Strider (9 page)

Run with Strider, school, track, study, sleep, start all over again. That's the way the days go. Cutting my time by two crummy seconds took hours of hard work. I win some, lose some.

Other team members are interesting to watch. There is the good-looking senior pole-vaulter who walks with a swing to his broad shoulders because he knows he will win and all the girls are looking at him, and the varsity eight hundred runner, a real show-off, who is always doing high-stepping sprints in front of the crowd. He has great form; he just doesn't run fast enough.

A girl, a chubby miler on the frosh-soph team, is really fascinating. By the fourth lap, all the other runners have passed her and reached the finish line, but she keeps chugging
along with the whole track to herself. Everyone watches, nobody makes fun of her, and when she finishes, a big cheer goes up. I wonder why she runs a mile when she knows she will never win. Maybe she wants to lose weight. Whatever her reason, she never gives up. I admire that.

Bus trips to other schools are fun, with the team laughing and making jokes on the way there and sleeping or talking over the meet on the way back. If the trip is long enough, we stop at a fast food place on our return. The varsity team goes in first, with the frosh-soph team following. Restaurant managers never look very happy to see us coming.

This morning when Strider and I were running along Ocean View, I saw a sign on Lovers Point announcing the Annual Lovers Point Weed Pull, April 1, coffee and doughnuts provided, and free cypress trees to all participants. I liked the idea of people volunteering to pull weeds to keep the cliff along the bay beautiful. I thought maybe I would pull a few myself. I owe it to the cliff for being such a great place to work out.

Today Geneva joined me as I was walking down the breezeway on my way to our math class. “You're getting a lot better,” she said. “In track, I mean.”

“Thanks,” I said. “So are you.” When I tried
to think of something else to say, I heard myself blurting, “Would you like to pull weeds with me tomorrow?”

Geneva stopped so suddenly someone bumped into her. I stopped, too. She looked at me as if she didn't believe what she had heard. “Pull weeds! Did I hear you ask me to pull weeds?”

I know I was blushing, but I stood my ground. “That's right.” Then I explained about the Lovers Point Weed Pull and thought, Don't laugh. Don't tell all the other girls so they can laugh, too.

Geneva didn't laugh. She answered with a nice smile, “I think that's a good idea, Leigh. I'd love to pull weeds with you.”

We agreed to meet at nine o'clock Saturday morning.

This afternoon I sliced three-quarters of a second off my time in the meet against Gonzales and Soquel.

After breakfast I said to Mom, “Well, I guess I'll pull a few weeds this morning.”

Mom sputtered into her decaf. “Leigh Botts! You've never pulled a weed in your life. Whose weeds are you planning to pull?”

“The town's weeds.” I spoke with dignity. “On Lovers Point.”

“Oh yes, the annual Weed Pull. Good idea. I'm glad you want to help out.” She took a bite of nine-grain toast before she said, “Funny, your sudden interest in weeds.” I knew she was teasing.

I teased her back. “Yeah, this uncontrollable urge comes over me. Maybe it's seismic vibrations or the position of the moon but I can't help myself.
I gotta pull weeds!
” I tried to look like a werewolf.

Mom laughed. I found an old knife and snapped Strider's leash to his collar.

Mom, who always finds something to worry about, said, “Be careful with that knife.” I grabbed a mesh cap Dad once left here, the one that says
A-1 Parts The Truckers' Choice
on it, and ran out the door. “Have fun,” she called after me.

I persuaded Strider to walk because I was full of thoughts, such as, Why can't I be handsome like that braggy pole-vaulter? (Actually, I am better-looking than I used to be, but not like that pole-vaulter.) What if Geneva doesn't come, forgets, thinks the whole thing is silly, thinks I'm silly, was just joking? Should I have brought a knife for her, too?

I was relieved to see Geneva coming toward the bench we had agreed on. She's not pretty like some girls, but I thought she looked pretty in a pale green sweat shirt, cutoffs, and a big straw hat. She carried garden gloves and a trowel.

Geneva rubbed Strider's head and said, “Hi, dog.” Strider wagged his stubby tail.

The sun was warm, the bay was blue-green, and little waves whispered and swished around the rocks. The air had an iodine smell of kelp. Bees hummed in that plant with giant spikes of tiny blue flowers. All sorts of people of all ages in all sorts of old clothes were digging and
pulling weeds. Mr. President's bread truck was parked down the road.

A man from the Lions Club handed each of us a plastic bag and told us he was glad to see young people take an interest in weeds. After fastening Strider's leash to the leg of a bench, Geneva and I went to work digging grass and oxalis out of the ice plant. Oxalis has such pretty yellow flowers, I wonder who decided to call it a weed.

