Dear Mr. Henshaw / Дорогой мистер Хеншоу. 7-8 классы

© Шитова А. В., адаптация, словарь, 2014

© ООО Антология, 2014

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

My teacher read your book about the dog to our class. It was funny. We licked it.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I am the boy who wrote to you last year when I was in the second grade. Maybe you didn’t get my letter. This year I read the book that I wrote to you about called Ways to Amuse a Dog. It is the first thick book with chapters that I have read.

The boy’s father said that city dogs were bored so Joe could not keep the dog unless he could find seven ways to amuse it. I have a black dog. His name is Bandit. He is a nice dog.

If you answer I will put your letter on the bulletin board.

My teacher taught me a trick about friend. The i goes before e so that at the end it will spell end.

Keep in tutch*.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I am in the fourth grade now. I made a diorama of Ways to Amuse a Dog, the book that I wrote to you about two times before. Now our teacher is making us write to authors for Book Week. I got your answer to my letter last year, but it was only printed. Please write to me in your own handwriting. I am a great lover of your books.

My favorite character in the book was Joe’s Dad because he didn’t get mad when Joe amused his dog by playing a tape of a lady singing, and his dog sat and howled like he was singing, too. Bandit does the same thing when he hears singing.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I am thinking about Ways to Amuse a Dog. When Joe took his dog to the park and taught him to slide down the slide, wouldn’t some grownup come and say he couldn’t let his dog use the slide? Here grownups, who are mostly really old with cats, get mad if dogs aren’t on leashes every minute. I hate living in a mobile home park.

I saw your picture on the back of the book. When I grow up I want to be a famous book writer with a beard like you.

I am sending you my picture. It is last year’s picture. My hair is longer now. With all the millions of kids in the U.S., how would you know who I am if I don’t send you my picture?

Enclosure: Picture of me.

(We are studying business letters.)

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I am in the fifth grade now. You might like to know that I gave a book report on Ways to Amuse a Dog. The class liked it. I got an A-. The minus was because the teacher said I didn’t stand on both feet.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I got your letter and did what you said. I read a different book by you. I read Moose on Toast. I liked it almost as much as Ways to Amuse a Dog. It was really funny that the boy’s mother tried to find ways to cook the moose meat they had in their freezer. 1000 pounds is a lot of moose. Moose burgers, moose stew and moose meat loaf don’t sound too bad. Maybe moose mincemeat pie would be OK because you wouldn’t know you were eating moose. Creamed moose on toast, yuck.

I don’t think the boy’s father had to shoot the moose, but I guess there are many moose in Alaska, and maybe they needed it for food.

If my Dad shot a moose I would give the tough parts to my dog Bandit.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

This year I am in the sixth grade in a new school in a different town. Our teacher is making us do author reports to improve our writing skills, so of course I thought of you. Please answer the following questions.

1. How many books have you written?

2. Is Boyd Henshaw your real name?

3. Why do you write books for children?

4. Where do you get your ideas?

5. Do you have any kids?

6. What is your favorite book that you wrote?

7. Do you like to write books?

8. What is the title of your next book?

9. What is your favorite animal?

10. Please give me some tips on how to write a book. This is important to me. I really want to know so I can become a famous writer and write books exactly like yours.

Please send me a list of your books that you wrote, an autographed picture and a bookmark. I need your answer by next Friday. This is urgent!

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

At first I was very upset when I didn’t get an answer to my letter in time for my report, but it was OK because I read what it said about you on the back of Ways to Amuse a Dog. On the book it said you lived in Seattle, so I didn’t know that you moved to Alaska, but I should’ve guessed from Moose on Toast.

When your letter finally came I didn’t want to read it to the class, because I didn’t think Miss Martinez would like your silly answers. She said I had to read it. The class laughed and Miss Martinez smiled, but she didn’t smile when I came to the part about your favorite animal which was a purple monster who ate children who sent authors long lists of questions for reports instead of learning to use the library.

Your writing tips were OK. I could tell that you were serious about them. Don’t worry. When I write something, I won’t send it to you. I understand how busy you are with your own books.

I hid the second page of your letter from Miss Martinez. That list of questions that you sent for me to answer really made me mad. Nobody else’s author put in a list of questions, and I don’t think it’s fair to make me do more work when I already wrote a report.

Anyway, thank you for answering my questions. Some kids didn’t get any answers at all, which made them mad, and one girl almost cried, she was so afraid she would get a bad grade. One boy got a letter from an author who was really excited about getting a letter and wrote such a long answer that the boy had to write a long report. He thinks that nobody ever wrote to that author before, and surely he wouldn’t again. About ten kids wrote to the same author, who wrote one answer to all of them. There was a big argument about who could keep it until Miss Martinez took the letter to the office and made copies of it.

About those questions you sent me. I’m not going to answer them, and you can’t make me. You’re not my teacher.

P.S. When I asked you what the title of your next book was going to be, you said, “Who knows”? Did you mean that this was the title or you don’t know what the title will be? And do you really write books because you have read every book in the library and because writing is better than cutting grass or clearing snow?

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

Mom found your letter and your list of questions which I stupidly left on my desk. We had a big argument. She says that I have to answer your questions because authors are working people like everyone else, and if you found time to answer my questions, I should answer yours. She says that I can’t expect everyone to do everything for me all my life. She said the same thing to Dad when he left his socks on the floor.

Well, I have to go now. It’s bedtime. Maybe I’ll start answering your ten questions, and maybe I won’t. There isn’t any law that says I have to. Maybe I won’t even read any more of your books.

P.S. If my Dad was here, he would tell you a thing or two.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

Mom is asking me about your stupid questions. She says that if I really want to be an author, I should follow the tips in your letter. I should read, look, listen, think and write. She says the best way she knows for me to begin is to sit down and answer your questions fully. So here we go.

Like I said, I am Leigh Botts. Leigh Marcus Botts. I don’t like my name Leigh because some people don’t know how to say it or think it’s a girl’s name. Mom says that with a last name like Botts I need something fancy but not too fancy. My Dad’s name is Bill and Mom’s name is Bonnie. She says Bill and Bonnie Botts sounds funny. I am just a plain boy. This school doesn’t say that I am “Gifted” or “Talented”, and I don’t like soccer as much as everybody at this school does. I am not stupid either.

I already sent you my picture, but maybe you lost it. I am medium. I don’t have red hair or anything like that. I’m not really big like my Dad. Mom says that I take after her family, thank goodness. That’s the way she always says it. In first and second grades kids called me Leigh the Flea, but I have grown. Now when the class lines by height, I am in the middle. I guess you could call me the most medium boy in the class.

This is hard work. To be continued, maybe.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I wasn’t going to answer any more of your questions, but Mom won’t fix our broken TV because she says it’s bad for my brain. This is Thanksgiving vacation and I am so bored that I decided to answer a couple of your stupid questions with my stupid brain. (Joke.)

Since Dad and Bandit went away, my family is just Mom and me. Before, we all lived in a mobile home near Bakersfield in California. When Mom and Dad got divorced, they sold the mobile home, and Dad moved into a trailer.

Dad drives a big truck. His cab is over the engine. Some people don’t know that. The truck is why my parents got divorced. Before, Dad worked for someone else, hauling stuff like cotton, sugar beets and other produce around California and Nevada, but he wanted to have his own rig for cross-country hauling. He worked practically night and day and saved some money. Mom said that we’d never get out of that mobile home when he had to make such big payments on that rig, and she’d never know where he was when he hauled cross-country. His rig, which truckers call a tractor, but everyone else calls a truck, is surely a beauty with ten wheels and everything, so he can hitch up and haul anything.

My hand is tired after all this writing, but I try to treat Mom and Dad the same so I’ll get to Mom next time.

Mr. Henshaw:

Why should I call you “dear,” when you are the reason I have to do all this work? I can’t leave Mom out so here is Question 3 continued.

