The next morning Daisy met Ramona as she got off the school bus. Together they accosted Mrs. Meacham and held out J. K. Barker’s letter. Mrs. Meacham read it and said, “Good for you! This world needs more people like you to keep things in order. May I read this to the class?” Of course the girls agreed, and while she read it they tried to look modest. Then their teacher fastened it with thumbtacks to the bulletin board for all to behold.
Everyone was impressed, even Susan. Yard Ape, looking straight ahead, smiled, but Ramona noticed that out of the corner of his eye he was looking at her.
Ramona felt good, better than she had felt since the first day of fourth grade.
8
PEAS
The rainy winter days passed quickly. Thanksgiving came and not long afterward Christmas vacation. Ramona missed Daisy, who went with her family to visit her grandparents. When she returned, the girls spent an afternoon dressing up Roberta in the clothes she had received for Christmas. Roberta was agreeable to having a dress pulled over her head, her arms stuffed into a sweater, her head shoved into caps. She enjoyed the girls’ admiration. She was not so happy about a pair of crocheted slippers with ears and tails that looked like rabbits, a gift from Howie’s grandmother, who enjoyed crocheting. Roberta did not care for the slippers. She puckered up, ready to cry.
“Come on, Roberta,” coaxed Ramona. “You’ll have bunnies for feet. See.”
Bunny feet did not interest Roberta, especially when she was beginning to feel tired. She began to fuss.
“Maybe the bunnies tickle her feet,” suggested Daisy.
“Roberta, feel how nice and soft the bunny is.” Ramona pulled a slipper over Roberta’s curling toes. Roberta began to howl. She was not going to wear those slippers, and Ramona could not make her.
“Okay, okay,” said Ramona, giving in. Roberta, she could see, was no longer the happy, cooing baby she had been except when teething or when the pediatrician had given her a shot to keep her from getting sick. She now had a will of her own. She’s growing up, thought Ramona, like me.
Not long after this, when Ramona splashed home from the bus in the icy rain, her mother called out as she opened the back door, “Don’t step on Roberta.”
After the wind and rain, the kitchen felt warm and cozy. Mm-m. Ramona inhaled. Meat loaf for dinner. She would not have to struggle to cut it with a knife. Roberta was sitting in the middle of the floor pounding on a pan with a wooden spoon. Ramona sat down on the floor beside her to pull off her wet boots. “Mother, guess what?” she began.
Mrs. Quimby, too busy to guess what, did not answer. Instead she said, “Would you please give me a hand with Roberta? This is your father’s bowling night, and I want to have dinner early. I’m behind because Roberta pushed a jar of tomato sauce onto the floor in the market.” Moving quickly, she picked up Roberta, said “Upsy-daisy,” set her in her high chair, scooped up the pan and wooden spoon, and tossed them into the sink. She placed a plastic dish of Roberta’s dinner and a cup with a spout on the high-chair tray, and handed Ramona a spoon.
Ramona examined Roberta’s dinner. “What’s this green stuff?” she asked as she tied a bib around Roberta’s neck. Roberta, in a happy mood, squealed and patted her hands on the tray.
“Peas,” answered their mother, busy rolling wet lettuce in a towel. “I was in a hurry and I found an old jar of baby food. I know Roberta has outgrown strained peas, but I didn’t want to waste them.”
“Yuck,” said Ramona. The peas were unappetizing, and Roberta looked so innocent and trusting. Oh well, Roberta was the one who had to eat them. Spooning food into the baby’s rosy mouth or guiding her little hand clutching her spoon made Ramona feel grown up and responsible, a big sister for a change.
The telephone rang in the hall. Mrs. Quimby answered. “Oh, hello, Sally,” she said.
A book club lady, Ramona thought. That meant a long, boring conversation. Maybe if she hurried she could see part of Big Hospital before her mother finished her conversation and told her to turn it off. Curly-haired Doctor had fallen in love with Blond Nurse, who was secretly married. . . . Ramona couldn’t wait to see what happened next. She decided to hold the spoon herself to feed Roberta more quickly.
Mrs. Quimby was saying, “Let’s read a shorter book this time. I thought I would never finish Moby Dick.”
