Tales From My Closet by Moses Jennifer Anne

Author:Moses, Jennifer Anne [Moses, Jennifer Anne]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2014-01-27T16:00:00+00:00

It was the weirdest thing ever. Because even though I couldn’t stop crying over Poppy, at the same time, my mind was whirling with what had just happened in Coach Fruit’s office. Wouldn’t it be funny, I thought as I walked home, if Mommy and I both got boyfriends at the same time? Except, of course, that Coach Fruit would never be my boyfriend. I mean, the whole idea was ridiculous. But it had been fun to laugh with Coach Fruit about my so-called father, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized how glad I was that I’d confronted Burton: Somebody had to! Coach Fruit had told me it was great that I had, not that that meant anything boyfriendwise. And just because Mommy had gone ahead and had coffee with that weirdo lummox whose kids took lessons from her didn’t mean that she was going to start dating him, either. Especially since all she’d tell me afterward was that he “seemed like a nice man.”

But when I got home, there he was, sitting on our sofa, looking huge and uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure that the sofa would hold him. It wasn’t that he was fat or ungainly so much as big all over, with huge feet encased in square black shoes, and long fingers. “Hiya, we met before, on the steps?” he said. “I’m Alfred.” I gave him my standard “see you” wave and started heading to my bedroom, but Alfred (Alfred?) kept talking.

“My kids are really getting into it.”

“Good.”

“Piano, that is. Your mom’s a good teacher.”

“Yup.”

“Polly, right?”

“Yup.”

“We met before. When you were with your mom, coming home.”

“Yup.”

“You’re a swimmer?”

“That’s right.”

“Your mother told me. She’s very proud of you.”

“She does that.”

“My kids really, really like her.”

“I’m glad.”

“Their mother and I are divorced.”

“Sorry.”

“They live with me.”

What did this guy want from me, anyway? A cookie? I honestly didn’t know what to do. I had homework, and even if I didn’t, I made it a habit to never, never ever, get into a lot of chitchat with Mommy’s students’ parents.

“I like your dress,” the man then said.

“Thank you.”

“It’s pretty,” he said. “It looks good on you.”

“Can I, er, get you a glass of water or something?”

“No, that’s okay. “

“Well, then,” I said, “nice meeting you again.”

“Nice meeting you, too, Polly.”

From my bedroom, I heard the strains of a very tentative Bach — one of the Anna Magdalena minuets that I used to play when I still played piano. Then silence. Then my mother’s voice. “Oh, Alfred! Did you hear? Aren’t they doing well? Wasn’t that just beautiful?”

In my mind, I could practically hear Poppy saying: “What kind of name is Alfred?”

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