Mom works part-time for “Catering by Katy” which is owned by a really nice lady whom Mom knew when she was growing up in Taft, California. Katy says that all women who grew up in Taft had to be good cooks because they went to so many potluck suppers. Mom and Katy and some other ladies make fancy food for weddings and parties. They also bake cheesecakes and apple pies for restaurants. Mom is a good cook. I just wish she would do it more at home, like the mother in Moose on Toast. Almost every day Katy gives Mom something good to put in my school lunch.

Mom also takes a couple of courses at the college. She wants to be a licensed nurse. They help real nurses except they don’t stick needles in people. She is almost always home when I get home from school.

Mr. Henshaw:

Here we go again.

After the divorce Mom and I moved from Bakersfield to Pacific Grove which is in California, about twenty miles from the sugar refinery where Dad had hauled sugar beets before he went cross-country. Mom said that all the time she was growing up she wished for a few ocean breezes, and now we’ve got them. We’ve got a lot of fog too, especially in the morning. There aren’t any crops around here, just golf courses for rich people.

We live in a little house, a really little house. It was somebody’s summer cottage a long time ago before they built a two-story house in front of it. Now it is a garden cottage and it is falling apart, but it is all we have money for. Mom says that at least we have a roof over our heads, and it can’t be hauled away on a truck. I have my own room, but Mom sleeps on a couch in the living room. She decorated the place really nicely with things from the thrift shop down the street.

Next door is a gas station that goes ping-ping, ping-ping every time a car drives in. They turn off the pinger at 10:00 P.M., but mostly I am asleep by then. On our street, besides the thrift shop, there is a pet shop, a sewing machine shop, an electric shop, a couple of antique shops, plus a restaurant and an ice cream place.

Sometimes when the gas station isn’t pinging, I can hear the ocean and the sea lions barking. They sound like dogs, and I think of Bandit.

To be continued unless we get the TV fixed.

Mr. Henshaw:

If our TV was fixed I would be watching “Highway Patrol,” but it isn’t, so here are some more answers from my stupid brain. (Ha-ha.)

I do not have any pets. (My teacher says always answer questions in full sentences.) When Mom and Dad got divorced and Mom got me, Dad took Bandit because Mom said that she couldn’t work and look after a dog, and Dad said that he likes to take Bandit in his truck because it helps him to stay awake on long hauls if he has his dog to talk to. I really miss Bandit, but I guess he’s happier with Dad. Like the father said in Ways to Amuse a Dog, dogs get bored if they stay in the house all day. That is what Bandit would do with Mom and me.

Bandit likes to ride. That’s how we got him. He just jumped into Dad’s cab at a truck stop in Nevada and sat there. He had a red bandanna around his neck instead of a collar, so we called him Bandit.

Sometimes I lie awake at night listening to the gas station ping-pinging and thinking about Dad and Bandit hauling tomatoes or cotton on Interstate 5, and I am glad that Bandit is there to keep Dad awake. Have you ever seen Interstate 5? It is straight and boring with nothing much but fields. It is so boring that the cattle in the fields don’t even moo. They just stand there.

My hand is tired from all this writing again. I’ll get to No. 6 next time. Mom says not to worry about the postage, so I can’t use that as an excuse for not answering.

Mr. Henshaw:

Here we go again. I’ll never write another list of questions for an author to answer, no matter what the teacher says.

School is OK, I guess. That’s where the kids are. The best thing about sixth grade in my new school is that if I do my best, I’ll finish it.

I don’t have many friends in my new school. Mom says that maybe I’m a loner, but I don’t know. A new boy in school has to be careful until he knows who’s who. Maybe I’m just a medium boy whom nobody pays much attention to. The only time anybody paid much attention to me was in my last school when I gave the book report on Ways to Amuse a Dog. After my report some people went to the library to get the book. The kids here pay more attention to my lunch than to me. They really want to see what I have in my lunch because Katy gives me such good things.

I wish somebody would invite me to their place sometime. After school I spend time kicking a soccer ball with some of the other kids so they won’t think I am a snob or anything, but nobody invites me anyway.

I don’t have a favorite teacher, but I really like Mr. Fridley. He’s the custodian. He’s always fair about who gets the milk first at lunchtime, and once when he had to clean after someone who got sick in the hall, he didn’t even look cross. He just said, “It looks like somebody’s made a mess,” and started putting sawdust around it. Mom got mad at Dad for making a mess too, but she didn’t mean throwing up. She meant that he stayed too long at that truck stop outside of town.

Two more questions to go. Maybe I won’t answer them. Ha-ha.

Mr. Henshaw:

OK, you win, because Mom is still nagging me, and I don’t have anything else to do. I’ll answer your last two questions even if I stay up all night.

What bothers me about what? I don’t know what you mean. I guess I’m bothered by a lot of things. I am bothered when someone steals something out of my lunch bag. I don’t know enough about the people in the school to know who it can be. I am bothered about little kids with runny noses. I don’t mean I am fussy or anything like that. I don’t know why. I am just bothered.

I am bothered about walking to school slowly. The rule is that nobody should be on the school grounds until ten minutes before the first bell rings. Mom has an early class. The house is so lonely in the morning when she is gone that I can’t stand it and leave together with her. I don’t mind being alone after school, but I don’t like it in the morning before the fog lifts and our cottage seems dark and wet.

Mom tells me to go to school but to walk slowly which is hard work. Once I tried walking around every square in the sidewalk, but that was boring too. Sometimes I walk backwards except when I cross the street, but I still get to school so early that I have to hide behind the bushes so Mr. Fridley won’t see me.

I am bothered when my Dad telephones me and finishes by saying, “Well, keep your nose clean, kid.” Why can’t he say that he misses me, and why can’t he call me Leigh? I am bothered when he doesn’t phone at all which is most of the time. I have a book of road maps and try to follow his trips when I hear from him. When the TV worked I watched the weather on the news so I would know if he was driving through blizzards, tornadoes, hail or any of that fancy weather they have in other places of the U.S.

I wish somebody would stop stealing the good stuff out of my lunch bag. I guess I wish a lot of other things, too. I wish someday Dad and Bandit would stop in front of our house in the rig with a big trailer. Dad would yell out of the cab, “Come on, Leigh. Jump in and I’ll take you to school.” Then I’d climb in and Bandit would wag his tail and lick my face. We’d drive off and all the men in the gas station would stare at us. Instead of going straight to school, we’d go along the freeway looking down on the tops of ordinary cars. Then we would turn around and go back to school just before the bell rang. I guess I wouldn’t look so medium then, sitting up there in the cab. I’d jump out, and Dad would say, “Bye, Leigh. See you,” and Bandit would give a little bark like good-bye. I’d say, “Drive carefully, Dad,” like I always do. Dad would take a minute to write in the truck’s logbook, “Drove my son to school.” Then the truck would drive away and all the kids would stare and wish their Dads drove big trucks, too.

There, Mr. Henshaw. That’s the end of your stupid questions. I hope you are happy about making me do all this extra work.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I am sorry I was rude in my last letter when I finished answering your questions. Maybe I was mad about other things, like Dad forgetting to send this month’s payment. Mom tried to phone him at the trailer park. He has his own phone in his trailer so the broker who gives him jobs can call him. I wish he still hauled sugar beets to the refinery here so he could come to see me. The judge in the divorce said that he has a right to see me.

When you answered my questions, you said that the way to be an author was to write. You underlined it twice. Well, I did a lot of writing, and you know what? Now that I think about it, it wasn’t so bad when it wasn’t for a book report or a report on some country in South America or anything where I had to look for things in the library. I even miss writing now that I’ve finished your questions. I get lonesome. Mom is working overtime at “Catering by Katy” because people give a lot of parties this time of year.

When I write a book maybe I’ll call it The Great Lunchbag Mystery, because I have a lot of trouble with my lunchbag. Mom doesn’t cook roasts and steaks now that Dad is gone, but she makes me good lunches with sandwiches on bread from the health food store with good filling spread all the way to the corners. Katy sends me little cheesecakes and other things she baked just for me.

Today I was supposed to have an egg. But at lunchtime when I opened my lunchbag, my egg was gone. We leave our lunchbags and boxes (mostly bags because no sixth-grader wants to carry a lunchbox) along the wall under our coat hooks at the back of the classroom behind a partition.

