Strider by Beverly Cleary Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œThe 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 myEnglish 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.
    â€œI guess I’m short of time” was the only excuse I could think of.
    Barry scowled. “You almost make me late waiting for you.”
    â€œSo 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