Dear Mr. Henshaw

by Beverly Cleary

  Now Mom went on. “I didn’t think playing pinball machines in a tavern on Saturday night 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 some more, and we both cried until she said, “It’s not your fault, Leigh. You mustn’t ever think that. Your Dad has many good qualities. We just married too young, and he loves the excitement of 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. Remember how he jumped into your father’s cab in the first place? Maybe he was ready to move on to 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 blew her nose and said, “Come on, Leigh, let’s go out.”

  So we got in the car and drove to that fried chicken place and picked up a bucket of fried chicken. Then we drove down by the ocean and ate the chicken with rain sliding down the windshield and waves breaking on the rocks.

  There were little cartons of mashed potatoes and gravy in the bucket of chicken, but someone had forgotten the plastic forks. We scooped up the potato with chicken bones, which made us laugh a little. Mom turned on the windshield wipers and out in the dark we could see the white of the breakers. We opened the windows so we could hear them roll in and break, one after another.

  “You know,” said Mom, “whenever I watch the waves, I always feel that no matter how bad things seem, life will still go on.” That was how I felt, too, only I wouldn’t have known how to say it, so I just said, “yeah.” Then we drove home.

  I feel a whole lot better about Mom. I’m not so sure about Dad even though, as she says, he has good qualities. I don’t like to think that Bandit is a bum, but maybe Mom is right.

  Tuesday, February 6

  Today I felt so tired I didn’t have to try to walk slow on the way to school. I just naturally 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 after all. I just threw my lunch down on the floor and didn’t care if anybody stole any of it. By lunchtime I was hungry again, and when I found my little cheesecake missing, I was mad all over again.

  I’m going to get whoever steals from my lunch. Then he’ll be sorry. I’ll really fix him. Or maybe it’s a her. Either way, I’ll get even.

  I tried to start a story for Young Writers. I got as far as 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 too much like Mr. Henshaw’s book.

  Today during spelling I got so mad thinking about the lunchbag thief that I asked to be excused to go to the bathroom. As I went out into the hall, I scooped up the lunchbag closest to the door. I was about to drop-kick it down the hall 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 being funny at all.

  “Go ahead and tell the principal,” I said. “See if I 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, and that’s where you’re headed.”

  “I don’t have any friends in this rotten 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 scowls all the time?” asked Mr. Fridley. “So you’ve got problems. Well, so has everyone else, if you take the trouble to notice.”

  I thought of Dad up in the mountains chaining up eight heavy wheels in the snow, and I thought of Mom squirting deviled crab into hundreds of little cream puff shells and making billions of tiny sandwiches for golfers to gulp and wondering if Catering by Katy would be able to pay her enough to make the rent.

  “Turning into a mean-eyed lunch-kicker won’t help anything,” said Mr. Fridley. “You gotta think positively.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “That’s for you to figure out,” he said and gave me a little shove toward my classroom.

  Nobody noticed me put the lunchbag back on the floor.

  Wednesday, February 7

  Today after school I felt so rotten I decided to go for a walk. I wasn’t going any special place, just walking. I had started down the street past the paint store and antique shops and bakery and all those places and on past the post office when I came to a sign that said BUTTERFLY TREES. I had heard a lot about those trees where monarch butterflies fly thousands of miles to spend the winter. I followed arrows until I came to a grove of mossy pine and eucalyptus trees with signs saying QUIET. There was a big sign that said WARNING. $500 FINE FOR MOLESTING BUTTERFLIES IN ANY WAY. I had to smile. Who would want to molest a butterfly?

  The place was so quiet, almost like church, that I tiptoed. The grove was shady, and at first I thought all the signs about butterflies must be for some kind of ripoff for tourists, because I saw only three or four monarchs flitting around. Then I discovered some of the branches looked strange, as if they were covered with little brown sticks.

  Then the sun came out from behind a cloud. The sticks began to move, and slowly they opened wings and turned into orange and black butterflies, thousands of them quivering on one tree. Then they began to float off through the trees in the sunshine. Those clouds of butterflies were so beautiful I felt good all over and just stood there watching them until the fog began to roll in, and the butterflies came back and turned into brown sticks again. They made me think of a story Mom used to read me about Cinderella returning from the ball.