Are you writing another book? Please answer my letter so we can be pen pals.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I was surprised to get your postcard from Wyoming, because I thought you lived in Alaska.

Don’t worry. I get the message. You don’t have much time for answering letters. That’s OK with me, because I’m glad you are busy writing a book.

Something nice happened today. When I was walking around behind the bushes at school waiting for the ten minutes to come before the first bell rings, I was watching Mr. Fridley raise the flags. Maybe I better explain that the state flag of California is white with a brown bear in the middle. First Mr. Fridley raised the U.S. flag and then the California flag below it. I saw that the bear was upside down with his feet in the air. So I said, “Hey, Mr. Fridley, the bear is upside down.”

This is a new paragraph because Miss Martinez says there should be a new paragraph when a different person speaks. Mr. Fridley said, “Well, so it is. Would you like to turn him right side up?”

So I got to pull the flags down, turn the bear flag the right way and raise both flags again. Mr. Fridley said maybe I should come to school a few minutes early every morning to help him with the flags, but asked me to stop walking backwards because it made him nervous. So now I don’t have to walk quite so slow. It was nice to have somebody notice me. Nobody stole anything from my lunch today because I ate it on the way to school.

I am still thinking about what you said on your postcard about keeping a diary. Maybe I’ll try it.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I bought a composition book like you said. It is yellow and has a spiral. On the front I printed

When I started to write in it, I didn’t know how to begin. I felt that I should write “Dear Composition Book” or “Dear Piece of Paper,” but that sounds stupid. The first page still looks the way I feel. Blank. I don’t think I can keep a diary. I don’t want to be a nuisance to you, but please tell me how to do it. I am stuck.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I got your postcard with the picture of the bears. Maybe I’ll do what you said and pretend my diary is a letter to somebody. I suppose I could pretend to write to Dad, but I wrote to him before and he never answered. Maybe I’ll pretend I am writing to you because when I answered all your questions, I always used the beginning “Dear Mr. Henshaw.” Don’t worry. I won’t send it to you.

Thanks for the tip. I know you’re busy.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

This is a diary. I will keep it, not mail it.

If I eat my lunch on the way to school, I get hungry in the afternoon. Today I didn’t, so the two muffins Mom packed in my lunch were gone at lunch period. My sandwich was still there so I didn’t starve to death, but I surely missed those muffins. I can’t tell the teacher because it isn’t a good idea for a new boy in school to be a snitch.

All morning I try to keep track of who leaves his seat to go behind the partition where we keep our lunches, and I watch to see who leaves the room last at recess. I haven’t seen anybody chewing, but Miss Martinez is always telling me to face the front of the room. Anyway, the classroom door is usually open. Anybody could sneak in if we were all facing front and Miss Martinez was writing on the blackboard.

Hey, I just had an idea! Some authors write under made-up names. After Christmas vacation I’ll write a fake name on my lunchbag. That will fool the thief.

I guess I don’t have to sign my name to a diary letter the way I sign a real letter that I mail.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

This is the first day of Christmas vacation. Still no package from Dad. I thought maybe he was bringing me a present instead of mailing it, so I asked Mom if she thought he might come to see us for Christmas.

She said, “We’re divorced. Remember?”

I remember all right. I remember all the time.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Still no package from Dad.

I keep thinking about last Christmas when we were in the mobile home before Dad bought the truck. He had to avoid the highway patrol to get home in time for Christmas. Mom cooked a turkey and a nice dinner. We had a small Christmas tree because there wasn’t enough room for a big one.

At dinner Dad said that when he was driving he often saw one shoe lying on the highway. He always wondered how it got there and what happened to the second shoe.

Mom said that one shoe sounded sad, like a country song. While we ate our mincemeat pie we all tried to make songs about lost shoes. I’ll never forget them.

Mine was worst:

Dad made this:

Mom’s song really made us laugh. It was the best:

Stupid songs, but we had a lot of fun. Mom and Dad hadn’t laughed that much for a long time, and I hoped they would never stop. After that, when Dad came home, I asked if he had seen any shoes on the highway. He always had.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Last night I was feeling low and was still awake after the gas station stopped pinging. Then I heard heavy feet coming up the steps, and for a minute I thought it was Dad until I remembered he always ran up the steps.

Mom is careful about opening the door at night. I heard how she turned on the outside light and knew she was looking out from behind the curtain. She opened the door, and a man said, “Is this where Leigh Botts lives?”

I was out of bed and in the front room in a second. “I’m Leigh Botts,” I said.

“Your Dad asked me to take this to you.” A man who looked like a trucker gave me a big package.

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” I probably looked puzzled because he said, “He asked over his CB radio for someone coming to this town who would like to play Santa. So here I am. Merry Christmas and a ho-ho-ho!” He waved a hand and walked away before I could say anything more.

“Wow!” I said to Mom. “Wow!” She just stood there in smiling while I began to take off the paper even if it wasn’t Christmas morning. Dad had sent what I always wanted – a down jacket with a lot of pockets, zips and a hood. I tried it on. It was the right size and felt great. Getting a present from my Dad in time for Christmas felt even better.

Today Katy invited us for Christmas dinner although this is a busy season for catering. She also invited some other women who work with her, and their kids, and a few old people from her neighborhood.

On the way home Mom said, “Katy has a heart as big as a football stadium. It was a lovely dinner for lonely hearts.”

I wondered if she was thinking about last Christmas when we tried to make songs about lonely lost shoes.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I got behind in my diary during Christmas vacation because I had a lot of things to do like going to the dentist, getting some new shoes, and a lot of things that I don’t have the time to do during school.

Today I wrote a fake name, or pseudonym, as they sometimes say, on my lunchbag. I printed Joe Kelly on it because that was the name of the boy in Ways to Amuse a Dog so I knew it was made-up. I guess I fooled the thief because nobody stole the chicken in bacon that Katy roasted just for me. It is good even when it is cold. I hope the thief watched me eat it.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Dad phoned me from a town in Oregon! I just looked in my book of road maps and saw where it is. He said he was waiting for a load of potatoes. I could hear music and some men talking. I asked about Bandit, and he said Bandit was fine, a great listener on a long haul even though he doesn’t have much to say. I asked Dad if I could ride with him sometime next summer when school is out, and he said he’d see. (I hate answers like that.) Anyway, he said he was sending the payment and he was sorry he forgot and he hoped I liked the jacket.

I surely wish that Dad lived with us again, but he said he would phone in about a week and to keep my nose clean. He had to go to make sure the potatoes were loaded.

This has been a good day. My lunch was safe again.

Mr. Fridley is so funny. Lots of kids are having their teeth straightened so when they eat lunch, they take out their retainers and wrap them in paper napkins while they eat because nobody wants to look at a retainer. Sometimes they forget and throw the napkin with the retainer into the garbage. Then they have to look through the garbage cans until they find their retainers because retainers cost a lot of money, and parents get mad if they get lost. Mr. Fridley always stands by the garbage cans to make sure kids put their forks and spoons on a tray and not in the garbage. When someone who has a retainer passes by, Mr. Fridley says, “Look out. Don’t lose your false teeth.” This helps them not to lose retainers.

Mom says that I am like Dad in one thing. My teeth are nice and straight which saves a lot of money.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

My little cheesecake was missing at lunchtime which made me mad. I guess somebody noticed that Joe Kelly’s lunch was really mine. When I went to throw my lunchbag in the garbage, Mr. Fridley said, “Cheer up, Leigh.”

I said, “How would you feel if somebody was always stealing the good stuff from your lunch?”

He said, “What you need is a burglar alarm.”

A burglar alarm on a lunchbag! I laughed at that, but I still wanted my cheesecake.

Dad will phone any day now. When I said that at supper, Mom said I shouldn’t hope for it, but I know Dad will remember this time. Mom never really says much about Dad, and when I ask why she divorced him, all she says is, “It takes two people to get a divorce.” I guess she means the same way that it takes two people to have a fight.

