By walking with stiff legs and not bending her feet, Ramona reached her seat without squeaking at all. She did not know what to think. At first she thought Mrs. Whaley’s remark was a reprimand, but then maybe her teacher was just trying to be funny. She couldn’t tell about grown-ups sometimes. Ramona finally decided that any teacher who would let Yard Ape wear his baseball cap in the classroom wasn’t really fussy about squeaking shoes.
Ramona bent over her paper and wrote slowly and carefully in cursive, Ramona Quimby, age 8. She admired the look of what she had written, and she was happy. She liked feeling tall in her new school. She liked—or was pretty sure she liked—her nonfussy teacher. Yard Ape—Well, he was a problem, but so far she had not let him get the best of her for keeps. Besides, although she might never admit it to anyone, now that she had her eraser back she liked him—sort of. Maybe she enjoyed a challenge.
Ramona began to draw a fancy border, all scallops and curliques, around her name. She was happy, too, because her family had been happy that morning and because she was big enough for her family to depend on.
If only she could do something about Willa Jean….
2
At Howie’s House
“Now be nice to Willa Jean,” said Mrs. Quimby, as she handed Ramona her lunch box. Grown-ups often forgot that no child likes to be ordered to be nice to another child.
Ramona made a face. “Mother, do you have to say that every single morning?” she asked in exasperation. Deep down inside, where she hid her darkest secrets, Ramona sometimes longed to be horrid to Willa Jean.
“OK, OK, I’ll try to remember,” said Mrs. Quimby with a little laugh. “I know it isn’t easy.” She kissed Ramona and said, “Cheer up and run along or you’ll miss your bus.”
Being a member of the Quimby family in the third grade was harder than Ramona had expected. Her father was often tired, in a hurry, or studying on the dining-room table, which meant no one could disturb him by watching television. At school she was still not sure how she felt about Mrs. Whaley. Liking a teacher was important, Ramona had discovered when she was in the first grade. And even though her family understood, Ramona still dreaded that part of the day spent at Howie’s house in the company of Mrs. Kemp and Willa Jean.
Those were the bad parts of the third grade. There were good parts, too. Ramona enjoyed riding the bus to school, and she enjoyed keeping Yard Ape from getting the best of her. Then another good part of the third grade began the second week of school.
Just before her class was to make its weekly visit to the school library, Mrs. Whaley announced, “Today and from now on we are going to have Sustained Silent Reading every day.”
Ramona liked the sound of Sustained Silent Reading, even though she was not sure what it meant, because it sounded important.
Mrs. Whaley continued. “This means that every day after lunch we are going to sit at our desks and read silently to ourselves any book we choose in the library.”
“Even mysteries?” someone asked.
“Even mysteries,” said Mrs. Whaley.
“Do we have to give book reports on what we read?” asked one suspicious member of the class.
“No book reports on your Sustained Silent Reading books,” Mrs. Whaley promised the class. Then she went on, “I don’t think Sustained Silent Reading sounds very interesting, so I think we will call it something else.” Here she printed four big letters on the blackboard, and as she pointed she read out, “D. E. A. R. Can anyone guess what these letters stand for?”
The class thought and thought.
“Do Everything All Right,” suggested someone. A good thought, but not the right answer.
“Don’t Eat A Reader,” suggested Yard Ape. Mrs. Whaley laughed and told him to try again.
As Ramona thought, she stared out the window at the blue sky, the treetops, and, in the distance, the snow-capped peak of Mount Hood looking like a giant licked ice-cream cone. R could stand for Run and A for And. “Drop Everything And Run,” Ramona burst out. Mrs. Whaley, who was not the sort of teacher who expected everyone to raise a hand before speaking, laughed and said, “Almost right, Ramona, but have you forgotten we are talking about reading?”
“Drop Everything And Read!” chorused the rest of the class. Ramona felt silly. She should have thought of that herself.
Ramona decided that she preferred Sustained Silent Reading to DEAR because it sounded more grown-up. When time came for everyone to Drop Everything And Read, she sat quietly doing her Sustained Silent Reading.