  I felt so good 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 had metal boxes that said “Alarm System” up near their roof. So does the gas station next door. I wonder what is in those boxes.

  Thursday, February 8

  Today when I came home from school, I leaned over the fence and yelled at a man who works in the gas station, “Hey, Chuck, what’s in that box that says Alarm System on the side of the station?” I know his name is Chuck because it says so on his uniform.

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

  Batteries are something to think about.

  I started another story which I hope will get printed in the Young Writers’ Yearbook. I think I will call it The Ten-Foot Wax Man. All the boys in my class are writing weird stories full of monsters, lasers and creatures from outer space. Girls seem to be writing mostly poems or stories about horses.

  In the middle of working on my story I had a bright idea. If I took my lunch in a black lunchbox, the kind men carry, and got some batteries, maybe I really could rig up a burglar alarm.

  Friday, February 9

  Today I got a letter from Dad postmarked Albuquerque, New Mexico. At least I thought it was a letter, but when I tore it open, I found a twenty-dollar bill and a paper napkin. He had written on the napkin, “Sorry about Bandit. Here’s $20. Go buy yourself an ice cream cone. Dad.”

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

  “Then why did he write it?” I asked.

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

  “What am I supposed to do with the twenty dollars?” I asked, not that we couldn’t use it.

  “Keep it,” said Mom. “It’s yours, and it will come in handy.”

  When I asked if I had to write and thank Dad, Mom gav
e me a funny look and said, “That’s up to you.”

  Tonight I worked hard on my story for Young Writers about the ten-foot wax man and decided to save the twenty dollars toward a typewriter. When I get to be a real author I will need a typewriter.

  February 15

  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 I am trying to write for the Young Writers’ Yearbook. I got started, but I don’t know how to finish it.

  My story is about a man ten feet tall who drives a big truck, the kind 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 handle the gears or reach the brakes. That is as far as I can get. What should I do now?

  The boys in my class who are writing about monsters just bring in a new monster on the last page to finish off the villains with a laser. That kind of ending doesn’t seem right to me. I don’t know why.

  Please help. Just a postcard will do.

  Hopefully,

  Leigh Botts

  P.S. Until I started trying to write a story, I wrote in my diary almost every day.

  February 28

  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 until he’s a puddle wouldn’t be there to solve anything and melting isn’t the sort of change you mean. I suppose somebody could turn up on the last page and make candles out of him. That would change him all right, 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.

  Your grateful friend,

  Leigh

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

  FROM THE DIARY OF LEIGH BOTTS VOL. 2

  Thursday, March 1

  I am getting behind in this diary for several reasons, including working on my story and writing to Mr. Henshaw (really, not just pretend). I also had to buy a new notebook because I had filled up the first one.

  The same day, I bought a beat-up black lunchbox in the thrift shop down the street and started carrying 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 cartoon characters that first and second graders carry. A couple of boys asked if it was my Dad’s. I just grinned and said, “Where do you think I got it?” The next day my little slices of salami rolled around cream cheese were gone, but I expected that. But I’ll get that thief yet. I’ll make him really sorry he ate all the best things out of my lunch.

  Next I went to the library for books on batteries. I took out a couple of easy books on electricity, really easy, because I have never given much thought to batteries. About all I know is that when you want to use a flashlight, the battery is usually dead.

  I finally gave up on my story about the ten-foot wax man, which was really pretty dumb. I thought I would 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 have directions for an alarm in a lunchbox, but I learned enough about batteries and switches and insulated wires, so I think I can figure it out myself.

  Friday, March 2

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

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

  Saturday, March 3

  Today I took my lunchbox and Dad’s twenty dollars to the hardware store and looked around. I found an ordinary light switch, a little battery and a cheap doorbell. While I was looking around for the right kind of insulated wire, a man who had been watching me (boys my age always get watched when they go into stores) 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 grinned and said, “Having trouble with your lunch, aren’t you?” I nodded and said, “I’m trying to make a burglar alarm.”

