Текст книги "Dear Mr. Henshaw / Дорогой мистер Хеншоу. 7-8 классы"

Автор книги: А. Шитова

Соавторы: Беверли Клири
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 4 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 2 страниц]

I said, “How would you feel if somebody was always stealing the good stuff from your lunch?”

He said, “What you need is a burglar alarm.”

A burglar alarm on a lunchbag! I laughed at that, but I still wanted my cheesecake.

Dad will phone any day now. When I said that at supper, Mom said I shouldn’t hope for it, but I know Dad will remember this time. Mom never really says much about Dad, and when I ask why she divorced him, all she says is, “It takes two people to get a divorce.” I guess she means the same way that it takes two people to have a fight.

Tomorrow I am going to wrap my lunchbag in a lot of Scotch tape so nobody can sneak anything out of it.

Wednesday, January 10

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

It’s funny how somebody says something, and you can’t forget it. I am thinking about Mr. Fridley saying that I needed a burglar alarm on my lunchbag. How could anybody put a burglar alarm on a paper bag? Today I used so much Scotch tape on my lunchbag that I couldn’t get my lunch out. Everybody laughed.

Dad should phone today or tomorrow. Maybe if he came home he would know how I could make a burglar alarm for my lunchbag. He was good about helping me make things in the past.

I reread your letter answering my questions and thought about your tips on how to write a book. One of the tips was listen. I guess you meant to listen and write down the way people talk, like in a play. This is what Mom and I said at supper:

ME: Mom, why don’t you get married again?

MOM: Oh, I don’t know. I guess it’s not easy to find a man when you are out of school.

ME: But you go out sometimes. You went to dinner with Charlie a couple of times. What happened to him?

MOM: A couple of times was enough. That’s the end of Charlie.

ME: Why?

MOM: (Thinks for a while.) Charlie is divorced and has three children. What he really wants is someone to help him.

ME: Oh. (Three sudden brothers or sisters was something to think about.) But I see men all around. There are lots of men.

MOM: But not the right type. (Laughs.) I guess I’m really afraid I might find another man who’s in love with a truck.

ME: (I think about this and don’t answer. Is Dad in love with a truck? What does she mean?)

MOM: Why are you asking all these questions all of a sudden?

ME: I was thinking that if I had a father at home, maybe he could show me how to make a burglar alarm for my lunchbag.

MOM: (Laughing.) There must be an easier way than my getting married again.

End of conversation.

January 12

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

This is a real letter I am going to mail. Maybe I should explain that I have written you many letters that are really my diary which I keep because you said so and because Mom still won’t have the TV fixed. She wants my brain to be in good shape. She says that I will need my brain all my life.

Guess what? Today the school librarian stopped me in the hall and said she had something for me. She told me to come to the library. There she gave me your new book and said that I could be the first to read it. Probably I looked surprised. She said she knew how much I love your books since I borrow them so often. Now I know that Mr. Fridley isn’t the only one who notices me.

I am on page 14 of Beggar Bears. It is a good book. I just wanted you to know that I am the first person around here to read it.

Your No. 1 fan,

Leigh Botts

January 15

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I finished Beggar Bears in two nights. It is a really good book. At first I was surprised because it wasn’t funny like your other books, but then I started thinking (you said that authors should think) and decided a book doesn’t have to be funny to be good, but it often helps. This book did not need to be funny.

In the first chapter I thought it was going to be funny because of your other books and because the mother bear was teaching her twin cubs to beg from tourists in the national park. Then when the mother died because a stupid tourist fed her a muffin in a plastic bag and she ate the bag, too, I knew this was going to be a sad book. Winter was coming, tourists were leaving the park and the little bears didn’t know how to find food for themselves. When they went to sleep and then woke up in the middle of winter because they had eaten all the wrong things and didn’t have enough fat, I almost cried. I surely was happy when the nice ranger and his boy found the young bears and fed them and the next summer taught them to hunt for the right things to eat.

I wonder what happens to the fathers of bears. Do they just go away?

Sometimes I lie awake listening to the gas station pinging, and I worry because something can happen to Mom. She is so little compared to most moms, and she works so hard. I don’t think Dad is very much interested in me. He didn’t phone when he promised.

I hope your book wins a million awards.

Sincerely,

Leigh Botts

January 19

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

Thank you for sending me the postcard with the picture of the lake and mountains and all that snow. Yes, I will continue to write in my diary even if I have to pretend I am writing to you. You know something? I think I feel better when I write in my diary.

My teacher says my writing skills are better now. Maybe I really will be a famous author someday. She said that our school together with some other schools is going to print a book of works of young authors, and I should write a story for it. The writers of the best work will win a prize – a lunch with a Famous Author and with winners from other schools. I hope the Famous Author is you.

