BARELY AN APPETIZER

Something was making me nervous. Okay, everything was making me nervous. But there was one thing in particular.

Dick the mockingbird had left. The jalopy had sputtered to a stop—again. Alastair had opened the hood to see if she could restart the engine, leaving me alone on the front seat.

That’s when it happened. I got a creepy, tingly sensation on the back of my neck.

“Do you ever have the feeling you’re being watched?” I asked Alastair.

“Don’t be silly,” she called from under the hood. “There’s no one for miles.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said. Lifting my nose into the air, I sniffed. “My keen, quivering doggie nose smells something . . .”

I did a quick scan of the area and saw nothing but an alligator.

An alligator!

I tried to tell Alastair. “Alli-Alli-Al—”

“Tipp-Tipp-Tipp—See how annoying it is when you do that?”

“A-A-A-A-A-A—”

She said, “Alastair! Call me Alastair! You know how I hate nicknames.”

“G-G-G-G-G-G—”

“What? Will you speak up?”

“ALLIGATOR!” I finally screamed.

I hopped from the car and raced around to the front, where I did a flying leap into Alastair’s arms. By that time, she had looked out from under the hood and was staring in shock.

The alligator was big and long and ugly—basically, a pair of jaws with legs. He lunged toward us, his teeth snapping. We dove to the side, barely avoiding him.

He grinned. I shivered. This guy had cavities bigger than I was.

“Ah, mes chers,” he oozed, “almost got you, did I not?”

“What the heck?” said Alastair. “An alligator with a French accent?”

“But of course,” he said, starting toward us again. “Now, come to papa.”

Papa? I had news for him. My father was twelve inches long, not twelve feet. And his teeth were sharp, but there were only three of them.

Alastair, meanwhile, didn’t believe her eyes. “Oh, come on! When did an alligator ever live in the White House? This never happened, and I’ll prove it.”

The alligator closed in on us. Meanwhile, Alastair hurried back to the front seat, set me down, and began thumbing through her history book. Now, history’s great. I love it. But there are some things that are more important. Like staying alive, for instance.

I said, “Uh, Alastair . . .”

The alligator licked his chops and murmured, “Ah, cherie, there is much about the White House that no one ever wrote down. Lots of history that nobody talks about. . . . Lots of history that maybe isn’t so true . . . but it makes a rollicking good story, oui?”

She flipped through the pages. “But there was no alligator in the White House, ever. Unless it was stuffed.”

The alligator grinned and opened his jaws wide. His mouth was like the Grand Canyon with a tongue.

“He’s not stuffed!” I croaked.

“Don’t worry, Tipp,” Alastair assured me. “This is totally a myth.”

“That’s a lot of teeth for a myth!” I said.

He gazed at me, the way you might look at a hot fudge sundae. “Now, if you please,” he purred, “just one little taste, s’il vous plaît?”

I could smell his breath. It was strong enough to peel the paint off Air Force One.

“Alastair, save me!” I squeaked. “I’m too young to die!”

Finally she looked up. Slamming the book shut, she turned to the alligator. “Now, see here, you . . . you White House alligator pet-type animal! We didn’t come all this way to end up as somebody’s meal!”

The alligator laughed. “But, cherie, this little creature is barely an appetizer!”

Just then we heard a noise in the bushes, and a man came charging out. He had a powdered wig, wore a fancy uniform, and carried a big leash.

“Sacre bleu!” the man told the alligator. “Finally I find you! Did I not tell you once, did I not tell you twice, did I not tell you three times. . . . There is no eating the White House guests!”

The alligator sighed. “I was only having a little fun.”

“I warn you now,” the man told him. “Back away from the pigeon.”

“He’s a Chihuahua!” said Alastair.

The alligator backed away, and I jumped into Alastair’s arms. She eyed the man. “Who are you, anyway?”

He smiled and bowed low. “Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, at your service, mademoiselle!”

“That’s a mouthful!” said Alastair.

“Not even close,” sighed the alligator.

“And you?” Lafayette asked her. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

She blushed. “Alastair Lodge. I guess you could say I’m the new First Daughter. My father was just elected president.”

“Ah, congratulations, mademoiselle.” Lafayette shook his finger at the alligator. “And as for you, monsieur, if you continue this behavior, you will go back to the Louisiana bayou where you came from.”

“But General Lafayette,” whined the alligator, “you promised I could see Paris! The Seine! Le Cathédrale Notre Dame!”

“Very well,” said Lafayette. “But only if you don’t go nibbling up American children. They are our allies and friends.”

Alastair checked her book again. “So, General Lafayette, if we’re friends, then maybe you can answer a question for me. I see here that you sided with us in the American Revolution, then went on to fight in the French Revolution. There are streets, buildings, towns, and schools named after you.”

“Ah, cherie,” he said, “you make me blush.”

“But,” she went on, “I can’t find any sign of the alligator. Where did he come from?”

Lafayette chuckled. “My apologies, little First Daughter of les États-Unis! The alligator, he was a gift to President John Quincy Adams. But President Adams, he was terribly . . . how you say, uncomfortable with the presence of a reptile in the East Room. So the alligator came to me.”

Leaning over, he looped the leash around the alligator’s neck. “And now, I regret to say, we must be leaving. Paris is waiting!”

He gave a low bow, and they headed for the trees. The alligator called, “Good-bye, cherie! Good-bye, my little appetizer!”

Lafayette yanked the leash. “One more word and I will make fancy boots out of you!”

He turned back to us and waved. “Au revoir, little First Daughter! Have a wonderful four years!”