Free Strider by Beverly Cleary Page B

decaf. “Leigh Botts! You’ve never pulled a weed in your life. Whose weeds are you planning to pull?”
    â€œThe town’s weeds.” I spoke with dignity. “On Lovers Point.”
    â€œOh 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 andpulling 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 settleddown 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?”
    â€œWhat 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