How peaceful it was to be left alone in school. She could read without trying to hide her book under her desk or behind a bigger book. She was not expected to write lists of words she did not know, so she could figure them out by skipping and guessing. Mrs. Whaley did not expect the class to write summaries of what they read either, so she did not have to choose easy books to make sure she would get her summary right. Now if Mrs. Whaley would leave her alone to draw, too, school would be almost perfect.
Yes, Sustained Silent Reading was the best part of the day. Howie and Ramona talked it over after school and agreed as they walked from the bus to his house. There they found two of the new friends he had made at Cedarhurst School waiting with their bicycles.
Ramona sat on the Kemps’ front steps, her arms clasped around her knees, her Sustained Silent Reading book of fairy tales beside her, and looked with longing at the boys’ two bicycles while Howie wheeled his bicycle out of the garage.
Because Howie was kind and because Ramona was his friend, he asked, “Ramona, would you like to ride my bicycle to the corner and back?”
Would she! Ramona jumped up, eager to take a turn.
“Just once,” said Howie.
Ramona mounted the bicycle and, while the three boys silently watched, teetered and wobbled to the corner without falling off. Having to dismount to turn the bicycle around was embarrassing, but riding back was easier—at least she didn’t wobble quite so much—and she managed to dismount as if she were used to doing so. All I need is a little practice, thought Ramona, as Howie seized his bicycle and rode off with his friends, leaving her with nothing to do but pick up her book and join Willa Jean in the house.
Now that Willa Jean was going to nursery school, she was full of ideas. Dressing up was one of them. She met Ramona at the door with an old curtain wrapped around her shoulders. “Hurry up and have your snack,” she ordered, while her grandmother sat watching television and crocheting.
The snack turned out to be pineapple juice and Rye Crisp, a pleasant change for Ramona, even though Willa Jean stood impatiently beside her, watching every swallow until she had finished.
“Now I’ll be the lady and you be the dog,” directed Willa Jean.
“But I don’t want to be a dog,” said Ramona.
Willa Jean’s grandmother looked up from her crocheting, reminding Ramona with a glance that Ramona’s job in the Quimby family was to get along at the Kemps’. Did she have to be a dog if Willa Jean wanted her to then?
“You have to be the dog,” said Willa Jean.
“Why?” Ramona kept an eye on Mrs. Kemp as she wondered how far she dared go in resisting Willa Jean’s orders.
“Because I’m a beautiful rich lady and I say so,” Willa Jean informed her.
“I’m a bigger, beautifuler, richer lady,” said Ramona, who felt neither beautiful nor rich, but certainly did not want to crawl around on her hands and knees barking.
“We can’t both be the lady,” said Willa Jean, “and I said it first.”
Ramona could not argue the justice of this point. “What kind of dog am I supposed to be?” she asked to stall for time. She glanced wistfully at her book lying on the chair, the book she was supposed to read at school, but which she was enjoying so much she brought it home.
While Willa Jean was thinking, Mrs. Kemp said, “Sweetheart, don’t forget Bruce is coming over to play in a few minutes.”
“Bruce who?” asked Ramona, hoping Willa Jean and Bruce wo
uld play together and leave her alone to read.
“Bruce who doesn’t wee-wee in the sandbox,” was Willa Jean’s prompt answer.
“Willa Jean!” Mrs. Kemp was shocked. “What a thing to say about your little friend.”
Ramona was not shocked. She understood that there must be a second Bruce at Willa Jean’s nursery school, a Bruce who did wee-wee in the sandbox.
As things turned out, Ramona was saved from being a dog by the arrival of a small boy whose mother let him out of the car and watched him reach the front door before she drove off.
Willa Jean ran to let him in and introduced him as Ramona expected, “This is Bruce who doesn’t wee-wee in the sandbox.” Bruce looked pleased with himself.
Mrs. Kemp felt a need to apologize for her granddaughter. “Willa Jean doesn’t mean what she says.”
“But I don’t wee-wee in the sandbox,” said Bruce. “I wee-wee in the—”
“Never mind, Bruce,” said Mrs. Kemp. “Now what are you three going to play?”
Ramona was trapped.