I don’t often get mail, but today I got two postcards, one from you and one from Dad in Kansas. His card showed a picture of a truck. He said he would phone me sometime next week. I wish someday he would have to drive a load of something to Wyoming and would take me along so I could meet you.

That’s all for now. I am going to try to think up a story. Don’t worry. I won’t send it to you to read. I know you are busy and I don’t want to be a nuisance.

Your good friend,

Leigh Botts the First

FROM THE DIARY OF LEIGH BOTTS*** Saturday, January 20

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Every time I try to think up a story, it is like something someone else has written, usually you. I want to do what you said in your tips and write like me, not like somebody else. I’ll keep trying because I want to be a Young Author with my story printed. Maybe I can’t think of a story because I am waiting for Dad to call. I get so lonely when I am alone at night when Mom is at her nursing class.

Yesterday somebody stole a piece of cake from my lunchbag. Mr. Fridley noticed that I was sad again and asked, “The lunchbag thief again?”

I said, “Yeah, and my Dad didn’t phone me.”

He said, “Don’t think you are the only boy around here with a father who forgets.”

I wonder if this is true. Mr. Fridley notices everything around school, so he probably knows.

I wish I had a grandfather like Mr. Fridley. He is so nice, big and comfortable.

Monday, January 29

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Dad still hasn’t phoned, and he promised he would. Mom keeps telling me I shouldn’t be so hopeful, because Dad sometimes forgets. I don’t think he should forget what he wrote on a postcard. I feel terrible.

Tuesday, January 30

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I looked in my book of highway maps and understood that Dad should be back here by now, but he still hasn’t phoned. Mom says that I shouldn’t be too hard on him, because a trucker’s life isn’t easy. Truckers sometimes lose some of their hearing in their left ear from the wind blowing past the driver’s window. Truckers also get out of shape from sitting such long hours without exercise and from eating too much fatty food. Sometimes truckers hurry so much that they even get stomach aches. Time is money for a trucker. I think she is just trying to make me feel good, but I don’t. I feel terrible.

I said, “If a trucker’s life is so hard, then why is Dad in love with his truck?”

Mom said, “It’s not really his truck he is in love with. He loves the feel of power when he is sitting high in his cab controlling a huge machine. He loves the joy of never knowing where his next trip will take him. He loves the mountains and the desert sunrises and the sight of orange trees with oranges and the smell of new asphalt. I know, because I rode with him before you were born.”

I still feel terrible. If Dad loves all those things so much, why can’t he love me? And maybe if I hadn’t been born, Mom would still be riding with Dad. Maybe I’m to blame for everything.

Wednesday, January 31

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Dad still hasn’t phoned. A promise is a promise, especially when it is in writing. When the phone rings, it is always a call from one of the women who Mom works with. I am so mad! I am mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. As she says, it takes two people to get a divorce, so I am mad at two people. I wish Bandit was here to keep me company. Bandit and I didn’t get a divorce. They did.

Friday, February 2

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I am writing this sitting in my room because Mom invited some of her women friends. They sit around drinking coffee or tea and talking about their problems which are mostly men, money and kids. Some of them make quilts while they talk. They hope to sell them for extra money. It is better to stay in here than go out and say, “Hello, sure, I like school fine, yes, I guess I have grown,” and all that.

Mom is right about Dad and his truck. I remember how fun it was to ride with him and listen to calls on his CB radio. Dad showed me hawks sitting on telephone wires waiting for little animals to be run over. Dad was hauling a load of tomatoes that day, and he said that some tomatoes are grown especially strong for hauling. They may not taste good, but they don’t squash.

That day we stopped at a weighing scale and then had lunch at the truck stop. Everybody knew Dad. The waitresses all said, “Well, look who is here! Our old friend, Wild Bill,” and things like that. Wild Bill is the name Dad uses on his CB radio.

When Dad said, “Meet my kid,” I stood up as tall as I could so they would think I was going to grow up as big as Dad. The waitresses all laughed a lot around Dad. For lunch we had chicken, potatoes, peas, and apple pie with ice cream. Our waitress gave me extra ice cream to help me grow big like Dad. Most truckers ate really fast and left, but Dad stayed around and played the video games. Dad always wins.

Mom’s friends are leaving, so I guess I can go to bed now.

Sunday, February 4

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I hate my father.

Mom is usually home on Sunday, but this week there was a big event, and she worked a lot. Mom never worries about paying the rent when there is a big order.