Tomorrow I am going to wrap my lunchbag in a lot of Scotch tape so nobody can sneak anything out of it.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

It’s funny how somebody says something, and you can’t forget it. I am thinking about Mr. Fridley saying that I needed a burglar alarm on my lunchbag. How could anybody put a burglar alarm on a paper bag? Today I used so much Scotch tape on my lunchbag that I couldn’t get my lunch out. Everybody laughed.

Dad should phone today or tomorrow. Maybe if he came home he would know how I could make a burglar alarm for my lunchbag. He was good about helping me make things in the past.

I reread your letter answering my questions and thought about your tips on how to write a book. One of the tips was listen. I guess you meant to listen and write down the way people talk, like in a play. This is what Mom and I said at supper:

End of conversation.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

This is a real letter I am going to mail. Maybe I should explain that I have written you many letters that are really my diary which I keep because you said so and because Mom still won’t have the TV fixed. She wants my brain to be in good shape. She says that I will need my brain all my life.

Guess what? Today the school librarian stopped me in the hall and said she had something for me. She told me to come to the library. There she gave me your new book and said that I could be the first to read it. Probably I looked surprised. She said she knew how much I love your books since I borrow them so often. Now I know that Mr. Fridley isn’t the only one who notices me.

I am on page 14 of Beggar Bears. It is a good book. I just wanted you to know that I am the first person around here to read it.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I finished Beggar Bears in two nights. It is a really good book. At first I was surprised because it wasn’t funny like your other books, but then I started thinking (you said that authors should think) and decided a book doesn’t have to be funny to be good, but it often helps. This book did not need to be funny.

In the first chapter I thought it was going to be funny because of your other books and because the mother bear was teaching her twin cubs to beg from tourists in the national park. Then when the mother died because a stupid tourist fed her a muffin in a plastic bag and she ate the bag, too, I knew this was going to be a sad book. Winter was coming, tourists were leaving the park and the little bears didn’t know how to find food for themselves. When they went to sleep and then woke up in the middle of winter because they had eaten all the wrong things and didn’t have enough fat, I almost cried. I surely was happy when the nice ranger and his boy found the young bears and fed them and the next summer taught them to hunt for the right things to eat.

I wonder what happens to the fathers of bears. Do they just go away?

Sometimes I lie awake listening to the gas station pinging, and I worry because something can happen to Mom. She is so little compared to most moms, and she works so hard. I don’t think Dad is very much interested in me. He didn’t phone when he promised.

I hope your book wins a million awards.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

Thank you for sending me the postcard with the picture of the lake and mountains and all that snow. Yes, I will continue to write in my diary even if I have to pretend I am writing to you. You know something? I think I feel better when I write in my diary.

My teacher says my writing skills are better now. Maybe I really will be a famous author someday. She said that our school together with some other schools is going to print a book of works of young authors, and I should write a story for it. The writers of the best work will win a prize – a lunch with a Famous Author and with winners from other schools. I hope the Famous Author is you.

I don’t often get mail, but today I got two postcards, one from you and one from Dad in Kansas. His card showed a picture of a truck. He said he would phone me sometime next week. I wish someday he would have to drive a load of something to Wyoming and would take me along so I could meet you.

That’s all for now. I am going to try to think up a story. Don’t worry. I won’t send it to you to read. I know you are busy and I don’t want to be a nuisance.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Every time I try to think up a story, it is like something someone else has written, usually you. I want to do what you said in your tips and write like me, not like somebody else. I’ll keep trying because I want to be a Young Author with my story printed. Maybe I can’t think of a story because I am waiting for Dad to call. I get so lonely when I am alone at night when Mom is at her nursing class.

Yesterday somebody stole a piece of cake from my lunchbag. Mr. Fridley noticed that I was sad again and asked, “The lunchbag thief again?”

I said, “Yeah, and my Dad didn’t phone me.”

He said, “Don’t think you are the only boy around here with a father who forgets.”

I wonder if this is true. Mr. Fridley notices everything around school, so he probably knows.

I wish I had a grandfather like Mr. Fridley. He is so nice, big and comfortable.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Dad still hasn’t phoned, and he promised he would. Mom keeps telling me I shouldn’t be so hopeful, because Dad sometimes forgets. I don’t think he should forget what he wrote on a postcard. I feel terrible.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I looked in my book of highway maps and understood that Dad should be back here by now, but he still hasn’t phoned. Mom says that I shouldn’t be too hard on him, because a trucker’s life isn’t easy. Truckers sometimes lose some of their hearing in their left ear from the wind blowing past the driver’s window. Truckers also get out of shape from sitting such long hours without exercise and from eating too much fatty food. Sometimes truckers hurry so much that they even get stomach aches. Time is money for a trucker. I think she is just trying to make me feel good, but I don’t. I feel terrible.

I said, “If a trucker’s life is so hard, then why is Dad in love with his truck?”

Mom said, “It’s not really his truck he is in love with. He loves the feel of power when he is sitting high in his cab controlling a huge machine. He loves the joy of never knowing where his next trip will take him. He loves the mountains and the desert sunrises and the sight of orange trees with oranges and the smell of new asphalt. I know, because I rode with him before you were born.”

I still feel terrible. If Dad loves all those things so much, why can’t he love me? And maybe if I hadn’t been born, Mom would still be riding with Dad. Maybe I’m to blame for everything.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Dad still hasn’t phoned. A promise is a promise, especially when it is in writing. When the phone rings, it is always a call from one of the women who Mom works with. I am so mad! I am mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. As she says, it takes two people to get a divorce, so I am mad at two people. I wish Bandit was here to keep me company. Bandit and I didn’t get a divorce. They did.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I am writing this sitting in my room because Mom invited some of her women friends. They sit around drinking coffee or tea and talking about their problems which are mostly men, money and kids. Some of them make quilts while they talk. They hope to sell them for extra money. It is better to stay in here than go out and say, “Hello, sure, I like school fine, yes, I guess I have grown,” and all that.

Mom is right about Dad and his truck. I remember how fun it was to ride with him and listen to calls on his CB radio. Dad showed me hawks sitting on telephone wires waiting for little animals to be run over. Dad was hauling a load of tomatoes that day, and he said that some tomatoes are grown especially strong for hauling. They may not taste good, but they don’t squash.

That day we stopped at a weighing scale and then had lunch at the truck stop. Everybody knew Dad. The waitresses all said, “Well, look who is here! Our old friend, Wild Bill,” and things like that. Wild Bill is the name Dad uses on his CB radio.

When Dad said, “Meet my kid,” I stood up as tall as I could so they would think I was going to grow up as big as Dad. The waitresses all laughed a lot around Dad. For lunch we had chicken, potatoes, peas, and apple pie with ice cream. Our waitress gave me extra ice cream to help me grow big like Dad. Most truckers ate really fast and left, but Dad stayed around and played the video games. Dad always wins.

Mom’s friends are leaving, so I guess I can go to bed now.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I hate my father.

Mom is usually home on Sunday, but this week there was a big event, and she worked a lot. Mom never worries about paying the rent when there is a big order.

I was all alone in the house, it was raining and I didn’t have anything to read. I had to clean the bathroom, but I didn’t because I was mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. I feel that way sometimes which makes me feel awful because I know how hard she has to work and try to go to school, too.

I was looking at the telephone until I couldn’t wait any longer. I picked up the receiver and called Dad’s number in Bakersfield. All I wanted was to hear the phone ringing in Dad’s trailer which wouldn’t cost Mom anything because nobody would answer.

But Dad answered. I almost hung up. He wasn’t away in some other state. He was in his trailer, and he hadn’t phoned me. I thought I had to talk to him. “You promised to phone me this week and you didn’t,” I said.

“Easy, kid,” he said. “I just didn’t have the time to do it. I was going to call this evening. It’s not the end of the week yet.”

I thought about this.

“Some trouble?” he asked.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “My lunch. Somebody steals the good stuff out of my lunch.”

“Find him and punch him in the nose,” said Dad. I could tell he didn’t think that my lunch was important.

“I hoped you would call,” I said. “I waited and waited.” Then I was sorry I said it. I still have some pride left.

“There was heavy snow in the mountains,” he said. “I had to put chains on wheels and lost some time.”

