, now I was definitely trying too hard.

  Chapter Four

  I should have known that no amount of planning or practice would be necessary because Alysse would beat me to the punch—or should I say punch line—anyway.

  Within seconds after I sat down at my desk in third period Spanish, she extended her hand in my direction—at least, what I thought was her hand. It was actually a fake, Halloween-type hand—latex or rubber or something. It’s a strange feeling to have somebody’s hand pull right off, especially if it looks fairly real, which this hand did. “Aaah!” I jerked back, and in the process, the hand flipped into the aisle. I laughed nervously, staring at it.

  Allyson’s gesture definitely broke the ice. “Good ta meetcha, honey,” she drawled in the hillbilly accent she’d often used since our sophomore year’s school play, Li’l Abner. Batting her eyelashes, she added, “Sorry if I skeered ya.”

  “Good to meet you,” I said, still a little flustered, but also flattered at having been the butt of Allyson’s joke.

  “She found another victim, huh?” Carlin Stevens said. One of our school’s senators, Carlin, who sat a few seats closer to the front, had never spoken to me before. “She got me with that last year. Hey, Pringle,” he said, switching to Alysse. “You gotta come up with some new material.” Grinning, he reached down to pick up the hand and flung it back to her.

  I looked around me, fully aware that I’d just been had, but not terribly upset about it. I definitely hadn’t had the first word, but at least Alysse and I were already interacting. Then I surprised myself with an on-the-spot comeback. “Hey, thanks for giving me a hand there.”

  Allyson lifted her chin and raised her eyebrows and one corner of her full mouth. “Pretty clever, Mr. Archer.”

  I flushed at the compliment and the sound of my last name coming from Allyson Pringle’s lips. If she noticed I was nervous, she was kind enough not to let on. In fact, she spoke out of the corner of her mouth then. “I’ll bet you ten dollars Alvarez has no clue you know how to joke around.” Without taking her eyes from me, she reached into her Minnie Mouse book bag and pulled out a couple of pencils, a pen with a huge orange feather attached, and a Betty Boop notebook. I expected her to say something more and she did. “You do realize he probably wouldn’t have put me next to you, if he’d known? It’s obvious he’s on a major discipline streak—you know, the first week of school gotta-be-tough syndrome.” Allyson raised and lowered her eyebrows twice, something I’d seen her do many times before, just never from right across the aisle.

  “I’m guessing you may be right about that,” I heard myself agree.

  “And I’m guessing that teachers probably believe you’re . . . umm . . .”

  I lifted my hand to prevent her from continuing. “I know. I know.”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh . . . so this isn’t the first time, right? I’ll bet the troublemakers get put by you all the time. It’s that old trick teachers pull out of their bag. Stick the troublemaker next to the straight arrow
.”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t call you a troublemaker,” I said. Then I heard myself add, “But you are pretty entertaining.” My face warmed a little at the word pretty and I hoped she wouldn’t think it was a Freudian slip—because Allyson was pretty. Behind the quirky glasses, her eyes were bright and alive even when she wasn’t up to something, and up close her dark, chin-length hair glistened with some lighter highlights you didn’t notice from far away.

  “Oh, so what you’re saying is that I’m a little too entertaining? Is that what you’re saying?” she asked, unfazed.

  “Okay, sometimes, yeah, you’re a little too entertaining,” I conceded, nodding.

  Allyson again seemed to like that. “An Honest-Abe type, huh?” Grinning now, she smacked my hand with her real live hand, which was just smaller than mine. “Well, you know what? I think we’re going to get along just fine, umm . . . Alfredo, is it? No, um . . .” We’d been assigned Spanish names the day before and Señor Alvarez had asked us to start using them. “Now, what’s your Spanish name again?”

  “Armando.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, Kendall-Armando, you know what I predict? I predict we’re going to get along fantastamously.” She tried to get me to do some hard-to-follow handshake thing then (just as she had done two years before in the hall when I was a sophomore), and I was happily trying to follow along once more, when I noticed that Señor Alvarez had come in, was ready to begin, and was watching Alysse and me with a concerned, Have-I-just-made-a-big-mistake-putting-those-two-together? expression. The smile sluffed off my face as I sat up straighter in my seat, moved back my shoulders, and cleared my throat. That automatic response seemed to reassure Señor Alvarez that I wasn’t planning on causing any problems in his classroom. His face relaxed, but then he seemed to remember his intent to make a tough impression and he furrowed his brows once again. But when Allyson complimented him in Spanish on his bright red-and-yellow tie—or attempted to, anyway—he had some trouble hiding his amusement.