Mom tells me to go to school but to walk slowly which is hard work. Once I tried walking around every square in the sidewalk, but that was boring too. Sometimes I walk backwards except when I cross the street, but I still get to school so early that I have to hide behind the bushes so Mr. Fridley won’t see me.

I am bothered when my Dad telephones me and finishes by saying, “Well, keep your nose clean, kid.” Why can’t he say that he misses me, and why can’t he call me Leigh? I am bothered when he doesn’t phone at all which is most of the time. I have a book of road maps and try to follow his trips when I hear from him. When the TV worked I watched the weather on the news so I would know if he was driving through blizzards, tornadoes, hail or any of that fancy weather they have in other places of the U.S.

I wish somebody would stop stealing the good stuff out of my lunch bag. I guess I wish a lot of other things, too. I wish someday Dad and Bandit would stop in front of our house in the rig with a big trailer. Dad would yell out of the cab, “Come on, Leigh. Jump in and I’ll take you to school.” Then I’d climb in and Bandit would wag his tail and lick my face. We’d drive off and all the men in the gas station would stare at us. Instead of going straight to school, we’d go along the freeway looking down on the tops of ordinary cars. Then we would turn around and go back to school just before the bell rang. I guess I wouldn’t look so medium then, sitting up there in the cab. I’d jump out, and Dad would say, “Bye, Leigh. See you,” and Bandit would give a little bark like good-bye. I’d say, “Drive carefully, Dad,” like I always do. Dad would take a minute to write in the truck’s logbook, “Drove my son to school.” Then the truck would drive away and all the kids would stare and wish their Dads drove big trucks, too.

There, Mr. Henshaw. That’s the end of your stupid questions. I hope you are happy about making me do all this extra work.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I am sorry I was rude in my last letter when I finished answering your questions. Maybe I was mad about other things, like Dad forgetting to send this month’s payment. Mom tried to phone him at the trailer park. He has his own phone in his trailer so the broker who gives him jobs can call him. I wish he still hauled sugar beets to the refinery here so he could come to see me. The judge in the divorce said that he has a right to see me.

When you answered my questions, you said that the way to be an author was to write. You underlined it twice. Well, I did a lot of writing, and you know what? Now that I think about it, it wasn’t so bad when it wasn’t for a book report or a report on some country in South America or anything where I had to look for things in the library. I even miss writing now that I’ve finished your questions. I get lonesome. Mom is working overtime at “Catering by Katy” because people give a lot of parties this time of year.

When I write a book maybe I’ll call it The Great Lunchbag Mystery, because I have a lot of trouble with my lunchbag. Mom doesn’t cook roasts and steaks now that Dad is gone, but she makes me good lunches with sandwiches on bread from the health food store with good filling spread all the way to the corners. Katy sends me little cheesecakes and other things she baked just for me.

Today I was supposed to have an egg. But at lunchtime when I opened my lunchbag, my egg was gone. We leave our lunchbags and boxes (mostly bags because no sixth-grader wants to carry a lunchbox) along the wall under our coat hooks at the back of the classroom behind a partition.