I know about putting chains on trucks. When the snow is heavy, truckers have to put chains on the drive wheels – all eight of them. Putting chains on eight big wheels in the snow is no fun. I felt a little better. “How’s Bandit?” I asked.

There was a strange pause. For a minute I thought that we were disconnected. Then I knew something must have happened to my dog. “How’s Bandit?” I asked again louder, remembering that Dad might have lost some of the hearing in his left ear from all that wind.

“Well, kid – ” he began.

“My name is Leigh!” I almost shouted. “I’m not just some kid you met on the street.”

“Easy, Leigh,” he said. “When I had to stop to put on chains, I let Bandit out of the cab. I thought that he would get right back in because it was snowing hard, but after I chained up, he wasn’t in the cab.”

“Did you leave the door open for him?” I asked.

Big pause. “I think I did,” he said which meant that he didn’t. Then he said, “I whistled and whistled, but Bandit didn’t come. I couldn’t wait any longer because I had a deadline for delivering a load. I had to leave. I’m sorry, kid – Leigh – but that’s the way it is.”

“You left Bandit to freeze to death!” I was crying from anger. How could he?

“Bandit knows how to take care of himself,” said Dad. “I think he will jump into another truck.”

I wiped my nose. “Why would the driver let him in?” I asked.

“Because he’ll think that Bandit is lost,” said Dad, “He won’t leave a dog to freeze.”

“What about your CB radio?” I asked. “Didn’t you send a call?”

“Surely I did, but I didn’t get an answer. Mountains kill the signal,” Dad told me.

I was going to say that I understood, but here comes the bad part, the really bad part. I heard a boy’s voice. He said, “Hey, Bill, Mom wants to know when we’re going out to get the pizza?” I felt sick. I hung up. I didn’t want to hear any more, when Mom had to pay for the long distance phone call. I didn’t want to hear any more at all.

To be continued.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I don’t have to pretend to write to Mr. Henshaw anymore. I have learned to say what I think on a piece of paper. And I don’t hate my father either. I can’t hate him. Maybe things would be easier if I could.

Yesterday after I hung up on Dad I fell down on my bed and cried and swore and punched my pillow. I felt so terrible about Bandit riding around with a strange trucker and Dad taking another boy out for pizza when I was all alone in the house with the dirty bathroom when it was raining outside and I was hungry. The worst part of all was that I knew if Dad took someone to a pizza place for dinner, he wouldn’t have phoned me at all, no matter what he said. He would have too much fun playing video games.

Then I heard Mom’s car stop out in front. I washed my face and tried to look as if I hadn’t been crying, but I couldn’t fool Mom. She came to the door of my room and said, “Hi, Leigh.” I tried to look away, but she came closer and said, “What’s the matter, Leigh?”

“Nothing,” I said, but she didn’t believe me. She sat down and put her arm around me.

I tried hard not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. “Dad lost Bandit,” I finally said.

“Oh, Leigh,” she said, and I told her the whole story, with pizza and all.

We just sat there for a while, and then I said, “Why did you have to marry him?”

“Because I was in love with him,” she said.

“Why did you stop?” I asked.

“We just got married too young,” she said. “Growing up in that little town wasn’t exciting. There wasn’t much to do. I remember how at night I looked at the lights of Bakersfield in the distance and wished I could live in a place like that, it looked so big and exciting. It seems funny now, but then it seemed like New York or Paris.”

“After high school the boys mostly went to work in the fields or joined the army, and the girls got married. Some people went to college, but my parents weren’t interested in helping me. After graduation your Dad came in a big truck and – well, that was that. He was big and handsome and nothing seemed to bother him, and the way he drove his truck – well, he seemed like a knight to me. Things weren’t too happy at home with your grandfather drinking and all, so your Dad and I went to Las Vegas and got married. I loved riding with him until you were born, and – well, by that time I had had enough of highways and truck stops. I stayed home with you, and he was gone all the time.”

I felt a little better when Mom said that she was tired of life on the road. Maybe I wasn’t to blame after all. I remembered, too, how Mom and I were alone a lot and how I hated living in that mobile home. The only places we ever went to were the laundromat and the library. Mom read a lot and she read aloud to me, too.

Now Mom went on. “I didn’t think that such life was fun anymore. Maybe I grew up and your father didn’t.”

Suddenly Mom began to cry. I felt terrible making Mom cry, so I began to cry again, too, and we both cried until she said, “It’s not your fault, Leigh. You mustn’t ever think that. Your Dad is a good man. We just married too young. He loves the life on the road, and I don’t.”

“But he lost Bandit,” I said. “He didn’t leave the cab door open for him when it was snowing.”

“Maybe Bandit is just a bum,” said Mom. “Some dogs are, you know. Do you remember how he jumped into your father’s cab? Maybe he was ready to try another truck.”

She could be right, but I didn’t like to think so. I was almost afraid to ask the next question, but I did. “Mom, do you still love Dad?”

“Please don’t ask me,” she said. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there until she wiped her eyes and said, “Come on, Leigh, let’s go out.”

So we got in the car and drove to a diner and got a bucket of fried chicken. Then we drove down by the ocean and ate the chicken sitting in the car. It was raining outside, and there were waves breaking on the rocks. We opened the windows a little so we could hear the waves roll and break, one after another.

“You know,” said Mom, “when I watch the waves, I always feel that no matter how bad things are, life still goes on.” That was how I felt, too, only I didn’t know how to say it, so I just said, “Yeah.” Then we drove home.

I feel a lot better about Mom. I’m not so sure about Dad, although she says he is a good man. I don’t like to think that Bandit is a bum, but maybe Mom is right.

Today I felt so tired that I didn’t have to try to walk slowly on the way to school. I just did. Mr. Fridley had already raised the flags when I got there. The California bear was right side up so maybe Mr. Fridley didn’t need me to help him at all. I just put my lunch down on the floor and didn’t care if anybody stole any of it. But by lunchtime I was hungry, and when I found that my little cheesecake was missing, I was mad again.

I’m going to get the thief who steals from my lunch. Then he’ll be sorry. I’ll really fix him. Or maybe it’s her. Anyway, I’ll get them.

I tried to start a story for Young Writers. I wrote the title which was Ways to Catch a Lunchbag Thief. A mousetrap in the bag was all I could think of, and anyway my title sounded just like Mr. Henshaw’s book.

Today during a lesson I got so mad thinking about the lunchbag thief. I asked to go to the bathroom, and as I went out into the hall, I almost kicked the lunchbag that was closest to the door, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and there was Mr. Fridley.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, and this time he wasn’t funny.

“Go and tell the principal,” I said. “I don’t care.”

“Maybe you don’t,” he said, “but I do.”

That surprised me.

Then Mr. Fridley said, “I don’t want to see a boy like you get into trouble.”

“I don’t have any friends in this stupid school.” I don’t know why I said that. I guess I felt I had to say something.

“Who wants to be friends with someone who frowns all the time?” asked Mr. Fridley. “So you’ve got problems. Well, everyone else has them, too. You just don’t notice.”

I thought of Dad in the mountains chaining up eight heavy wheels in the snow, and I thought of Mom working hard and wondering if ‘Catering by Katy’ will pay her enough to cover the rent.

“Becoming a mean lunchbag-kicker won’t help anything,” said Mr. Fridley. “You need to think positively.”

“How?” I asked.

“That’s for you to find out,” he said and pushed me toward my classroom.

Today after school I felt so bad that I decided to go for a walk. I wasn’t going to any special place, just walking. I walked down the street past the stores and shops, a bakery and the post office, when I came to a sign that said BUTTERFLY TREES. I heard a lot about these trees where monarch butterflies fly a long way to spend the winter. I followed the signs until I came to a grove of trees with signs saying QUIET. There was a big sign that said WARNING. $500 FINE FOR MOLESTING BUTTERFLIES IN ANY WAY. I smiled. Who would want to molest a butterfly?

The place was shady and quiet, almost like church. At first I saw only three or four monarchs flying around. Then the sun came out from behind a cloud. The butterflies on the trees slowly opened their orange and black wings, thousands of them sitting on one tree. Then they began to fly off through the trees in the sunshine. Those clouds of butterflies were so beautiful that I felt good again and just stood there watching.

