Read Strider for Free Online Page B

paragraph and thought it had a good topic sentence.
    Ms. Habis-Jones, who was patrolling the aisles like a guard, stopped at my desk to read over my shoulder. Then she picked up my paper and read it to the class, who laughed. She asked, “Class, what is wrong with this paragraph?”
    One of those generic goody-goody girls raisedher hand. “Leigh used improper words such as gonna and sorta.”
    â€œThat is correct,” said old Wounded-hair, who always speaks in complete sentences. “Leigh, what words should you have used?”
    I tried to argue. “My paragraph is spoken. The people speak that way, so the words I used are correct.”
    Ms. Wounded-hair dropped my paper on my desk and said, “At the beginning of the semester I said I would not tolerate improper words in this classroom. Rewrite your paper correctly.”
    â€œBut that will make it incorrect,” I said, still trying to argue. “I was writing about people who don’t speak correctly.”
    Ms. Wounded-hair looked annoyed. “Leigh, you need to improve your attitude,” she informed me. I suppose she has the right to lay down rules for her class. She loves rules. The more the better. She would probably tell Samuel Taylor Coleridge to improve his attitude because he had his Ancient Mariner speak words like o’ertaking and ne’er, but I didn’t say so. You can’t argue with some teachers. If she were grading his poem, she would put a red check over Rime because he didn’t spell it Rhyme . Then she would mark his paper C—.

October 4
    I still feel so cross with old Wounded-hair (today her scarf was white with pink dots, which made it look as if it had been peppered with bird shot) that I feel cross with other people, too, even Barry, because he has gone out for football, a sport that doesn’t interest me. I mean playing. I enjoy watching. After school I collect Strider alone and go watch the frosh-soph team practice. Barry feels so tired and sore he doesn’t feel like running anymore. He leaves Strider to me.
    Today, when Strider and I came to the apartment house in front of our shack, I began, as usual, to look around to see where Mrs. Smerling was so we could sneak in without her seeing us. Wouldn’t you know? There she was, with her hair hanging down in a braid, goingthrough the trash, trying to jam it all down into two cans so she won’t have to pay for three cans, one for each of the two apartments and one for our cottage.
    â€œHello there, Leigh,” she said as she stomped on a carton.
    â€œGood afternoon, Mrs. Smerling,” I said. Politeness often pays. Strider lifted his leg on a dusty geranium.
    â€œHow’s school?” she asked. Adults always ask that. They don’t really care.
    â€œAbout three on a scale of one to ten.” I tried to smile, even though my stomach was tied in a knot.
    She looked at Strider, who was putting on his good-dog act: ears up, eyes bright, a doggy smile on his face. I hurried him into the shack before she could say anything.
    Sometimes I wish she would raise our rent, end our suspense, and put us out of our misery.

November 25
    October and November were so boring I didn’t have anything to write in my diary. My attitude isn’t great. I am haunted by Dad, who lives close enough to come to see me but doesn’t. Maybe he is too ashamed because he lost his rig.
    One day Mom said, “Leigh, you really get on my nerves when you call this place a shack. This is our home. I am doing the best I can. It isn’t my fault rents are so high and your father can’t keep up his support payments.”
    I know I looked sulky, but I was really ashamed. She was right. Everything I do seems wrong. I worry a lot, mostly about Dad washing windshields after being a trucker.
    Things were better yesterday because the Brinkerhoffs invited Mom and me to Thanksgiving dinner. Mr. Brinkerhoff cooked the turkey, his specialty,