Ramona dipped up a spoonful of cottage cheese. “Open wide,” she said to Roberta. “Down the little red lane.” That was what her mother said when she fed Roberta. Ramona opened her own mouth, because she was Roberta’s role model. Roberta obediently imitated her and accepted the cottage cheese. “Good girl,” said Ramona. Roberta smiled a messy smile and pounded her heels against the high chair.
Mrs. Quimby was saying, “I really enjoy our book club. Now that I am no longer working—not that looking after my daughters isn’t work—I enjoy exercising my brain.”
Ramona was surprised and a little hurt that her mother found her daughters work. Roberta reached for the spoon. Ramona held on to it because Roberta would finish faster if she was fed. Ramona tried strained peas next. “Come on, Roberta. Down the hatch,” she said, using her father’s words.
The hatch remained closed. Ramona tried to poke the spoon between Roberta’s lips. Roberta did not care to be poked. She began to look stubborn. Ramona was growing impatient to get to the television. If the husband of Blond Nurse found out about Curly-haired Doctor—
Roberta kept her lips tightly closed. “Look, Roberta. Watch your big sister.” Ramona opened her mouth wide, and after thinking it over, Roberta did the same. Ramona popped the peas into her mouth. Roberta frowned but accepted another spoonful. Then she leaned out of her chair, opened her mouth, and let peas dribble out onto the linoleum.
“Roberta!” cried Ramona. When Roberta looked worried, she changed the tone of her voice and said, “Yum-yum. Nice peas full of vitamins and good things.” She smiled as she held a generous spoonful to Roberta’s lips and thought, Horrid, nasty peas, before she said, “Open wide.” When Roberta did as she was told, Ramona spooned in the peas.
With her mouth full of peas, Roberta looked both surprised and disappointed, as if her sister had betrayed her. Then she blew hard, spraying mushy, squishy, smelly green peas all over Ramona.
“Roberta!” cried Ramona, dropping the spoon on the high-chair tray and wiping her face on her sleeve. Roberta picked up the spoon, beat it in her food, and crowed. Then, filled with glee at what she had done, she threw the spoon on the floor. Why bother with it when she had hands? She patted her food and rubbed her hair.
“Mother!” cried Ramona. “Roberta’s making a mess.”
“Cope, dear. I’m busy,” answered Mrs. Quimby from the hall. “Just do the best you can.”
“E-e-e!” squealed Roberta as she threw her cup on the floor. Before Ramona could unfurl a banner of paper towels to wipe Roberta’s face, her hair, her high chair, everything, Roberta tried to pick up her dish, which was held fast by the suction cup. She scowled, picked up a handful of food instead, and let it plop out of her hand onto the floor. This pleased her so much she squealed again.
“Roberta! Naughty girl!” cried Ramona, wiping peas off her own face. She never wanted to smell peas again. Roberta looked as if her feelings were hurt.
This time Mrs. Quimby said, “Sorry, Sally. I hear a damsel in distress.” And ended her book club conversation. When she saw the mess in the kitchen, she sighed, reached for a sponge, and said, “Well, this really has been one of those days.”
Ramona tried to scrub peas out of Roberta’s hair with a paper towel. She no longer felt like a big sister. She felt like a cross sister, even if Roberta was just a baby. Roberta smiled a peas-and-cottage-cheese-smeared smile.
“Don’t worry about it, Ramona,” said Mrs. Quimby. She sounded tired. “Messes are a part of being a mother. A big part, now that I think about it. What was it you started to tell me before the telephone rang?”
Ramona hesitated. Somehow her news no longer seemed
important. “Oh, nothing much,” she said as Mr. Quimby and Beezus came dripping through the back door. “Only that a photographer is coming to take our school pictures tomorrow, and Mrs. Meacham says we are going to have a valentine box in our room.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Quimby. “Grandpa Day and Aunt Bea always like to have your picture.”
“Remember to say cheese,” said Mr. Quimby as he stepped over peas and cottage cheese.
“Photographers always tell you to say that,” said Beezus, the experienced older sister. She pulled off her raincoat and dropped it on a chair before she picked up Roberta’s cup from the floor.