I felt so good that I ran all the way home, and while I was running I had an idea for my story.

I also noticed that some of the shops and the gas station had metal boxes that said “Alarm System.” I wonder what is in those boxes.

Today on the way home from school I asked a man who works in the gas station, “Hey, mister, what’s in that box that says ‘Alarm System’ on the side of the station?”

“Batteries,” he told me. “Batteries and a bell.”

Batteries are something to think about.

I started another story which I hope will be printed in the Young Writers’ Yearbook. I think I will call it The Giant Wax Man. All the boys in my class are writing strange stories about monsters and creatures from space. Girls are writing poems or stories about horses.

In the middle of working on my story I had a bright idea. If I take my lunch in a black lunchbox and get some batteries, maybe I will really make a burglar alarm.

Today I got a letter from Dad. I thought it was a letter, but when I opened it, I found a twenty-dollar bill and a paper napkin. On the napkin he wrote, “Sorry about Bandit. Here’s $20. Go buy yourself an ice cream. Dad.”

I was so mad I couldn’t say anything. Mom read the napkin and said, “Your father doesn’t really mean you should buy an ice cream.”

“Then why did he write it?” I asked.

“He is just trying to say that he is really sorry about Bandit. He’s not very good at expressing feelings.” Mom looked sad and said, “Some men aren’t, you know.”

“What should I do with the twenty dollars?” I asked.

“Keep it,” said Mom. “It’s yours, and it will be useful in some way.”

When I asked if I had to write and thank Dad, Mom looked at me and said, “That’s for you to decide.”

Tonight I worked hard on my story for Young Writers about the giant wax man and decided to save the twenty dollars to buy a typewriter. When I am a real author I will need a typewriter.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I haven’t written to you for a long time, because I know you are busy, but I need help with the story that I am trying to write for the Young Writers’ Yearbook. I started, but I don’t know how to finish it.

My story is about a giant man who drives a big truck, like the one my Dad drives. The man is made of wax, and every time he crosses the desert, he melts a little. He makes so many trips and melts so much he finally can’t drive the truck anymore. That is all that I have now. What should I do next?

The boys in my class who are writing about monsters kill all the bad guys on the last page. This ending doesn’t seem right to me. I don’t know why.

Please help.

P.S. Before I started writing the story, I wrote in my diary almost every day.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

Thank you for answering my letter. I was surprised that you had trouble writing stories when you were my age. I think you are right. Maybe I am not ready to write a story. I understand what you mean. A character in a story should solve a problem or change in some way. I can see that a wax man who melts won’t be there to solve anything and melting isn’t the change you mean. I think somebody could make candles out of him on the last page. That would change him of course, but that is not the ending I want.

I asked Miss Martinez if I had to write a story for Young Writers, and she said I could write a poem or a description.

P.S. I bought a copy of Ways to Amuse a Dog at a sale. I hope you don’t mind.

I am not writing my diary because of working on my story and writing to Mr. Henshaw (really, not just pretend). I also bought a new notebook because I had finished the first one.

That same day I bought a used black lunchbox in the thrift shop down the street and started bringing my lunch in it. The kids were surprised, but nobody made fun of me, because a black lunchbox isn’t the same as one of those square boxes covered with colorful stickers that younger children have. Some boys asked if the box was my Dad’s. I just smiled and said, “Where do you think I got it?” The next day my salami was gone, but I expected that. I’ll get that thief. I’ll make him really sorry that he ate all the best things in my lunch.

Next I went to the library for books on batteries. I got some easy books on electricity, really easy. I never thought about batteries before. All I know is that when you want to use a flashlight, the battery is usually dead.

I finally stopped writing my story about the giant wax man, which was really stupid. I wanted to write a poem about butterflies for Young Writers because a poem can be short, but it is hard to think about butterflies and burglar alarms at the same time, so I studied electricity books instead. The books didn’t say how to make an alarm in a lunchbox, but I learned a lot about batteries, switches and wires, so I think I can do it myself.

Back to the poem tonight. The only rhyme I can think of for “butterfly” is “flutter by.” I can think of rhymes like “trees” and “breeze” which are very boring, and then I think of “wheeze” and “sneeze.” A poem about butterflies wheezing and sneezing seems silly, and anyway some girls are already writing poems about monarch butterflies that flutter by.

Sometimes I start a letter to Dad to thank him for the twenty dollars, but I can’t finish it. I don’t know why.

Today I took my lunchbox and Dad’s twenty dollars to the hardware store and looked around. I found a switch, a little battery and a doorbell. While I was looking around for the wire, a man asked if he could help me. He was a nice old gentleman who said, “What are you planning to make, son?” Son. He called me son, and my Dad calls me kid. I didn’t want to tell the man, but when he looked at the things I was holding, he smiled and said, “Trouble with your lunch, right?” I nodded and said, “I’m trying to make a burglar alarm.”

He said, “That’s what I guessed. I had workmen in here with the same problem.”

He said that I needed another battery and gave me some tips. After I paid for the things and was leaving, he said, “Good luck, son.”

I ran home with all the things I bought. First I made a sign on my door that said:

Then I went to work to connect one wire from the battery to the switch and another to the doorbell. It took some time to do it right. Then I fixed the battery and the switch in one corner of the lunchbox and the doorbell in another. I closed the box just enough so I could put my hand inside and push the button on the switch. Then I took my hand out and closed the box.

When I opened the box, my burglar alarm worked! That bell inside the box was ringing so loudly that Mom came to my door. “Leigh, what is going on in there?” she shouted.

I let her in and showed her my burglar alarm. She laughed and said that it was a great invention.

I can’t wait until Monday.

Today Mom packed my lunch, and we tried the alarm to see if it still worked. It did, good and loud. When I came to school, Mr. Fridley said, “Nice to see you smiling, Leigh. You should do it more often.”

I put my lunchbox behind the partition and waited. I waited all morning for the alarm to go off. Miss Martinez asked if I had my mind on my work. I pretended I did, but all the time I was really waiting for my alarm to go off so I could run back behind the partition and catch the thief. When nothing happened, I began to worry. Maybe something broke on the way to school.

Lunchtime came. Still nothing happened. We all took our lunches and went to the cafeteria. When I put my box on the table in front of me, I understood that I had a problem, a big problem. If I opened the box now, the alarm might go off.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Barry asked me.

Everybody at the table looked at me. I wanted to say that I wasn’t hungry, but I was. I wanted to take my lunchbox out into the hall to open, but even there I couldn’t open it quietly. Finally I held my breath and I opened the box.

Wow! My alarm went off! It was so loud that everyone in the cafeteria looked around. I looked up and saw Mr. Fridley standing by the garbage can smiling at me. Then I turned the alarm off.

Suddenly everybody seemed to notice me. Even the principal came to look at my lunchbox. He said, “That’s a great invention you have there.”

“Thanks,” I said, happy that the principal liked my alarm.

Some teachers came to see what was going on, so I had to show again how my alarm worked. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who had problems with the lunchbox, because all the kids said that they wanted alarms, too. Barry said that he wanted an alarm like that on the door of his room at home. I began to feel like a hero. Maybe I’m not so medium after all.

But one thing bothers me. I still don’t know who the lunch thief was.

Today Barry asked me to come home with him to see if I could help him make a burglar alarm for his room because he has little sisters who take his stuff.

Barry lives in a big old house that is cheerful and messy with many little girls around. Barry didn’t have the right batteries, so we just looked at the models that he puts together.

I still don’t know what to write for Young Writers, but I was feeling so good that I finally wrote to Dad to thank him for the twenty dollars because I had found a good use for it even if I couldn’t save it to buy a typewriter. I didn’t say much.

I wonder if Dad will marry the pizza boy and his mother. I worry about that a lot.

This week some more kids came to school with lunchboxes with burglar alarms. At lunchtime, our cafeteria rang with the sound of burglar alarms. This didn’t last very long, and soon I didn’t even set my alarm. Nobody stole anything from my lunchbox anymore.

