When I woke up, Dad was gone, and Mom was smoothing my sheets.
“Was Dad here?” I asked. She assured me he was. For a minute I thought I had dreamed the whole thing. I had never known Dad to act so much like a father before.
January 7
That’s enough about my being sick, except to say that Barry came by with my books, which he shoved through the window we have to keep open because of the gas heater. By then I felt well enough to moan with my eyes rolled back and my tongue hanging out.
Barry held his nose so he wouldn’t breathe my germs, and Strider poked his snout out the window. “Hi there, fellow,” said Barry, wiggling his fingers through the crack. “How’s our dog?” Barry didn’t mention reclaiming his custody rights.
I sit here thinking, Please don’t, Barry. Let me keep him. I need him. I don’t know why, but the thought crossed my mind that Barry was behind in his dog support payments.
January 8
I’m writing all this because I’m bored. As I read what I have written, I see I left out the most important part.
Dad came back another night when I was alone but beginning to feel that I might live after all. He seemed different, not just quiet. Defeated might be the word. I asked, “Something bothering you, Dad?”
He thought awhile before he said, “There’s something about a trucker losing his rig that makes him think about a lot of things. Your mother is smarter than me. She’s getting her education.”
I didn’t know what to say to this. Then he asked, “What are your plans for the future?”
That question again, the question without an answer. I said, “Mom thinks I should go to medical school, but I need to earn my own living and not be a burden for years while I go to school.”
“Leigh, listen to your mother.” Dad ignored my attitude, which wasn’t exactly the best. “I’ll help you somehow. I’m not lookin’ to pump gas all my life. I don’t want my kid to make the same mistakes I made.”
Dad means well, but I can’t count on him. Besides, child support stops when I am eighteen. I just said, “Thanks, Dad.”
When Dad left, I felt good because he had come and was concerned about me. I was also a little annoyed because I don’t like people telling me what I should do. How do I know I want to go to medical school? I’m pretty sure I don’t. Mom is always so sad when a patient dies. On the other hand, she is happy when someone’s life is saved. Maybe I just want to bum around the world with my backpack and my bad attitude.
I almost forgot. While I was sick, Barry brought me a box of dinosaur-shaped cookies his biggest little sisters had baked for me. They even frosted them and stuck chocolate chips in the frosting for eyes. Those cookies really pleased me. They also made me wish I had a sister or two of my own.
January 10
Today the weather was good for a change. Although I still feel weak, I have recovered from whatever it was I had. I left Strider at home with Mom, who was studying, and walked, not ran, to school on Jell-O knees and heavy feet. Barry caught up with me. “How come you didn’t bring Strider to my house?” he asked.
“The hill was too steep, and I didn’t feel that great.”
Barry accepted this explanation, which was mostly true. I didn’t feel this was the moment to remind Barry he was behind in his dog support payments.
At school, wearing my best attitude, I turned in all my makeup work. My teachers said they were glad to see me back. In English, we worked on an exercise in hyphenated words, which did not take long. Bored, I looked out the window at the pine trees across the playing field, but action on the field caught my attention. A girls’ P.E. class was playing volleyball.
One girl, however, was not. Geneva was running hurdles alone. I watched her kneel in an imaginary starting block, take off at the imaginary sound of a starter’s gun, and, with an arm and a leg extended, clear the first hurdle, break stride, and knock over the second hurdle. That did not stop her. She ran on, knocking over all but that first hurdle. Then she set them up again and started over. Her hair streamed behind her, and her legs, which I hadn’t noticed before, were long and slender. I guess it’s sexist to say so, but they are pretty.
I felt old Wounded-hair looking at me, so I pretended to be working. Sometimes I gazed out the window as if I were thinking, when I was really watching Geneva. She knocked down hurdles, set them up, and started over. I had to admire her. She didn’t give up.
Watching Geneva, I began to feel better. I longed to be out running with Strider in the cool, washed air that smelled of pine trees, to stretch my legs and extend my stride.
Then old Wounded-hair spoiled my thought by saying, “Perhaps Leigh’s next composition should be about the girls’ P.E. class, since he finds it so interesting.” My attitude toward my English teacher has gone from bad to worse to worst.
I couldn’t help wondering if Geneva had scraped her knees on the hurdles as they fell.
January 12
Barry and I quarreled. I feel terrible.
The quarrel was my fault. When Barry didn’t say anything more about Strider, I didn’t return him to the Brinkerhoffs’ house yesterday on the way to school. I felt so guilty I avoided Barry. I knew it was wrong, but I love Strider so much I made up dumb excuses to myself about how Barry didn’t need a dog because he had a full-time father and a bunch of little sisters to keep him company.
Then Barry and I bumped into each other in the breezeway between classes. “How come you don’t come by my house on the way to school?” he asked, leaving Strider out of it.
“I guess I’m short of time” was the only excuse I could think of.
Barry scowled. “You almost make me late waiting for you.”
“So don’t wait.” I knew I shouldn’t talk that way, but I felt so guilty I couldn’t help myself.
