Read Online Strider by Beverly Cleary - Free Book Online Page B

thanked Dad, who said, “That’s okay. Let’s go get something to eat.”

    We washed around the edges and, leaving Strider looking surprised behind his fence, went off to a Mexican restaurant where we both ordered the special Mexican platter with enchiladas, chiles rellenos, tacos, refried beans, and rice. Dad had a beer, and I asked for buttermilk, which tasted good with Mexican food.
    We ate in silence for a while. Then Dadrolled a tortilla, looked straight at me, and said, “How come you never asked me for anything before? It always seemed like you wanted a ride in my rig, but you didn’t want me.”
    I was stunned and embarrassed by this speech. Dad was never good at expressing his feelings. Maybe I wasn’t either. Wanted him! For a long time after the divorce, I had ached for him.
    â€œI guess I felt you had abandoned me,” I confessed, “even if you did let me ride with you sometimes.”
    Dad sighed. “I know I’ve let you down, but I’ve missed you, kid, and I’ve grown up a lot in the last couple of years.”
    This time I didn’t get angry the way I used to when Dad called me a kid. Now “kid” sounds like an affectionate nickname, not a substitute for my real name, which I used to think he had forgotten.
    Dad and I had our first real conversation. I didn’t mind so much when he began to talk about my future, although I would just as soon he hadn’t brought it up. As he dropped me off at the cottage, he said, “We’ll have to build Strider a doghouse.”
    When Mom came home from work, I woke up and told her about Alice. “Good,” she said, and meant it. “I’m really glad he’s found someone.” Maybe, because he lives so close, she was afraid he would hang around here because he was lonesome. Coming over to build a doghouse is different.

March 13
    Now that I have solved a few of my problems, but not my future, my feet feel light. I run faster, as if I had wings on my heels like the Greek god Mercury in florists’ ads, except Mercury didn’t have to wear track shoes because his feet didn’t touch the ground.
    Coach wants me to run the eight hundred meters and Kevin to run the fifteen hundred meters. Geneva no longer knocks over so many hurdles.
    My days whiz by. Barry runs with Strider after school and brings him to the track for me to take home.
    While I mop, I study my Spanish: Esta mesa es de madera. Está sobre la mesa .
    While I run, I think about the short stories we are studying. This semester’s English teacher,Mr. Drexler, isn’t a teacher who pounces on kids trying to look inconspicuous and demands, “What is the theme of this story?” He asks, “Would someone like to volunteer the theme of this story?” because he knows themes are nobody’s favorite question. I like to volunteer, even if I am sometimes wrong.

March 14
    Today I did a stupid thing. I watched Geneva run the hurdles, and afterward, when she was walking to cool down, I got up my courage to walk beside her. (Not too close.)
    â€œHi, Leigh,” she said.
    â€œGood work,” I said, “but did you ever think your hair might offer wind resistance? Maybe if you tied it back, it would help your time.” Then I wondered if she would think I had said the wrong thing.
    She put her hand to her hair, which curled around her face in damp tendrils. “I never thought of that,” she admitted. “Thanks for the tip.”
    â€œYour hair is sure pretty,” I said to make sure she wouldn’t feel I was criticizing. For some reason I thought of Barry’s grandmother’s beautiful needle-art knitting with soft, colorful yarns. Without thinking, I said, “Your hair would look nice knit into a sweater.”
    Geneva stopped and faced me with her hands on her hips. “Leigh Botts, you’re really weird!” She turned and ran down the track.
    I felt like