I never knew who the thief was, and now I am glad about it. If he had been caught, he would have been in trouble, big trouble. Maybe he was just somebody whose mother packed bad lunches. Or maybe he packed his own lunches and there was never anything good in the house to put in them.

I’m not saying that stealing from lunchboxes is right. I am saying that I’m glad I don’t know who the thief was, because I have to go to school with him.

Tonight I was looking at a piece of paper and trying to think of something to write for Young Writers when the phone rang. Mom told me to answer because she was washing her hair.

It was Dad. I felt sick, the way I always do when I hear his voice. “How’re you doing, kid?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said, thinking about my burglar alarm. “Great.”

“I got your letter,” he said.

“That’s good,” I said. I was so surprised by his call that I couldn’t think of anything to say. Then I asked, “Have you found another dog to take Bandit’s place?” I think what I really meant was, Have you found another boy to take my place?

“No, but I ask about him on my CB,” Dad told me. “He may be found.”

“I hope so.” This conversation was going nowhere. I really didn’t know what to say to my father. It was a shame.

Then Dad surprised me. He asked, “Do you miss your old Dad?”

I had to think a minute. I surely missed him, but I couldn’t say it. My silence bothered him because he asked, “Are you still there?”

“Sure, Dad, I miss you,” I told him. It was true, but not as true as it had been some time ago. I still wanted him to drive to our house in his big truck, but now I knew I couldn’t hope for it.

“Sorry I don’t visit you more often,” he said. “Is your mother around?”

“I’ll see,” I said. By then she was standing by the phone with her hair wet and a towel. She shook her head, because she didn’t want to talk to Dad.

“She’s washing her hair,” I said.

“Tell her that I’ll send your support payment next week,” he said. “Bye, kid. Keep your nose clean.”

“Bye, Dad,” I answered. “Drive carefully.” I guess he’ll never learn that my name is Leigh and that my nose is clean. Maybe he thinks that I’ll never learn that he drives carefully. He doesn’t really. He’s a good driver, but he speeds when he can. All truckers do.

After that I couldn’t think about Young Writers, so I took Ways to Amuse a Dog and read it again. I read harder books now, but I still feel good when I read that book. I wonder where Mr. Henshaw is.

Today is Saturday, so this morning I walked to the butterfly trees again. The grove was quiet and peaceful, and because the sun was shining, I stood there a long time, looking at the orange butterflies flying through the gray and green leaves and listening to the sound of the waves on the rocks. There aren’t as many butterflies now. Maybe they are going north for the summer. I thought I could write about them in prose, but on the way home I started thinking about Dad and one time when he took me along when he was hauling grapes to a winery and what a great day it had been.

Yesterday Miss Neely, the librarian, asked if I had written anything for the Young Writers’ Yearbook, because all writing should be handed in by tomorrow. When I told her I hadn’t, she said that I still had twenty-four hours to do it. So I did, because I really would like to meet a Famous Author. My story about the giant wax man went into the wastebasket. Next I tried to start a story called The Great Lunchbox Mystery, but I couldn’t make it into a story because I don’t know who the thief was, and I don’t want to know.

Finally I wrote a description of the time I rode with my father when he was hauling the load of grapes to a winery. I wrote about things like the road signs and how well Dad managed a long and heavy load on the curves. I wrote about the hawks on the telephone wires, how the leaves on the trees along the river were turning yellow and how good the grapes smelled in the sun. I didn’t write about the waitresses and the video games. Then I neatly copied the whole story and gave it to Miss Neely.

Mom said that I had to invite Barry to our house for supper because I now went to his house after school so often. We were working on a burglar alarm for his room which finally worked with some help from a library book.

I wasn’t sure if Barry would like to come to our house which is so small, not like his, but he said yes when I invited him.

Mom cooked a good supper. Barry said that he really liked eating at our house because he was tired of his little sisters. That made me happy. It helps to have a friend.

Barry says that his burglar alarm still works. The trouble is, his little sisters think that it’s fun to open his door to set it off. Then they giggle and hide. This makes his mother mad, so he finally decided to disconnect it. We all laughed about this. Barry and I felt good about making something that worked even if he can’t use it.

Barry saw the sign on my door that said KEEP OUT MOM THAT MEANS YOU. He asked if my Mom really stays out of my room. I said, “Sure, if I clean the mess.”

Barry said he also wanted a room which nobody ever went into. I was glad that Barry didn’t ask to use the bathroom. Maybe I should clean it after all.

I am thinking about Dad and how lonely he sounded. I wonder what happened to the pizza boy. I don’t like to think that Dad is lonesome, but I don’t like to think about the pizza boy either.

Tonight at supper I asked Mom if she thought that Dad would get married again. She thought for a while and then said, “I don’t see how he could do it. He will need a lot of money. But he still pays for the truck, and the prices of diesel go up all the time.”

I thought about this. “But he always sends my support payments,” I said, “even if he is late sometimes.”

“Yes, he does that,” said my mother. “Your father isn’t a bad man.”

Suddenly I was mad at the whole thing. “Then why don’t you two get married again?” I guess I wasn’t very nice when I said it.

Mom looked at me. “Because your father will never grow up,” she said. I knew that was all she would ever say about it.

Tomorrow we will get the Young Writers’ Yearbook! Maybe I will be lucky to have lunch with the Famous Author.

Today wasn’t the greatest day of my life. When our class went to the library, I saw the Yearbooks and couldn’t wait to get one. When I finally got mine and opened it to the first page, there was a monster story, and I saw that I hadn’t won first prize. I didn’t win second prize which went to a poem, and I didn’t win third or fourth prize, either. Then I turned another page and saw Honorable Mention and under it:

There was my title with my name under it in print. I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed because I hadn’t won a prize, I was. I was really disappointed about not meeting the mysterious Famous Author, but I liked seeing my name in print.

Some kids were mad because they didn’t win or even get something printed. They said they wouldn’t ever try to write again which I think is really stupid. I heard that even real authors sometimes can’t publish their books, but they write anyway.

Then Miss Neely said that the Famous Author the winners would have lunch with was Angela Badger. The girls were more excited than the boys because Angela Badger writes mostly about girls and their problems. I would still like to meet her because she is, as they say, a real live author, and I’ve never met a real live author. I am glad that Mr. Henshaw isn’t the author because then I would really be disappointed that I couldn’t meet him.

Today was an exciting day. In the middle of the second lesson Miss Neely called me out of class and asked if I would like to go have lunch with Angela Badger. I said, “Sure, but why?”

Miss Neely said the teachers found that the winning poem wasn’t original but copied from a book, so the girl who handed it in wouldn’t go and would I like to go in her place? Of course I would!

Miss Neely called Mom at work for permission and I gave my lunch to Barry because my lunches are better than his. The other winners were all dressed nicely, but I didn’t care. I noticed that authors like Mr. Henshaw usually wear old shirts in the pictures on the back of their books. My shirt is just as old as his, so I knew it was OK.

Miss Neely took us to the Holiday Inn, where some other librarians and their winners were waiting in the hall. Then Angela Badger came with Mr. Badger, and we went into the dining room. One of the librarians told the winners to sit at a long table with a sign that said Reserved. Angela Badger sat in the middle and some of the girls pushed to sit nest to her. I sat across the table from her. The librarian told us that we could choose our lunch from the salad bar. Then all the librarians went to sit at another table with Mr. Badger.

There I was face to face with a real live author who was a nice lady, plump with wild hair, and I couldn’t think of a thing to say because I never read her books. Some girls told her how much they loved her books, but some of the boys and girls were too shy to say anything. Then Mrs. Badger said, “Why don’t we all go and get the lunch at the salad bar?”

What a mess! Some kids didn’t understand about salad bars, but Mrs. Badger showed us the way and we got all the stuff that is usually on salad bars. It took a long time, longer than in a school cafeteria. Some younger kids were too short to reach anything, but Mrs. Badger helped them.

I still tried to think of something interesting to say to Mrs. Badger while eating my salad. Some girls were telling Mrs. Badger how they wanted to write books just like hers. The other librarians were having a lot of fun talking and laughing with Mr. Badger.