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

  It turned out that I needed a 6-volt lantern battery instead of the battery I had picked out. He gave me a couple of tips and, after I paid for the things, a little slap on the back and said, “Good luck, son.”

  I tore home with all the things I bought. First I made a sign for my door that said

  KEEP OUT

  MOM

  THAT MEANS YOU

  Then I went to work fastening one wire from the battery to the switch and from the other side of the switch to the doorbell. Then I fastened a second wire from the battery to the doorbell. It took me a while to get it right. Then I taped the battery in one corner of the lunchbox and the doorbell in another. I stood the switch up at the back of the box and taped that in place, too.

  Here I ran into a problem. I thought I could take the wire clamp meant to hold a thermos bottle inside the lunchbox lid and hook it under the switch if I reached in carefully as I closed the box. The clamp wasn’t quite long enough. After some thinking and experimenting, I twisted a wire loop onto it. Then I closed the box just enough so I could get my hand inside and push the wire loop over the button on the switch before I took my hand out and closed the box.

  Then I opened the box. My burglar alarm worked! That bell inside the box went off with a terrible racket that brought Mom to my door. “Leigh, what on earth is going on in there?” she shouted above the alarm.

  I let her in and gave her a demonstration of my burglar alarm. She laughed and said it was a great invention. One thing was bothering me. Would my sandwich muffle the bell? Mom must have been wondering the same thing, because she suggested taping a piece of cardboard into the lid that would make a shelf for my sandwich. I did, and that worked, too.

  I can’t wait until Monday.

  Monday, March 5

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

  I parked 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 dash back behind the partition and tackle the thief. When nothing happened, I began to worry. Maybe the loop had somehow slipped off the switch on the way to school.

  Lunchtime came. The alarm still hadn’t gone off. We all picked up our lunches and went off to the cafeteria. When I set my box on the table in front of me, I realized I had a problem, a big problem. If the loop hadn’t slipped off the switch, my alarm was still triggered. I just sat there, staring at my lunchbox, not knowing what to do.

  “How come you’re not eating?” Barry asked with his mouth full. Barry’s sandwiches are never cut in half, and he always takes a big bite out of one side to start.

  Everybody at the table was looking at me. I thought about saying I wasn’t hungry, but I was. I thought about taking my lunchbox out into the hall to open, but if the alarm was still triggered, there was no way I could open it quietly. Finally I thought, Here goes. I unsnapped the two fasten
ers on the box and held my breath as I opened the lid.

  Wow! My alarm went off! The noise was so loud it startled everybody at the table including me and made everyone in the cafeteria look around. I looked up and saw Mr. Fridley grinning at me over by the garbage can. Then I turned off the alarm.

  Suddenly everybody seemed to be noticing me. The principal, who always prowls around keeping an eye on things at lunchtime, came over to examine my lunchbox. He said, “That’s quite an invention you have there.”

  “Thanks,” I said, pleased that the principal seemed to like my alarm.

  Some of the teachers came out of their lunchroom to see what the noise was all about. I had to give a demonstration. It seems I wasn’t the only one who had things stolen from my lunch, and all the kids said they wanted lunchboxes with alarms, too, even those whose lunches were never good enough to have anything stolen. Barry said he would like an alarm like that on the door of his room at home. I began to feel like some sort of hero. Maybe I’m not so medium after all.

  One thing bothers me, though. I still don’t know who’s been robbing my lunch.

  Tuesday, March 6

  Today Barry asked me to come home with him to see if I could help him rig up a burglar alarm for his room because he has a bunch of little sisters and stepsisters who get into his stuff. I thought I could, because I had seen an alarm like that in one of the electricity books from the library.

  Barry lives in a big old house that is sort of cheerful and messy, with little girls all over the place. As it turned out, Barry didn’t have the right kind of battery so we just fooled around looking at his models. Barry never uses directions when he puts models together, because the directions are too hard and spoil the fun. He throws them away and figures out how the pieces fit by himself.