Dear Mr. Henshaw

by Beverly Cleary

  I still don’t know what to write for Young Writers, but I was feeling so good 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 all toward 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.

  Thursday, March 15

  This week several kids turned up with lunchboxes with burglar alarms. You know that song about the hills ringing with the sound of music? Well, you might say our cafeteria rang with the sound of burglar alarms. The fad didn’t last very long, and after a while I didn’t even bother to set my alarm. Nobody has robbed my lunchbox since I set it off that day.

  I never did find out who the thief was, and now that I stop to think about it, I am glad. If he had set off the alarm when my lunchbox was in the classroom, he would have been in trouble, big trouble. Maybe he was just somebody whose mother packed bad lunches—jelly sandwiches on that white bread that tastes like Kleenex. Or maybe he had to pack his own lunches and there was never anything good in the house to put in them. I have seen people look into their lunches, take out the cookies and throw the rest in the garbage. Mr. Fridley always looks worried when they do this.

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

  Friday, March 16

  Tonight I was staring at a piece of paper 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. My stomach felt as if it was dropping to the floor, the way it always does when I hear his voice. “How’re you doing, kid?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said, thinking of the success of my burglar alarm. “Great.”

  “I got your letter,” he said.

  “That’s good,” I said. His call took me so by surprise that I could feel my heart pounding, and I couldn’t think of anything to say until 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 turn up yet.”

  “I hope so.” This conversation was going no place. I really didn’t know what to say to my father. It was embarrassing.

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

  I had to think a minute. I missed him all right, but I couldn’t seem to get the words out. My silence must have 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 a couple of months ago. I still wanted him to pull up in front of the house in his big rig, but now I knew I couldn’t count on it.

  “Sorry I don’t get over your way more often,” he said. “I hear the sugar refinery in Spreckels is closing down.”

  “I read about it in the paper,” I said.

  “Is your mother handy?” he asked.

  “I’ll see,” I said even though by then she was standing by the phone with her hair wrapped in a towel. She shook her head. She didn’t want to talk to Dad.

  “She’s washing her hair,” I said.

  “Tell her I’ll manage to send your support check sometime next week,” he said. “So long, kid. Keep your nose clean.”

  “So long, 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 I’ll never learn that he drives carefully. He doesn’t really. He’s a good driver, but he speeds to make time whenever he can avoid the highway patrol. All truckers do.

  After that I couldn’t get back to thinking about Young Writers, so I picked up Ways to Amuse a Dog and read it for the thousandth time. I read harder books now, but I still feel good when I read that book. I wonder where Mr. Henshaw is.

  Saturday, March 17

  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 floating through the gray and green leaves and listening to the sound of the ocean on the rocks. There aren’t as many butterflies now. Maybe they are starting to go north for the summer. I thought I might write about them in prose instead of poetry, but on the way home I got to 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.

  Tuesday, March 20

  Yesterday Miss Neely, the librarian, asked if I had written anything for the Young Writers’ Yearbook, because all writing had to be turned in by tomorrow. When I told her I hadn’t, she said I still had twenty-four hours and why didn’t I get busy? So I did, because I really would like to meet a Famous Author. My story about the ten-foot wax man went into the wastebasket. Next I tried to start a story called The Great Lunchbox Mystery, but I couldn’t seem to turn my lunchbox experience into a story because I don’t know who the thief (thieves) was (were), and I don’t want to know.

  Finally I dashed off a description of the time I rode with my father when he was trucking the load of grapes down Highway 152 through Pacheco Pass to a winery. I put in things like the signs that said STEEP GRADE, TRUCKS USE LOW GEAR and how Dad down-shifted and how skillful he was handling a long, heavy load on the curves. I put in about the hawks on the telephone wires and about that high peak where Black Bart’s lookout used to watch for travelers coming through the pass so he could signal to Black Bart to rob them, and how the leaves on the trees along the stream at the bottom of the pass were turning yellow and how good tons of grapes smelled in the sun. I left out the part about the waitresses and the video games. Then I copied the whole thing over in case neatness counts and gave it to Miss Neely.