Mrs. Badger tried hard to make some of the shy kids to say something, and I still couldn’t think of anything to say to a lady who wrote books about girls. Finally Mrs. Badger looked at me and asked, “What did you write for the Yearbook?”

I turned red and answered, “Just something about a ride on a truck.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Badger. “So you’re the author of A Day on Dad’s Rig!”

Everyone was quiet. We didn’t think that the real live author would know anything we had written, but she had read it and she remembered my title.

“I just got honorable mention,” I said, but I was thinking, She called me an author. A real live author called me an author.

“So what?” asked Mrs. Badger. “I liked A Day on Dad’s Rig because it was written by a boy who wrote honestly about something he knew and had strong feelings about. You made me feel what it was like to ride with tons of grapes behind me.”

“But I couldn’t write a story,” I said, feeling a lot braver.

“So what?” said Mrs. Badger. “You will know to write stories later, when you have lived longer and have more understanding. A Day on Dad’s Rig was a great work for a boy your age. You wrote like you, and you did not try to write like someone else. This is a mark of a good writer. Keep it up.”

I noticed that the girls who had said that they wanted to write books just like Angela Badger looked embarrassed.

“Thanks,” was all I could say. The waitress brought ice cream. Everyone finally began to ask Mrs. Badger if she wrote in pencil or on the typewriter and how many books she published and were her characters real people and did she have the problems when she was a girl like the girl in her book and what was it like to be a famous author?

I didn’t think that answers to those questions were very important, but I had one question that I wanted to ask. I did it at the last minute when Mrs. Badger was autographing some books that kids had brought.

“Mrs. Badger,” I said, “have you ever met Boyd Henshaw?”

“Why, yes,” she said, signing someone’s book. “I once met him at a meeting of librarians.”

“What’s he like?” I asked.

“He’s a very nice young man with a twinkle in his eye,” she answered. I think I have known that since the time he answered my questions when Miss Martinez made us write to an author.

On the ride home everybody was talking about Mrs. Badger. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to think. A real live author called me an author. A real live author told me to keep it up. Mom was proud of me when I told her.

The gas station stopped pinging a long time ago, but I wanted to write about all this while I remembered. I’m glad tomorrow is Saturday and I don’t have to go to school. I wish Dad was here so I could tell him all about today.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I’ll keep this short to save your time. I had to tell you something. You were right. I wasn’t ready to write an imaginary story. But guess what! I wrote a true story which won Honorable Mention in the Yearbook. Maybe next year I’ll write something that will win first or second prize. Maybe by then I will know how to write an imaginary story.

I just thought that you would like to know. Thank you for your help. I’m glad I didn’t hand in that stupid story about the melting wax trucker.

P.S. I still write in the diary that you started me on.

This morning the sun was shining, so Barry and I mailed my letter to Mr. Henshaw and then went to see if there were still any butterflies in the grove. We only saw three or four, so I guess most of them have gone north for the summer. Then we walked to a little park and sat on a rock watching the waves. After that we walked back to my house.

A tractor without a trailer was parked in front. Dad’s! I began to run, and Dad and Bandit got out of the cab.

“Bye, I have to go,” shouted Barry who heard a lot about Dad and Bandit and who understands about parents and divorce.

Dad and I just stood there looking at each other until I said, “Hi, Dad. Have you seen any shoes on the highway lately?”

“Lots of them,” Dad smiled, not like his old self. “All kinds.”

Bandit came to me, wagging his tail and looking happy. There was a new red bandanna around his neck.

“How’re you doing, kid?” asked Dad. “I brought your dog back.”

“Thanks,” I said, hugging Bandit. Dad’s stomach seemed bigger, and he wasn’t as tall as I remembered him.

“You’ve grown,” he said which is what grownups always say when they don’t know what else to say to kids.

Did Dad think I would stop growing just because he was away? “How did you find Bandit?” I asked.

“By asking every day over my CB,” he said. “I finally got an answer from a trucker who said he had picked up a lost dog in a snowstorm in the mountains, a dog that was still riding with him. Last week we were at the same truck stop.”

“I’m glad you got him back,” I said, and after trying to think of something else to say, I asked, “Why aren’t you hauling anything?” I think I hoped he would say he had come all the way from Bakersfield just to bring Bandit back to me.

“I’m waiting for a load of broccoli,” he said. “So I thought I’d stop here on my way to Ohio.”

So Dad had come to see me just because of broccoli. After all these months when I wanted to see him so much, a load of broccoli brought him here. I felt mad and hurt. It hurt so much that I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Just then Mom drove up and got out of her old car which looked so little next to Dad’s big rig.

“Hello, Bill,” she said.

“Hello, Bonnie,” he said.

We all just stood there with Bandit wagging his tail, until Dad said, “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

“Sure, come in,” said Mom. Bandit went with us to our little house and came inside. “How about a cup of coffee?” Mom asked Dad.

“Sure,” said Dad, looking around. “So this is where you two live.” Then he sat down on the couch.

“This is where we live as long as we can pay the rent,” said Mom. “And it can never be driven away.” Mom really hated that mobile home we lived in.

Dad looked tired and sad like I had never seen him look before. While Mom was making coffee, I showed him the burglar alarm I had made for my lunchbox. He looked at it and said, “I always knew I had a smart kid.”

Then I showed him my Yearbook and what I had written. He read it and said, “Funny, but I still think about that day every time I haul grapes to a winery. I’m glad you remember it, too.” That made me feel good. He looked at me for a while and then said, “You’re smarter than your old man.”

That embarrassed me. I didn’t know how to answer.

Finally Mom brought two cups of coffee. She gave one to Dad and took hers to a chair where she sat. They just sat there looking at one another over the coffee cups. I wanted to yell, Do something! Say something! Don’t just sit there!

Finally Dad said, “I miss you, Bonnie.”

I didn’t want to hear this conversation, but I didn’t know how to get out of there, so I sat down on the floor and hugged Bandit who looked happy like he had never been away.

“I’m sorry,” said Mom. I think she meant she was sorry Dad missed her. Or maybe she was sorry about everything. I don’t know.

“Have you found someone else?” asked Dad.

“No,” said Mom.

“I think about you a lot,” said Dad, “especially at night.”

“I haven’t forgotten you,” said Mom.

“Bonnie, is there any chance – ” Dad began.

“No,” said Mom in a sad, soft voice. “There isn’t a chance.”

“Why not?” asked Dad.

“Too many lonely days and nights not knowing where you were, too much waiting for phone calls you forgot to make because you were having fun at some truck stop,” said Mom. “Too many boring Saturday nights. Too many broken promises. Things like that.”

“Well…” said Dad and put his cup down. “That’s what I wanted to know, so I can go now.” He hadn’t even finished his coffee. He stood up and I did, too. Then he gave me a big hug, and for a minute I wanted to never let him go.

“Bye, son,” he said. “I’ll try to see you more often.”

“Sure, Dad,” I said. I had learned by now that I couldn’t trust anything he said.

Mom came to the door. Suddenly Dad hugged her, and to my surprise, she hugged him back. Then he turned and ran down the steps. When he reached his rig, he shouted, “Take good care of Bandit.”

I thought of Dad hauling a load of broccoli across the country and all those places in my book of road maps, and I didn’t like to think of Dad alone on that long haul driving all day and most of the night, thinking of Mom.

“Dad, wait!” I yelled and ran to him. “Dad, you keep Bandit. You need him more than I do. Please take him. I don’t have any ways to amuse him.”

Dad smiled at that, and whistled, and Bandit jumped into the cab as if that was what he really wanted to do all this time.

“Bye, Leigh,” Dad said and started the motor. Then he looked out the window and said, “You’re a good kid, Leigh. I’m proud of you, and I’ll try to be a better Dad.” As he drove off, he yelled, “See you around!” and was more the way I had remembered him.

When I went inside, Mom was drinking her coffee and staring into space. I went into my room, shut the door and sat listening to the gas station go ping-ping, ping-ping. Maybe it was broccoli that brought Dad here, but he had come because he really wanted to see us. He had really missed us. I felt sad and a lot better at the same time.