Spy in the Alley Read Online Free Page A

from himself. “University,” he jeered. “Wow. Talk about avoiding the real world.”
    What a bore. Changing the subject, I asked Jack, “You didn’t leave a girlfriend back east, did you?”
    â€œDinah,” said Mother reprovingly. Jack, who was sitting beside me, gave my ear a tweak and replied, “Nope. Lots of friends, but no girl in particular, kid. Why? You want to go out on a date?” he teased.
    â€œOh, not me ,” I assured him — and immediately caused an uncomfortable silence on Madge and Roderick’s side of the table. I took my time chew ing and swallowing a large mouthful, thoroughly enjoying myself. “I mean, an attractive, eligible bachelor like yourself,” I resumed, waving my fork for emphasis. “A girl would be crazy not to set her sights on you.”
    Throwing her napkin on the table, Madge glared at me. I couldn’t blame her. I was at the top of my form that evening.
    Mother was even more confused than before. She was much more at home in the quiet library world of book cataloguing and soft-voiced inquiries about obscure titles. Sisterly trench warfare was totally beyond her. “Are you a Catholic?” she asked Jack. “There’s a nice youth group at our church. Madge belongs, and I’m sure she would be glad to — ”
    â€œI’m sure he couldn’t care less about that,” Madge interrupted, quite rudely for her, and not looking at Jack. She likes him, I thought in satisfaction.
    Roderick, meanwhile, was giving me the evil eye. Evil dweeb eye, I should say.
    â€œThere are at least three baked potatoes left,” he said. “Why don’t you have them, Dinah? I’m sure you could easily tuck them back.”
    â€œYou have them,” I invited. “I hear they’re good for preventing hair loss.”
    After that I got sent from the table. I didn’t mind: I usually was, when Roderick came to dinner. Sometimes I lasted to dessert, but not often.

Chapter Four
    Jack tackles a goon
    Mother and I were trudging up the long 3rd Avenue hill. Atop our heavy bundle buggy of groceries was the Vogue we’d bought at Madge’s request. I’d laid it face-down because the rouged young woman pursing her lips on the cover was too much for me. I mean, she looked like a fish .
    From the back cover, a male model in a tank top regarded us soulfully — and, it seemed at that moment, rather scornfully. We continued to push our groceries up and up, seemingly forever. Like the myth of Sisyphus and his rock, I thought. Always and always, Sisyphus had to keep pushing it up a hill. I giggled. I remembered my friend Pantelli, who had an ear infection the day we learned about the myth of Sisyphus in school. Misunderstanding the teacher, Pantelli assumed that Sisyphus had a rock band . Since Pantelli prided himself on knowing everything about pop music, he demanded to know if Sisyphus was new. “New?” the teacher had scoffed. “He’s ancient ,” which had mixed Pantelli up even more.
    â€œDinah, your collapsing in laughter every two minutes doesn’t make this any easier,” said Mother, her cheeks faintly pink with the effort.
    Mother was pretty in a vague, delicate way, which Madge had inherited. But where Mother’s vagueness was due to confusion about the world outside her comforting library stacks, Madge’s vagueness was deliberate, a sort of remote retreat she withdrew into to block the world off.
    I found the real world very interesting, and at all times tried to plant myself right in its face. Madge said I was like a truck with flashing lights and a lot of noisily clattering tin cans attached. The world, she added, wasn’t quite ready for me.
    I had forgotten Pantelli, and was gainfully helping push the bundle buggy up the hill, when I heard a shout.
    â€œHey, Galloways!”
    Jack French caught up with us. He’d been shopping on Commercial Drive,