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

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.