Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

PHYLLIS REYNOLDS NAYLOR, author of more than eighty books for both children and adults, has experienced many of the same embarrassments as Alice McKinley in the Alice series, and even more that she wouldn't dare write about. She says she has a photographic memory of every stupid, ridiculous thing she has ever done. She also uses, in episodes in her Alice books, embarrassing things that have happened to other people.

She lives with her husband, Rex, a speech pathologist, in Bethesda, Maryland, and frequently travels about the country visiting schools and libraries, where she gets even more ideas for her books. The Naylors have two grown sons, Jeff and Michael.

Other books by Phyllis Naylor include The Agony of Alice; Alice in Rapture, Sort Of; Reluctantly Alice; All but Alice; Alice in April; Night Cry; A String of Chances; Send No Blessings; and Shiloh, which was awarded the 1992 Newbery Medal.

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Alice In-Between

Atheneum

I did something at school on Monday that I'd been thinking about since fifth grade but never thought I'd have nerve enough to do. I guess I was still thinking about Porgy and Bess and how beautiful it was when that woman sang "Summertime." And when Bess sang to Porgy, and Porgy to Bess, and all the street vendors were singing together. I wished I knew how it felt to be up on a stage singing like that -- even in the back row of a chorus, where, when you opened your mouth and made a sound, people didn't turn to stare at you.

It was right after lunch when Pamela and Elizabeth and I were leaving the cafeteria to sit outside on the steps. We passed the chorus room, and I noticed the teacher standing by his desk, sorting through some sheet music.

"I'll meet you outside," I said to Elizabeth and Pamela, and ducked through the door.

I walked over to where he was working. I didn't even know his name. Maybe 13 makes you bolder or something.

"Hello?" he said, smiling a little, and kept sorting. "I'm not in chorus, but I've got a question," I began.

"Shoot." He was looking at me now.

"People say that when my mother was alive, she used to sing a lot. My dad plays the flute and piano, and my brother plays the guitar. They both sing too. I can't carry a tune, and don't understand it. I just wondered if it's genetic or something."

"Well, now," he said, and continued smiling, "it's probably a question no one has an answer for, but are you quite sure you can't carry a tune?"

"Trust me," I said, and explained how all through grade school, when the other kids sang for the PTA, I was given the triangle to ping at the end of each stanza. And when I sang "Happy Birthday" at parties, it brought down the house.

The teacher listened. "Well, some people believe in the Suzuki method, which goes on the theory that everyone can learn to carry a tune if they're exposed to music at an early age."

"I probably listened to it before I was born," I told him. "But I can't even tell you if notes go up or down."

He studied me a moment. "There are no guarantees, but if you really want to make the effort, I'd be willing to work with you each day for fifteen minutes and see what we could do. The real question, though, is how unhappy you are with yourself just as you are now. Would this make a big or a little difference in your life? Or no difference at all?"

I thought about that. Would I rather have fifteen minutes a day to sit out on the steps with Pamela and Elizabeth after lunch and talk to the guys, or did I want to embarrass myself by trying to make my voice match the notes on a piano? And if I finally did get to the place where I could carry a tune, would I break into song when I saw my boyfriends coming toward me on the sidewalk?

"I guess maybe I'm pretty happy the way I am," I said finally.

He grinned. "Okay. If it ever bothers you enough that you feel genuinely unhappy about it, come back and we'll see what we can do. If it's only a mild annoyance, you probably wouldn't want to spend the time and effort."

I went outside smiling. I think it was the first time in my life that a teacher told me I could survive without knowing his subject. That I could live a long, healthy life and still not know diddly about what he was teaching. Maybe when you were thirteen, people treated you more grown-up. Maybe I was on my way to womanhood, and people could see it already in my face.

I told Dad that night what the teacher had said. "I hate to admit it," he told me, "but he's right. There was a time I fantasized that my children would be musicians when they were grown. Career musicians, I mean. And now I realize that if you were anyone other than who you are, you wouldn't be the Lester and Alice I love, and I wouldn't trade you for the world."

And that was the second time in a week I'd felt really, truly, totally, absolutely loved.

Continues...

Excerpted from Alice In-Betweenby Phyllis Reynolds Naylor Copyright © 1994 by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. Excerpted by permission.
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