Geneva and I didn't talk much as we dug and pulled, but I did learn that she hurdles because she saw the race on TV during the Olympics, and it seemed like something she would like to do. She lives with her parents (both of them!) in a big old house they have turned into a bed-and-breakfast. Her parents were born in England. Every morning before she goes to school, she puts on a frilly apron and carries breakfast trays to people who order early breakfast. Bursting in on people who are often still in bed embarrasses her. I told her about mopping Katy's floor, something only Barry knows.

A ground squirrel began to flirt its tail just out of Strider's reach. Strider barked and strained at his leash until he coughed, so I pulled out the two cards I carry and held up
SIT
. Strider looked longingly at the squirrel, but he sat. When I held up
STAY
, he settled
down with his nose on his paws and his eyes on the mean little squirrel who skittered just out of reach.

Geneva sat back on her heels. “Why don't you speak to your dog?”

“What for?” I asked, being funny. “He can read.”

Geneva fell over laughing. I took her hand (wow!) and pulled her to her feet. We were both tired and sweaty, so we went over to the truck where the Lions Club was handing out coffee and doughnuts. I had never drunk coffee, but I took the Styrofoam cup the man held out, and so did Geneva. We sat down on Strider's bench to eat our doughnuts and drink our coffee. Strider opened one eye, rested his muzzle on my foot, and closed his eye again. I explained how I happened to own Strider and why he could read a limited vocabulary.

A monarch butterfly wavered along on the breezes and paused on the blue flowers to fuel up for its long flight to Alaska. I looked at Geneva's hair curling around her face and tumbling from under her hat and said, “Did you know your hair is the same color as the wings of a monarch butterfly?”

“Why, Leigh, what a lovely thing to say!” Geneva looked both surprised and genuinely pleased. “All my life people have called me carrot-top. I hate it.”

“That's wrong,” I said. “You have butterfly hair.” Suddenly shy, I looked into my coffee cup, which was still almost full, and said, “I've never drunk coffee, but I guess I was embarrassed to say so. I don't think I like it.”

“I don't like it either,” said Geneva, “but I didn't want to admit it.” We both smiled and emptied our coffee cups in the bushes. An agitated mouse ran out to look and then ran back.

“Thanks, Leigh, for inviting me. I have to go now.” Geneva explained that she had to bake cookies because her mother serves tea to guests who are exhausted from all the touristy things people do around here. Her father pours sherry, thickens up his English accent, and acts the part of what is called a “genial host.” Geneva says she stays out of the whole scene, partly because people always say they are interested in what young people think, and want to know what she plans to do with her life. She never knows what to say. We agreed that What do
you plan to do with your life? is the all-time number-one boring, stupid question adults ask people our age. As Geneva pointed out, we are only fourteen. What do people expect? Our life plans up to the age of eighty?

As we were about to leave, a Lions Clubber insisted we each accept a cypress tree planted in a can, so we could beautify the Peninsula. We thanked him and looked at each other, wondering what to do with our trees.

Mr. President, standing nearby eating a doughnut, was watching us. He understood our feelings because he said, “You're wondering what you're going to do with your graciously received but unwanted burdens.” We nodded. “Give them to me,” he said, “and in the dead of night by the dark of the moon, I shall plant them in the paths tourists have trampled through native plants on their way to the beach.”

“Funny old guy, but nice,” remarked Geneva after we handed over the trees.

“A beach guardian,” I said. We started to walk, but Strider nipped our heels, so we jogged in silence and reached the bed-and-breakfast much sooner than I wanted. Geneva waved from the porch and said, “See you at the track.” Then she went in to bake cookies for tourists.

I have written all this because
this was a great day
.

Coach says Geneva, Kevin, and I all have times that qualify us to compete in the Rotary Invitational Meet! So long, neglected diary, until the big meet is over.

P.S. Dad phoned to say he has been seeing my times listed in the sports section of the paper. He no longer pumps gas. He drives a forklift for a big produce company and says he will catch up on child support. I've heard fork-lifters make a lot of money, so we'll see. I would rather have Dad be happy than receive support, but that wouldn't be fair to Mom.

The invitational meet was held yesterday at our track here in P.G. Today I felt so good I telephoned Geneva and asked her to go running with Strider and me. Kevin was running, too, so the three of us ran together through Pebble Beach and back to Geneva's bed-and-breakfast for something to eat. Mrs. Weston was really nice and made us sandwiches. Geneva's father told us all about how he used to play cricket in England. Geneva winked at us. Kevin and I were polite, even though we really didn't understand what he was talking about.