Mr. Quimby did not bother to take off his raincoat. He dampened a towel and began to wipe Roberta’s hands and face. “I see that Third Daughter has a mind of her own,” he remarked.
“E-e-e,” squealed Roberta, happy to have her family waiting on her. That was the advantage of being a baby sister.
Feeling somewhat dejected because she had not been able to feed Roberta neatly, Ramona went off to her room to see what she could find to wear for her class picture.
The next morning Ramona put on a red plaid jumper and a white blouse with a ruffle around the collar. The shoulders and armholes were a little tight, but she loved the twirly pleated skirt, even if it had once belonged to Beezus. Under the skirt she wore a pair of play shorts so no boy could see her underpants if she happened to bend over. She brushed the back of her hair, although it wouldn’t show in the picture.
“Isn’t your dress a little too—” began Mrs. Quimby as Ramona picked up her lunch bag. She must have changed her mind because she finished with “You look very nice today, dear.”
“Don’t choke in that blouse,” said Beezus. “It looks awfully tight.”
Ramona ignored her sister and walked off to the bus stop feeling neat, clean, and beautiful. The rain had stopped, and even though the day was cold, she left her raincoat unfastened because, like Beezus, she wanted to arrive unwrinkled. She walked instead of skipped so her hair would stay flat. She resisted stomping in puddles.
Mrs. Pitt, busy picking up advertising circulars from her porch, said, “My, don’t you look nice this morning?” Ramona smiled modestly. This was the sort of grown-up question that did not demand an answer.
“What are you all dressed up for?” asked Howie, who was eating his sandwich in the middle of the sidewalk.
“My picture,” said Ramona.
“Big deal,” said Howie.
“Are you drethed up for a party?” asked a little girl Ramona could tell was in the second grade because she had lost her two front teeth.
When Ramona reached her classroom, Mrs. Meacham, whose hair was freshly curled, smiled and said, “You look very nice today, Ramona.”
“I know,” answered Ramona modestly. She felt a shoulder seam in her blouse split.
“You’re all dressed up like you think you’re somebody,” said Susan.
“I am somebody,” said Ramona with a toss of her head. She managed to stay neat until just before spelling time, when the school secretary opened the door and beckoned to Mrs. Meacham, who said, “All right, boys and girls. Picture time. Line up and walk quietly to the library, where we will all wait quietly for our turn. And remember to smile. At our school learning is fun. Let’s show our parents by smiling.”
Ramona was glad to escape working on , , and words for a little while.
In the library a screen had been set up. On it was a picture of nothing in particular—clouds maybe, or shadows. The photographer was a young man with a lock of hair sticking straight up from the back of his head. “Hi, kids,” he said. “My name is Bill.” He pointed to a box of paper combs. “Make yourselves pretty.” Some children took combs; others smoothed their hair with their hands. Bill motioned to the first girl in line, who as usual was Susan. Being first was important to Susan. He positioned her in front of the camera and said, “Say cheese,” just as Beezus had predicted.
Susan said cheese. The camera clicked.
“Next!” said Bill as Susan stepped aside. A boy took her place. “Say cheese,” ordered Bill. This went on over and over until it was Yard Ape’s turn. He stood up straight, grinned, and after saying cheese did not step aside. “How come you always tell us to say cheese?” he asked. “Don’t you get tired of it?”
“As a matter of fact I do, now that you mention it,” answered Bill. “Next!”
It was Ramona’s turn to step in front of the screen for “cheese.”
Bill surprised her. “Say peas,” he said.
Instantly Ramona thought of Roberta’s spitting gooshy, smelly peas in her face. Ee-yew. Without thinking she scowled, wrinkled her nose as if smelling something bad, and pulled down the corners of her mouth. The camera clicked, the class laughed, and Bill said, “Next!” Ramona hesitated. “Move along,” ordered Bill. “I have a gazillion kids waiting.” Ramona moved. She began to feel as if the neck of her blouse was choking her, so she unbuttoned the top button. She wondered what her family would say when they saw her picture.
Gradually, as the day went on and the class became engrossed in the study of pioneers crossing the plains in their covered wagons, Ramona began to feel that perhaps her picture was not as bad as she thought it was. Maybe Bill had snapped her picture a millionth of a second before she made a face. Of course. That was what had happened. Of course it was. Ramona spent the rest of the day feeling cute and perky even if her clothes were too tight.