I was all alone in the house, it was raining and I didn’t have anything to read. I had to clean the bathroom, but I didn’t because I was mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. I feel that way sometimes which makes me feel awful because I know how hard she has to work and try to go to school, too.

I was looking at the telephone until I couldn’t wait any longer. I picked up the receiver and called Dad’s number in Bakersfield. All I wanted was to hear the phone ringing in Dad’s trailer which wouldn’t cost Mom anything because nobody would answer.

But Dad answered. I almost hung up. He wasn’t away in some other state. He was in his trailer, and he hadn’t phoned me. I thought I had to talk to him. “You promised to phone me this week and you didn’t,” I said.

“Easy, kid,” he said. “I just didn’t have the time to do it. I was going to call this evening. It’s not the end of the week yet.”

I thought about this.

“Some trouble?” he asked.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “My lunch. Somebody steals the good stuff out of my lunch.”

“Find him and punch him in the nose,” said Dad. I could tell he didn’t think that my lunch was important.

“I hoped you would call,” I said. “I waited and waited.” Then I was sorry I said it. I still have some pride left.

“There was heavy snow in the mountains,” he said. “I had to put chains on wheels and lost some time.”

I know about putting chains on trucks. When the snow is heavy, truckers have to put chains on the drive wheels – all eight of them. Putting chains on eight big wheels in the snow is no fun. I felt a little better. “How’s Bandit?” I asked.

There was a strange pause. For a minute I thought that we were disconnected. Then I knew something must have happened to my dog. “How’s Bandit?” I asked again louder, remembering that Dad might have lost some of the hearing in his left ear from all that wind.

“Well, kid – ” he began.

“My name is Leigh!” I almost shouted. “I’m not just some kid you met on the street.”

“Easy, Leigh,” he said. “When I had to stop to put on chains, I let Bandit out of the cab. I thought that he would get right back in because it was snowing hard, but after I chained up, he wasn’t in the cab.”

“Did you leave the door open for him?” I asked.

Big pause. “I think I did,” he said which meant that he didn’t. Then he said, “I whistled and whistled, but Bandit didn’t come. I couldn’t wait any longer because I had a deadline for delivering a load. I had to leave. I’m sorry, kid – Leigh – but that’s the way it is.”

“You left Bandit to freeze to death!” I was crying from anger. How could he?

“Bandit knows how to take care of himself,” said Dad. “I think he will jump into another truck.”

I wiped my nose. “Why would the driver let him in?” I asked.

“Because he’ll think that Bandit is lost,” said Dad, “He won’t leave a dog to freeze.”

“What about your CB radio?” I asked. “Didn’t you send a call?”

“Surely I did, but I didn’t get an answer. Mountains kill the signal,” Dad told me.

I was going to say that I understood, but here comes the bad part, the really bad part. I heard a boy’s voice. He said, “Hey, Bill, Mom wants to know when we’re going out to get the pizza?” I felt sick. I hung up. I didn’t want to hear any more, when Mom had to pay for the long distance phone call. I didn’t want to hear any more at all.

To be continued.

Monday, February 5

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I don’t have to pretend to write to Mr. Henshaw anymore. I have learned to say what I think on a piece of paper. And I don’t hate my father either. I can’t hate him. Maybe things would be easier if I could.

Yesterday after I hung up on Dad I fell down on my bed and cried and swore and punched my pillow. I felt so terrible about Bandit riding around with a strange trucker and Dad taking another boy out for pizza when I was all alone in the house with the dirty bathroom when it was raining outside and I was hungry. The worst part of all was that I knew if Dad took someone to a pizza place for dinner, he wouldn’t have phoned me at all, no matter what he said. He would have too much fun playing video games.

Then I heard Mom’s car stop out in front. I washed my face and tried to look as if I hadn’t been crying, but I couldn’t fool Mom. She came to the door of my room and said, “Hi, Leigh.” I tried to look away, but she came closer and said, “What’s the matter, Leigh?”

“Nothing,” I said, but she didn’t believe me. She sat down and put her arm around me.

I tried hard not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. “Dad lost Bandit,” I finally said.

“Oh, Leigh,” she said, and I told her the whole story, with pizza and all.

We just sat there for a while, and then I said, “Why did you have to marry him?”

“Because I was in love with him,” she said.

“Why did you stop?” I asked.

“We just got married too young,” she said. “Growing up in that little town wasn’t exciting. There wasn’t much to do. I remember how at night I looked at the lights of Bakersfield in the distance and wished I could live in a place like that, it looked so big and exciting. It seems funny now, but then it seemed like New York or Paris.”