Tomorrow we have to hand in a composition which I wish I hadn't put off writing until the last minute. Mr. Drexler announced that it must be based on personal experience, which sounded easy until he said, “There is too much
fat in the prose written in this class. Too many adjectives and adverbs. Your compositions are to be written using only nouns and verbs.”

This brought groans and questions. No, we could not use
the
or
and
. Yes, we could use pronouns because pronouns are substitutes for nouns.

Most of my personal experience lately has been running, so here goes:

“Sun shines, track shimmers, crowd waits. Runners jog, limber, shake arms, test spikes. Timekeeper holds stopwatch. Announcer orders: ‘Runners, take marks! Set!' We crouch. I think, Beat two-twenty. Adrenaline rises. Bang! We spring, run. I am front-runner. Feet gaining. Strides match. I sweat. Boy passes me. Crowd yells, ‘Go, Leigh, go!' We round turn. Others increase speed. I pass boy. Coach shouts, ‘Lift knees, Leigh!'

“I obey, lengthen stride. Boy passes me. Heart pounds, lungs hurt. I pass boy. We round turn. Crowd screams. I strain, strive, turn eyes, see boy. I push, float, see tape. Boy passes me, breaks tape. Crowd cheers. I cross line. I bend, grip knees, pant. Heart thumps. Sweat drips, dots track. I straighten, jog, cool, wait. Announcer gives times. I hear, ‘Leigh Botts, P.G., two-nineteen.' I lost race, beat time I set. I rejoice.”

There. That finishes my composition, which
does not tell what really happened at the invitational meet, but that is the way I wanted to write it.

I'm pooped. I'm going to bed.

Yesterday I handed in my composition. This morning Mr. Drexler stopped me in the hall and said, “Leigh, you wrote an A composition, but it puzzles me. I was present at that race. Why didn't you write what really happened?”

I told him I didn't want to brag and have all the kids think I thought I was so great.

Mr. Drexler laughed. “But you have something to brag about. You not only won the race by two seconds, but your time was as good as some of the varsity runners.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, “but I run to beat my own time, so that is the way I wrote it. Winning is fun, but beating my own time is more important. At least it is to me. You said the composition had to be based on personal experience. You didn't say it had to be true.”

Mr. Drexler slapped my shoulder, said, “You're a good kid, Leigh. We're proud of you,” and went on into his classroom. I wondered who he meant by
we
.

That invitational meet was so exhilarating it's hard to write the true story without a few fat adjectives.

Geneva was the real shocker. She had cut her hair short.

“Wind resistance,” she explained as she handed me a strand of her long hair tied in a bow. “To knit into a sweater,” she said with a laugh. I tucked her hair into my gear bag. “Don't look so shocked, Leigh,” she said. “My hair grows fast. I've cut it before.” She came in first in girls' hurdles, so maybe cutting her hair helped.

Kevin came in third in his mile. He said this would disappoint his father, who had taken an interest in his running. “Since he doesn't have racehorses,” was the way Kevin put it. He seemed cheerful about it.

Barry was there to congratulate us. He said he thought he would go out for track in one of the field events next season. The shot put would build up his shoulders for football.

Mom had rearranged her schedule at the hospital so she could come to the meet. She brought Strider with her. Dogs aren't popular at track meets, but she held him on a short leash. Dad was there, too, with Alice. He doesn't look dusty the way he looked a while ago.

I have to admit that feeling the tape on my chest was a real thrill. After my race and all the congratulations, when Mom was talking to Dad and Alice and I was jogging to cool down, Strider jerked his leash out of Mom's hand and came running toward me, dragging the leash along the track. He jumped up and licked my face, not for the salty sweat, I am sure, but because he loves me and knows he is my dog.

Somebody yelled, “Get that dog off the track!”

As I led Strider through the crowd to Mom, I looked down at his rough hair, the way he looked up at me as he pranced along, and I
thought that if someone had not abandoned this great heel-nipping dog who made me get out and run, I might be moping around, feeling sorry for myself.

When I stood beside Mom, pulling on my sweats, I forgot and ordered “Sit!” Strider did not seem to mind the word at all. He sat and looked up at me with a trusting look that told me he knew I would never abandon him.

My dog and I have changed since last summer. After Mr. Drexler's remark about “we” being proud of me, I know that I'll just work to beat my own time until I get wherever it is I decide to go. As in track, I'll probably win some and lose some.

I took Strider's face between my hands, looked him in the eye, and said, “Strider, you truly are a noble beast.”

Sorry, Mr. Drexler, sometimes adjectives and adverbs are needed to say what I mean. But in my future, if I become a writer I'll try to keep the fat out of my prose.