Today we met accidentally on the way to school. Barry didn’t look exactly friendly. “How come you’re keeping Strider?” he asked.
I wished I had a real excuse. “I didn’t think you’d care. You didn’t pay much attention to him during football season. Besides, he likes it at my house.” I hoped this was true.
“Sure,” said Barry. “You feed him, but don’t forget he’s half mine. We agreed.”
I said a mean thing. “Then how come you’re behind in your dog support payments? We agreed on that, too.”
“Why should I pay for a dog you keep all the time?” Barry had me there.
“You pay and I’ll bring him back.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“You sound like you’re holding him for ransom,” Barry said.
“You know I’m not.” I glared at Barry, who glared back.
Knowing I was wrong was making me act so angry. I didn’t really want to behave that way, but I didn’t know how to turn back. Already I could hear adults saying they knew we couldn’t work out joint custody of a dog. They’d have a good laugh, and Strider hadn’t done a thing except be a good dog.
Barry started to go on ahead.
“Barry, wait!” I called, feeling terrible.
“Drop dead,” he answered.
That made me feel so awful, I was even more angry. “Stinkerhoff!” I yelled and felt like a first-grader.
January 14
Yesterday Barry avoided me.
Last night I felt so heavy inside I had trouble going to sleep and kept one hand on Strider’s rough hair as he lay on the floor beside my bed. Once he woke up and licked my hand. I know he likes the taste of salt on my skin, but I pretended he was letting me know he loved me. Maybe he was.
At breakfast this morning, Mom asked, “What’s the matter, Leigh? You look down in the dumps.”
I told the truth. “I’m just a rotten kid with a bad attitude.”
“Oh, Leigh.” Mom laughed a sad, amused, worried laugh. “It isn’t easy being fourteen.”
It sure isn’t.
January 16
Barry is avoiding me. He even walked to school a different way, which made me feel so terrible, so ti
ght inside, like the popcorn his sisters shrink back into kernels, that I couldn’t concentrate in school and did everything wrong.
After school I walked slowly home, thinking. I had to do something to straighten out this mess. When I opened the door, Strider was so happy to see me he jumped up and licked me. As I hugged him, I noticed he had chewed another corner of the rug.
After I changed my clothes, we went for a run along the edge of the bay. Then we ran around to the butterfly grove, where we walked quietly so we wouldn’t disturb the butterflies looking like brown twigs as they clung to the eucalyptus trees. As the sun moved in among the branches to warm the butterflies, they began to unfold and rise in clouds the color of Geneva’s hair and to flutter away through the trees.
I always go there when I am sad. Knowing that such fragile creatures can fly as far as Alaska every year somehow cheers me up. By the time we left the grove, I knew what I had to do to make myself feel better.
Back at the cottage, I picked up Strider’s correct-posture food stand. “Come on, boy,” I said and plodded up the hill to Barry’s house, where I set the dish under the overhang of the deck and unsnapped the leash, which I hung on its nail.
When I knelt to scratch Strider’s chest, he looked puzzled, as if he knew something was different. I took his head between my hands, looked at his mottled face, his black nose, his alert brown ears, and said, “So long, Strider. See you around.” Then I left, fastening the gate behind me. When I looked back, Strider was standing with his front paws on the fence, watching me walk away. “Don’t forget me,” I called, turned away, and cried.
All this evening I waited for Barry to phone and tell me not to be stupid, to come and get Strider, that we still had joint custody. The telephone just sits there, silent, tan, and ugly. Now I know I didn’t really mean it when I gave Strider to Barry. I just wanted Barry to phone and say, “Everything is okay, no sweat, we’re still friends.”
January 20
Strider’s ghost haunts this cottage. The windows are smeared with his nose print. His hair is everywhere. The chewed corners of the rug remind me of the times I left him shut in too long. I seem to hear the click of his toenails on the kitchen floor and the rattle of his license tag, as if he were still scratching. When I go to bed I reach down for the reassuring touch of his rough hair, but Strider is not there.
Today Mom asked, “What’s happened to Strider? I miss him.”
“He’s at Barry’s.” I tried to act as if this were not unusual.
“Did you boys run into trouble over his custody?” she asked over the rim of her decaf cup.
“Not exactly,” I said. “Well, sort of.”
Good old Mom. She didn’t ask any more questions.
January 25
Funny. Even though I no longer have to exercise Strider, I still have the urge to get up early and run. Habit, I guess. The first few minutes I have to push, but as I run, my muscles loosen up, a good feeling comes over me, and then I feel as if I am floating.
To avoid Barry, I take a different route to school. I often meet Kevin, which puts me on the alert at first, even when I am not wearing the shirt.
Today, instead of chasing me, Kevin said, “Hi, Leigh. How’s it going?”
“You ask? In the middle of finals?” I laughed what I intended to be a hollow laugh. At the last minute I am trying to bring my grades up.
“Make my day. Give me an A.” Kevin leaped up to hit an overhanging branch. “Going out for track? I’ve seen you and your dog running around town.”