9
RAMONA SITS
Ramona put her class picture out of her mind entirely. She had other things to think about. “I wish I would hurry up and be old enough to baby-sit,” she confided to Beezus one cold, wet morning as she watched her sister put on a new T-shirt she had bought with money she had earned. “I’ve had a lot of practice with Roberta when Mother is busy. I know I could do it.”
Beezus looked thoughtful. “Maybe . . .” She was not so sure. She looked at her sister, who was pulling on her socks as she lay on her bed with her feet in the air. “You’re really more of a cheerleader type.”
“I am?” Ramona sat up, startled at this insight into her character. “How come?”
“Oh, you know—” Beezus airily waved her hand. “You’re always jumping around and waving things.”
Ramona did not know what to say, so she said, “I don’t care. I still want to baby-sit.”
That was why, one afternoon shortly before semester break, Ramona came home from school and faced her mother with a question: “If I’m not old enough to baby-sit, am I old enough to cat-sit?”
Mrs. Quimby thought a moment before she asked, “Are you asking about cats in general or about one specific cat?”
“Daisy’s brother’s cat, Clawed,” explained Ramona. “The family is going down to Roseburg to be with Daisy’s grandparents during semester break. They take their dog in the car, but they have to take Clawed to the Kitty Corner and Clawed will be unhappy because he will be shut up in a cage and nobody will pet him.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Quimby.
“Mo-ther.” Ramona was impatient. “Clawed is a really nice cat. He doesn’t claw furniture or anything. Daisy said when he stayed at the Kitty Corner at Christmas he came home all grouchy. Besides, Daisy’s mother will pay me for cat-sitting.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Quimby smiled. “It sounds to me as if you and Daisy have this all figured out.”
Ramona pressed on. “If Beezus can baby-sit, I don’t see why—”
“Ramona,” Mrs. Quimby, no longer smiling, interrupted. “I really can’t drive you to Daisy’s house every day to feed a cat. With Roberta it would be too much.”
Ramona was not a girl to give up easily. “We could bring Clawed here. We used to have a cat.” She took a deep breath and prepared for major pleading. If necessary she would even whine. “Pu-leeze, pu-leeze. I’ll take care of him and everything. You wouldn’t have to do a thing. And I just know Roberta would love to pet him.”
Mrs. Quimby sighed. “Well—as long as
you agree to be entirely responsible for him. How long did you say they would be gone?”
“Just a week,” said Ramona. “Just a teeny tiny short week.”
Mrs. Quimby’s smile returned. “There is no such thing as a short week. A week is seven days, no more, no less. All right. You may look after Clawed for a week if Daisy’s family can bring him here. But remember, he is your responsibility and no one else’s.”
Delighted to have a chance to be responsible, Ramona ran to the telephone to tell Daisy the good news.
Several days later Mrs. Kidd, Daisy, and Jeremy delivered yowling, angry Clawed in his carrier along with his litter box, a bag of litter, a brush, canned and dried cat food, two dishes, and a square carpet-covered construction with two holes, one above the other, each big enough for Clawed to hide in. “Jeremy built Clawed’s scratching post himself.” Daisy was proud of her brother. “We call it Clawed’s kitty condo.”
Ramona had not thought of Clawed’s equipment. She had expected an unencumbered cat.
Mrs. Kidd unfastened the latch on the carrier. “This will be much better for Clawed,” she said. “He will settle down as soon as he has a chance to look around. We can’t thank you enough.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” said Mrs. Quimby. “Ramona is eager to take care of him.”
Clawed sat down and began to use his rough tongue to smooth his rumpled fur and to wash away the taint of his cage.
Ramona eyed the litter box. She had pictured herself holding and petting Clawed while she looked at television or read a book.
At that point Beezus came into the room, looked at Clawed, and said, “Don’t expect me to empty his litter box. I am not the one who is responsible.” Then she noticed Jeremy, quickly changed the tone of her voice, and said, “Oh—hello, Jeremy.”
“Hello, Beatrice.” Jeremy turned red.
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