“Dress up,” was Willa Jean’s prompt answer. She dragged from the corner a carton piled with old clothes. Willa Jean shoved one of her father’s old jackets at Bruce and handed him an old hat and her blue flippers. She unwound the curtain from her shoulders, draped it over her head, and tied it under her chin. Then she hung a piece of old sheet from her shoulders. Satisfied with herself, she handed a torn shirt to Ramona, who put it on only because Mrs. Kemp was watching.
“There,” said Willa Jean, satisfied. “I’ll be Miss Mousie, the beautiful bride, and Bruce is the frog and Ramona is Uncle Rat, and now we are going to have a wedding party.”
Ramona did not want to be Uncle Rat.
“Mr. Frog would a-wooing go,” sang Willa Jean. Bruce joined in, “Hm-m, hm-m.” Apparently this song was popular in nursery school. Ramona hm-med too.
“Say it,” Willa Jean ordered Bruce.
“Willa Jean, will you marry me?” sang Bruce.
Willa Jean stamped her foot. “Not Willa Jean! Miss Mousie.”
Bruce started over. “Miss Mousie, will you marry me?” he sang.
“Yes, if Uncle Rat will agree,” sang Willa Jean.
“Hm-m, hm-m.”
“Hm-m, hm-m,” hummed all three.
The two nursery-school children looked to Ramona for the next line. Since she did not remember the words used by Uncle Rat to give Mr. Frog permission to marry Miss Mousie, she said, “Sure. Go ahead.”
“OK,” said Willa Jean. “Now we will have the wedding party.” She seized Bruce and Ramona by the hand. “Take Bruce’s other hand,” she ordered Ramona.
Ramona found Bruce’s hand inside the long sleeve of the old coat. His hand was sticky.
“Now we’ll dance in a circle,” directed Willa Jean.
Ramona skipped, Willa Jean pranced, and Bruce flapped. They danced in a circle, tripping on Miss Mousie’s train and wedding veil and stumbling over Mr. Frog’s flippers until Willa Jean gave the next order. “Now we all fall down.”
Ramona merely dropped to her knees while Willa Jean and Bruce collapsed in a heap, laughing. Above their laughter and the sound of the television, Ramona heard the shouts of the boys outside as they rode their bicycles up and down the street. She wondered how much longer she would have to wait until her mother came to rescue her. She hoped she would arrive before Howie’s parents came home from work.
Willa Jean scrambled to her feet. “Let’s play it again,” she said, beaming, convinced of her beauty in her wedding veil. Over and over the three sang, danced, and fell down. As the game went on and on, Ramona grew bored and varied the words she used to give Mr. Frog permission to marry Miss Mousie. Sometimes she said, “See if I care,” and sometimes she said, “Yes, but you’ll be sorry.” Willa Jean did not notice, she was so eager to get to the party part of the game where they all fell down in a heap.
Still the game went on, over and over, with no sign of Bruce and Willa Jean’s tiring. Then Beezus came in with an armload of books.
“Hi, Beezus,” said Willa Jean, flushed with laughter. “You can play too. You can be the old tomcat in the song.”
“I’m sorry, Willa Jean,” said Beezus. “I don’t have time to be the old tomcat. I have homework I have to do.” She settled herself at the dining-room table and opened a book.
Ramona looked at Mrs. Kemp, who smiled and continued crocheting. Why did Ramona have to play with Willa Jean when Beezus did not? Because she was younger. That was why. Ramona was overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all. Because she was younger, she always had to do things she did not want to do—go to bed earlier, wear Beezus’s outgrown clothes that her mother saved for her, run and fetch because her legs were younger and because Beezus was always doing homework. Now she had to get along with Willa Jean—her whole family was depending on her—and Beezus did not.
Once more Ramona looked at her book of fairy tales waiting on the chair beside the front door, and as she looked at its worn cover she had an inspiration. Maybe her idea would work, and maybe it wouldn’t. It was worth a try.
“Willa Jean, you and Bruce will have to excuse me now,” Ramona said in her politest voice. “I have to do my Sustained Silent Reading.” Out of the corner of her eye she watched Mrs. Kemp.
“OK.” Willa Jean was not only impressed by a phrase she did not understand, she had Bruce to boss around. Mrs. Kemp, who was counting stitches, merely nodded.