My ex-dog, I thought, and said, “I haven’t really thought about it.” All I had thought about was Strider, Barry, finals, and sometimes Geneva, the girl with hair the color of monarch butterflies.
We walked in silence until Kevin said, “You know something? Nobody at school ever noticed me until I started chasing you in that shirt. I really liked that shirt, but my mother practically went into coronary arrest when she saw it.” He swatted a bush. “I don’t mind your wearing it now. At least chasing you in it brought me some attention. People know who I am.”
“It’s hard being a new kid in school,” I said, remembering the sixth grade.
January 26
Today after the math final, I ran into Barry in the breezeway. It had to happen sometime, but he didn’t look especially happy to see me, which I thought was unreasonable. He has full custody of Strider. “How come you didn’t keep Strider at your place?” he asked.
I wanted to say I was sorry for all the mean things I had said, but harsh, angry words came out: “Because I’m a rotten kid with a bad attitude.”
Barry looked as if I had hit him. Maybe if I had done better on my math final, I wouldn’t have been in such a bad mood and wouldn’t have sounded so mean.
After school Kevin caught up with me. “How about coming over to my place for something to eat?” he asked.
Why not? Without Strider, I didn’t have anything better to do.
Kevin lives in one of those big old Victorian houses painted in what they call “decorator colors,” which are worth about a million dollars these days. The kitchen was all pink and modern. Kevin opened a door of a huge refrigerator-freezer. “My mother had all our appliances painted this special pink at an auto body shop,” he explained, as if he was apologizing. I had never seen so much frozen food outside a supermarket. “Pizza?” he asked. “I’ll save the beef stroganoff for dinner. Or maybe the chicken cordon bleu. I’m not into Weight Watchers.”
“Pizza’s great.” I was puzzled. “Doesn’t your mother cook?”
Kevin shoved the pizza into the microwave. “She never cooks. We just choose whatever we want and nuke it in the microwave.”
While we ate the Pizza, I learned a lot about Kevin, who seemed to need someone to talk to. His father is rich and lives in San Francisco on Nob Hill, or in his condo in Hawaii, and is mad at Kevin because he couldn’t get into prep school when practically everyone in the family back to Adam and Eve has gone to prep school. Kevin was mad at his father for divorcing his mother for a younger woman in the midst of the entrance exams he had to take. Kevin explained that his mother received lots of alimony, and the housekeeper who came in every morning didn’t like him to mess up the kitchen. He wished he had gone out for cross-country because it would give him something to do.
I’m ashamed to say Kevin’s problems made me feel a little better about mine.
When I told Mom I had a new friend who wasn’t very happy, she asked, “What’s his problem?”
“He’s rich.”
Mom laughed and said she wished she had the same problem, but after seeing how Kevin lives, I don’t think his being rich is so funny.
Mom said, “Maybe we should ask him over for dinner sometime when I have a day off.” Then she added, “Unless you are ashamed of the way we live.”
I have never been ashamed, but now I wonder if I’m going to be.
February 13
Today Kevin and I turned out for track. Mr. Kurtz, the coach, gave us a pep talk about the importance of taking part and doing the best we can. He said it’s not the winning, it’s the competing that’s important. He stressed looking for improvement within ourselves. That means I’ll have to start chipping away at my bad attitude.
Across the playing field I could see Geneva, arm and leg extended, red hair flying, still working at clearing those hurdles. She is improving, which probably means she has the right attitude.
The varsity team calls Mr. Kurtz “Coach,” but most of us younger kids don’t feel we know him that well. He watched the freshmen and sophomores work out. Afterward, as we headed for the locker room, Mr. Kurtz put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I have a feeling you’re going to make a real contribution to the team. Stick with it.” This surprised me. With Barry and Strider so heavy on my mind, my feet felt heavy, too.
To Kevin he said, “With those long legs, you should do well.”
February 14
On a scale of one to ten, today was about fifteen.
When I came home from school, Strider was sitting by the front door! When he saw me, he came running, jumped up, and licked my face. That long wet tongue felt good.
“Strider!” was all I could say. “Strider!” He wriggled all over, he was so glad to see me.
I looked for his leash, but it was nowhere around. Neither was his posture dish. That meant one thing. Strider had come on his own. The Brinkerhoffs’ fence wasn’t so high he couldn’t get over it if he really wanted to.
I felt great. Strider wanted me. I took him inside and fed him in a plain dish. His slurp-slobber sounded good, just like old times.
And then the telephone rang. My heart dropped so far it practically bounced on the floor because I had a feeling Barry was calling. He was.
“Is Strider there?” Barry sounded anxious.
“Yes,” I said. “Want to speak to him?”
“Wise guy,” said Barry. “What’s he doing there? Did you come and get him?”
I pointed out to Barry that if I had taken Strider, I would have taken his leash and posture dish, too, and said, “Coming back was Strider’s idea. He came on his own.” When Strider heard his name, he rested his head on my knee.
“That’s what I figured,” said Barry, “but I wanted to be sure no one had stolen him.”
Strider Page 5