  Saturday, March 24

  Mom said I had to invite Barry over to our house for supper because I have been going to his house after school so often. We had been working on a burglar alarm for his room which we finally got to work with some help from a library book.

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

  Mom cooked a casserole full of good things like ground beef, chilies, tortillas, tomatoes and cheese. Barry said he really liked eating at our house because he got tired of eating with a bunch of little sisters waving spoons and drumsticks. That made me happy. It helps to have a friend.

  Barry says his burglar alarm still works. The trouble is, his little sisters think it’s fun to open his door to set it off. Then they giggle and hide. This was driving his mother crazy, so he finally had 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 keep things picked up.” Mom is not a snoop.

  Barry said he wished he could have a room nobody ever went into. I was glad Barry didn’t ask to use the bathroom. Maybe I’ll start scrubbing off the mildew after all.

  Sunday, March 25

  I keep thinking about Dad and how lonely he sounded and wondering what happened to the pizza boy. I don’t like to think about Dad being lonesome, but I don’t like to think about the pizza boy cheering him up either.

  Tonight at supper (beans and franks) I got up my courage to ask Mom if she thought Dad would get married again. She thought awhile and then said, “I don’t see how he could afford to. He has big payments to make on the truck, and the price of diesel oil goes up all the time, and when people can’t afford to build houses or buy cars, he won’t be hauling lumber or cars.”

  I thought this over. I know that a license for a truck like his costs over a thousand dollars a year. “But he always sends my support payments,” I said, “even if he is late sometimes.”

  “Yes, he does that,�
�� agreed my mother. “Your father isn’t a bad man by any means.”

  Suddenly I was mad and disgusted with the whole thing. “Then why don’t you two get married again?” I guess I wasn’t very nice about the way I said it.

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

  Tomorrow they give out the Young Writers’ Yearbook! Maybe I will be lucky and get to go have lunch with the Famous Author.

  Monday, March 26

  Today wasn’t the greatest day of my life. When our class went to the library, I saw a stack of Yearbooks and could hardly wait for Miss Neely to hand them out. When I finally got mine and opened it to the first page, there was a monster story, and I saw I hadn’t won first prize. I kept turning. 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:

  A DAY ON DAD’S RIG

  by

  LEIGH M. BOTTS

  There was my title with my name under it in print, even if it was mimeographed print. I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed because I hadn’t won a prize, I was. I was really disappointed about not getting to meet 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 pretty dumb. I have heard that real authors sometimes have their books turned down. I figure you win some, you lose some.

  Then Miss Neely announced that the Famous Author the winners would get to have lunch with was Angela Badger. The girls were more excited than the boys because Angela Badger writes mostly about girls with problems like big feet or pimples or something. 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 Mr. Henshaw isn’t the author because then I would really be disappointed that I didn’t get to meet him.

  Friday, March 30

  Today turned out to be exciting. In the middle of second period Miss Neely called me out of class and asked if I would like to go have lunch with Angela Badger. I said, “Sure, how come?”

  Miss Neely explained that the teachers discovered that the winning poem had been copied out of a book and wasn’t original so the girl who submitted it would not be allowed to go and would I like to go in her place? Would I!

  Miss Neely telephoned 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 up, but I didn’t care. I have noticed that authors like Mr. Henshaw usually wear old plaid 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 drove us in her own car to the Holiday Inn, where some other librarians and their winners were waiting in the lobby. Then Angela Badger arrived with Mr. Badger, and we were all led into the dining room which was pretty crowded. One of the librarians who was a sort of Super Librarian 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 beside her. I sat across from her. Super Librarian explained that we could choose our lunch from the salad bar. Then all the librarians went off and sat at a table with Mr. Badger.

  There I was face to face with a real live author who seemed like a nice lady, plump with wild hair, and I couldn’t think of a thing to say because I hadn’t 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. Nothing seemed to happen until Mrs. Badger said, “Why don’t we all go help ourselves to lunch at the salad bar?”