Ramona picked up her book and settled herself in the corner of the couch. Beezus caught her eye, and the two sisters exchanged conspiratorial smiles while Willa Jean and Bruce, now minus Uncle Rat, raced happily around in a circle screaming with joy and singing, “She’ll be coming ’round the mountain when she comes!”
Ramona blissfully read herself off into the land of princesses, kings, and clever youngest sons, satisfied that the Quimbys had a clever younger daughter who was doing her part.
3
The Hard-boiled Egg Fad
With all four members of the family leaving at different times in different directions, mornings were flurried in the Quimby household. On the days when Mr. Quimby had an eight o’clock class, he left early in the car. Beezus left next because she walked to school and because she wanted to stop for Mary Jane on the way.
Ramona was third to leave. She enjoyed these last few minutes alone with her mother now that Mrs. Quimby no longer reminded her she must be nice to Willa Jean.
“Did you remember to give me a hard-boiled egg in my lunch like I asked?” Ramona inquired one morning. This week hard-boiled eggs were popular with third graders, a fad started by Yard Ape, who sometimes brought his lunch. Last week the fad had been individual bags of corn chips. Ramona had been left out of that fad because her mother objected to spending money on junk food. Surely her mother would not object to a nutritious hard-boiled egg.
“Yes, I remembered the hard-boiled egg, you little rabbit,” said Mrs. Quimby. “I’m glad you have finally learned to like them.”
Ramona did not feel it necessary to explain to her mother that she still did not like hard-boiled eggs, not even when they had been dyed for Easter. Neither did she like soft-boiled eggs, because she did not like slippery, slithery food. Ramona liked deviled eggs, but deviled eggs were not the fad, at least not this week.
On the bus Ramona and Susan compared lunches. Each was happy to discover that the other had a hard-boiled egg, and both were eager for lunchtime to come.
While Ramona waited for lunch period, school turned out to be unusually interesting. After the class had filled out their arithmetic workbooks, Mrs. Whaley handed each child a glass jar containing about two inches of a wet blue substance—she explained that it was oatmeal dyed blue. Ramona was first to say “Yuck.” Most people made faces, and Yard Ape made a gagging noise.
“OK, kids, quiet down,” said Mrs. Whaley. When the room was quiet, she explained that for science they were going to study fruit flies. The blue oatmeal contained fruit-fly larvae. “And w
hy do you think the oatmeal is blue?” she asked.
Several people thought the blue dye was some sort of food for the larvae, vitamins maybe. Marsha suggested the oatmeal was dyed blue so the children wouldn’t think it was good to eat. Everybody laughed at this guess. Who would ever think cold oatmeal was good to eat? Yard Ape came up with the right answer: the oatmeal was dyed blue so the larvae could be seen. And so they could—little white specks.
As the class bent over their desks making labels for their jars, Ramona wrote her name on her slip of paper and added, “Age 8,” which she always wrote after her signature. Then she drew tiny fruit flies around it before she pasted the label on her very own jar of blue oatmeal and fruit-fly larvae. Now she had a jar of pets.
“That’s a really neat label, Ramona,” said Mrs. Whaley. Ramona understood that her teacher did not mean tidy when she said “neat,” but extra good. Ramona decided she liked Mrs. Whaley after all.
The morning was so satisfactory that it passed quickly. When lunchtime came, Ramona collected her lunch box and went off to the cafeteria where, after waiting in line for her milk, she sat at a table with Sara, Janet, Marsha, and other third-grade girls. She opened her lunch box, and there, tucked in a paper napkin, snug between her sandwich and an orange, was her hard-boiled egg, smooth and perfect, the right size to fit her hand. Because Ramona wanted to save the best for the last, she ate the center of her sandwich—tuna fish—and poked a hole in her orange so she could suck out the juice. Third graders did not peel their oranges. At last it was time for the egg.
There were a number of ways of cracking eggs. The most popular, and the real reason for bringing an egg to school, was knocking the egg against one’s head. There were two ways of doing so, by a lot of timid little raps or by one big whack.
Sara was a rapper. Ramona, like Yard Ape, was a whacker. She took a firm hold on her egg, waited until everyone at her table was watching, and whack—she found herself with a handful of crumbled shell and something cool and slimy running down her face.
Ramona Quimby, Age 8 Page 2