“After high school the boys mostly went to work in the fields or joined the army, and the girls got married. Some people went to college, but my parents weren’t interested in helping me. After graduation your Dad came in a big truck and – well, that was that. He was big and handsome and nothing seemed to bother him, and the way he drove his truck – well, he seemed like a knight to me. Things weren’t too happy at home with your grandfather drinking and all, so your Dad and I went to Las Vegas and got married. I loved riding with him until you were born, and – well, by that time I had had enough of highways and truck stops. I stayed home with you, and he was gone all the time.”

I felt a little better when Mom said that she was tired of life on the road. Maybe I wasn’t to blame after all. I remembered, too, how Mom and I were alone a lot and how I hated living in that mobile home. The only places we ever went to were the laundromat and the library. Mom read a lot and she read aloud to me, too.

Now Mom went on. “I didn’t think that such life 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 again, too, and we both cried until she said, “It’s not your fault, Leigh. You mustn’t ever think that. Your Dad is a good man. We just married too young. He loves the 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. Do you remember how he jumped into your father’s cab? Maybe he was ready to try 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 said, “Come on, Leigh, let’s go out.”

So we got in the car and drove to a diner and got a bucket of fried chicken. Then we drove down by the ocean and ate the chicken sitting in the car. It was raining outside, and there were waves breaking on the rocks. We opened the windows a little so we could hear the waves roll and break, one after another.

“You know,” said Mom, “when I watch the waves, I always feel that no matter how bad things are, life still goes on.” That was how I felt, too, only I didn’t know how to say it, so I just said, “Yeah.” Then we drove home.

I feel a lot better about Mom. I’m not so sure about Dad, although she says he is a good man. I don’t like to think that Bandit is a bum, but maybe Mom is right.

Tuesday, February 6

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.

Wednesday, February 7

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.

Thursday, February 8

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.

Friday, February 9

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.

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 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.

Hopefully,

Leigh Botts

P.S. Before I started writing the 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 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.

Your grateful friend,

Leigh

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

FROM THE DIARY OF LEIGH BOTTS*** Thursday, March 1

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.

Next I went to the library for books on batteries. I got some easy books on electricity, really easy. I never thought about batteries before. All I know is that when you want to use a flashlight, the battery is usually dead.

I finally stopped writing my story about the giant wax man, which was really stupid. I wanted to 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 say how to make an alarm in a lunchbox, but I learned a lot about batteries, switches and wires, so I think I can do it myself.

Friday, March 2

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

Sometimes I start a letter to Dad to thank him for the twenty dollars, but I can’t finish it. 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 a switch, a little battery and a doorbell. While I was looking around for the wire, a man 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 smiled and said, “Trouble with your lunch, right?” I nodded and said, “I’m trying to make a burglar alarm.”

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

He said that I needed another battery and gave me some tips. After I paid for the things and was leaving, he said, “Good luck, son.”

I ran home with all the things I bought. First I made a sign on my door that said:

KEEP OUT

MOM

THAT MEANS YOU

Then I went to work to connect one wire from the battery to the switch and another to the doorbell. It took some time to do it right. Then I fixed the battery and the switch in one corner of the lunchbox and the doorbell in another. I closed the box just enough so I could put my hand inside and push the button on the switch. Then I took my hand out and closed the box.

When I opened the box, my burglar alarm worked! That bell inside the box was ringing so loudly that Mom came to my door. “Leigh, what is going on in there?” she shouted.

I let her in and showed her my burglar alarm. She laughed and said that it was a great invention.

I can’t wait until Monday.

Monday, March 5

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

I put 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 run back behind the partition and catch the thief. When nothing happened, I began to worry. Maybe something broke on the way to school.

Lunchtime came. Still nothing happened. We all took our lunches and went to the cafeteria. When I put my box on the table in front of me, I understood that I had a problem, a big problem. If I opened the box now, the alarm might go off.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Barry asked me.

Everybody at the table looked at me. I wanted to say that I wasn’t hungry, but I was. I wanted to take my lunchbox out into the hall to open, but even there I couldn’t open it quietly. Finally I held my breath and I opened the box.

Wow! My alarm went off! It was so loud that everyone in the cafeteria looked around. I looked up and saw Mr. Fridley standing by the garbage can smiling at me. Then I turned the alarm off.

Suddenly everybody seemed to notice me. Even the principal came to look at my lunchbox. He said, “That’s a great invention you have there.”

“Thanks,” I said, happy that the principal liked my alarm.

Some teachers came to see what was going on, so I had to show again how my alarm worked. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who had problems with the lunchbox, because all the kids said that they wanted alarms, too. Barry said that he wanted an alarm like that on the door of his room at home. I began to feel like a hero. Maybe I’m not so medium after all.