  What a mess! Some people didn’t understand about salad bars, but Mrs. Badger led the way and we helped ourselves to lettuce and bean salad and potato salad and all the usual stuff they lay out on salad bars. A few of the younger kids were too short to reach anything but the bowls on the first rows. They weren’t doing too well until Mrs. Badger helped them out. Getting lunch took a long time, longer than in a school cafeteria, and when we carried our plates back to our table, people at other tables ducked and dodged as if they expected us to dump our lunches on their heads. All one boy had on his plate was a piece of lettuce and a slice of tomato because he thought he was going to get to go back for roast beef and fried chicken. We had to straighten him out and explain that all we got was salad. He turned red and went back for more salad.

  I was still trying to think of something interesting to say to Mrs. Badger while I chased garbanzo beans around my plate with a fork. A couple of girls did all the talking, telling Mrs. Badger how they wanted to write books exactly like hers. The other librarians were busy talking and laughing with Mr. Badger who seemed to be a lot of fun.

  Mrs. Badger tried to get some of the shy people to say something without much luck, and I still couldn’t think of anything to say to a lady who wrote books about girls with big feet or pimples. Finally Mrs. Badger looked straight at me and asked, “What did you write for the Yearbook?”

  I felt myself turn 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. None of us had known the real live author would have read what we had written, but she had 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.

  “What difference does that make?” asked Mrs. Badger. “Judges never agree. I happened to like 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 down a steep grade with tons of grapes behind me.”

  “But I couldn’t make it into a story,” I said, feeling a whole lot braver.

  “Who cares?” said Mrs. Badger with a wave of her hand. She’s the kind of person who wears rings on her forefingers. “What do you expect? The ability to write stories comes later, when you have lived longer and have more understanding. A Day on Dad’s Rig was splendid work for a boy your age. You wrote like you, and you did not try to imitate someone else. This is one mark of a good writer. Keep it up.”

  I noticed a couple of girls who had been saying they wanted to write books exactly like Angela Badger exchange embarrassed looks.

  “Gee, thanks,” was all I could say. The waitress began to plunk down dishes of ice cream. Everyone got over being shy and began to ask Mrs. Badger if she wrote in pencil or on the typewriter and did she ever have books rejected and were her characters real people and did she ever have pimples when she was a girl like the girl in her book and what did it feel like to be a famous author?

  I didn’t think answers to those questions were very important, but I did have one question I wanted to ask which I finally managed to get in at the last minute when Mrs. Badger was autographing some books people had brought.

  “Mrs. Badger,” I said, “did you ever meet Boyd Henshaw?”

  “Why, yes,” she said, scribbling away in someone’s book. “I once met him at a meeting of librarians where we were on the same program.”

  “What’s he like?” I asked over the head of a girl crowding up with her book.

  “He’s a very nice young man with a wicked 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 chattering about Mrs. Badger this, and Mrs. Badger that. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to think. A real live author had called me an author. A real live author had 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 all this down while I remembered. I’m glad tomorrow is Saturday. If I had to go to school I would yawn. I wish Dad was here so I could
tell him all about today.

  March 31

  Dear Mr. Henshaw,

  I’ll keep this short to save you time reading it. 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 place. Maybe by then I will be able to write an imaginary story.

  I just thought you would like to know. Thank you for your help. If it hadn’t been for you, I might have handed in that dumb story about the melting wax trucker.

  Your friend, the author,

  Leigh Botts

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

  FROM THE DIARY OF LEIGH BOTTS

  Saturday, March 31

  This morning the sun was shining, so Barry and I mailed my letter to Mr. Henshaw and then walked over 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 down to the little park at Lovers Point and sat on a rock watching sailboats on the bay for a while. When clouds began to blow in we walked back to my house.

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

  “So long, I gotta go,” yelled Barry who has heard a lot about Dad and Bandit and who understands about parents and divorce.

  Dad and I just stood there looking at one another until I said, “Hi, Dad. Seen any shoes on the highway lately?”