 Harper Children's Audio presents Strider by Beverly Cleary, performed by Pedro Pascal. Copyright 1991 by Beverly Cleary, production copyright 2009 by Harper Collins Publishers. From the Diary of Lee Botts. June 6th. This afternoon, his mom was leaving for work at the hospital. She said for the millionth time, Lee, please clean up your room. There is no excuse for such a mess and don't forget the junk under your bed. I said, Mom, you're nagging. I'm going to Barry's house. She plunked a kiss on my hair and said, Room first, Barry second. Besides, where would the world be without nagging mothers? Everything would go to pieces. Maybe she's right. Things are pretty deep in my room. I hauled all the rubbish out from under my bed. In the midst of all the old socks, school papers, models that have fallen apart, paperback books, one library book, oops, and other stuff. I found the diary I kept a couple of years ago when I was a mixed up kid in the sixth grade. Mom had just divorced Dad and moved with me to Pacific Grove, better known as PG, where I was a new kid in school, which wasn't easy. I sat there on the floor reading my diary, and when I finished, I continued to sit there. But it changed. Dad still drives his tractor trailer rig, lives mostly on the road, and is late with his child support checks or forgets them. I don't often see him, but I don't get as angry about this as I did in the sixth grade. I no longer feel like crying, but I still hurt when he doesn't telephone when he said he would. Whenever I see a big rig, excitement shoots through me until I see Dad isn't the driver. I wish... oh well, forget it. Mom has finished her vocational nurse course and works at the hospital from 3 to 11 because that shift pays more than the daytime shift. Mornings, she studies to become a registered nurse so she can earn more money. We still live in what our landlady called our charming garden cottage, but I call a shack. Mom is looking for an apartment, but so far no luck. Twice a week, I mopped the floor at catering by Katie, where Mom used to work before she got her license. Katie gives me good things to eat. I like earning my own spending money, but I feel I could use the squares of Katie's linoleum for a checkerboard in my sleep. Mom, who used to think TV was one of the greatest evils of the universe, finally had our set repaired because my grades were good and she no longer felt TV would rot my brain and leave me twiddling my shoelaces. At first I watched everything until I got bored and cut back to news and animal programs. Then I began to feel that every lion on the Serengeti must have his own personal hairdresser. That left the news, which sometimes worries me. If I see a truck accident with the tractor hanging over the edge of a bridge or tons of tomatoes spilled on a freeway, I can hardly breathe until I see the driver isn't dead. One part of my diary made me smile, the part about wanting to be a famous author like Boyd Hinshaw someday. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. But I'm glad that when I wrote to him, he said I should keep a diary. I worry about what I'm going to do with my life. And so does Mom. Dad is probably too busy worrying about meeting his deadline with a trailer load of lettuce before it rots to even think of me. Or maybe he is wasting his time playing video games at some truck stop. Until the last sentence I enjoyed writing this. Maybe I'll go back to writing in composition books, but not every day, just once in a while, like now, when I feel like writing something. The gas station next door has stopped ping-pinging, which means it's after 10 o'clock. Mom gets home about 11.30 and my room is still a mess. No problem. Except for books in my diary, I'll dump everything in the trash. I just remembered. I forgot about Barry. June 7th. Today I have something important to write about. The summer fog was so low, the whole world seemed to drip. Mom went to class, and our shack was so lonely, I climbed the hill to see Barry. I like to go to his big old house, built on a slope, so that it has a view of the bay when the fog lifts. Everything in the house is shabby and comfortable. There is a smell of good things cooking. Barry's stepmother, Mrs. Brinkerhoff, is plump, but she doesn't worry about it the way Mom's friends worry about gaining one teeny ounce. Barry's house is full of cats, hamsters and cages, and little sisters. I once saw a tortoise under the couch, but I have never seen it again. Sometimes a grand... Sample complete. Ready to continue?