Ramona the Brave

by Beverly Cleary

  Ramona forgot until Beezus laid her long white envelope on the table after the dessert of canned peaches and store macaroons. “Mr. Cardoza gave us our progress reports,” she announced.

  Mr. Quimby tore open the envelope and pulled out the yellow sheet of paper. “M-m-m. Very good, Beezus. I’m proud of you.”

  “What did he say?” Beezus asked. Ramona could tell that Beezus was eager to have the family hear the nice things Mr. Cardoza had to say about her.

  “He said, ‘Beatrice has shown marked improvement in math. She is willing and a conscientious pupil, who gets along well with her peers. She is a pleasure to have in the classroom.’”

  “May I please be excused?” asked Ramona and did not wait for an answer.

  “Just a minute, young lady,” said Mr. Quimby.

  “Yes, what about your progress report?” asked Mrs. Quimby.

  “Oh…that old thing,” said Ramona.

  “Yes, that old thing.” Mr. Quimby looked amused, which annoyed Ramona. “Bring it here,” he said.

  Ramona faced her father. “I don’t want to.”

  Mr. Quimby was silent. The whole family was silent, waiting. Even Picky-picky, who had been washing his face, paused, one paw in the air, and waited. Ramona turned and walked slowly to her room and slowly returned with the envelope. Scowling, she thrust it at her father who tore it open.

  “Does Beezus have to hear?” she asked.

  “Beezus, you may be excused,” said Mrs. Quimby. “Run along and do your homework.”

  Ramona knew that Beezus was in no hurry to run along and do her homework. Beezus was going to listen, that’s what Beezus was going to do. Ramona scowled more ferociously as her father pulled out the sheet of yellow paper.

  “If you don’t look out, your face might freeze that way,” said Mr. Quimby, which did not help. He studied the yellow paper and frowned. He handed it to Mrs. Quimby, who read it and frowned.

  “Well,” said Ramona, unable to stand the suspense, “what does it say?” She would have grabbed it and tried to read it herself, but she knew it was written in cursive.

  Mrs. Quimby read, “‘Ramona’s letter formation is excellent, and she is developing good word-attacking skills.’”

  Ramona relaxed. This did not sound so bad, even though she had never thought of reading as attacking words. She rather liked the idea.

  Mrs. Quimby read on. “‘She is learning her numbers readily.’”

  That mitten counting, thought Ramona with scorn.

  “‘However, Ramona sometimes shows more interest in the seat work of others than in her own. She needs to learn to keep her hands to herself. She also needs to work on self-control in the classroom.’”

  “I do not!” Ramona was angry at the unfairness of her teacher’s report. What did Mrs. Griggs think she had been working on? She hardly ever raised her hand anymore, and she never spoke out the way she used to. And she wasn’t really interested in Davy’s seat work. She was trying to help him because he was having such a hard time.

  “Now, Ramona.” Mrs. Quimby’s voice was gentle. “You must try to grow up.”

  Ramona raised her voice. “What do you think I’m doing?”

  “You don’t have to be so noisy about it,” said Mr. Quimby.

  Of course, Beezus had to come butting in to see what all the fuss was about. “What did Mrs. Griggs say?” she wanted to know, and it was easy to see she knew that what Mr. Cardoza had said was better.

  “You mind your own business,” said Ramona.

  “Ramona, don’t talk that way.” Mr. Quimby’s voice was mild.

  “I will too talk that way,” said Ramona. “I’ll talk any way I want!”

  “Ramona!” Mr. Quimby’s voice held a warning.

  Ramona was defiant. “Well, I will!” Nothing could possibly get any worse. She might as well say anything she pleased.

  “Now see here, young lady—” began Mr. Quimby.

  Ramona had had enough. She had been miserable the whole first grade, and she no longer cared what happened. She wanted to do something bad. She wanted to do something terrible that would shock her whole family, something that would make them sit up and take notice. “I’m going to say a bad word!” she shouted with a stamp of her foot.

  That silenced her family. Picky-picky stopped washing and left the room. Mr. Quimby looked surprised and—how could he be so disloyal?—a little amused. This made Ramona even angrier. Beezus looked interested and curious. After a moment Mrs. Quimby said quietly, “Go ahead, Ramona, and say the bad word if it will make you feel any better.”

  Ramona clenched her fists and took a deep breath. “Guts!” she yelled. “Guts! Guts! Guts!” There. That should show them.

  Unfortunately, Ramona’s family was not shocked and horrified as Ramona had expected. They laughed. All three of them laughed. They tried to hide it, but they laughed.

  “It isn’t funny!” shouted Ramona. “Don’t you dare laugh at me!” Bursting into tears, she threw herself facedown on the couch. She kicked and she pounded the cushions with her fists. Everyone was against her. Nobody liked her. Even the cat did not like her. The room was silent, and Ramona had the satisfaction of knowing she had stopped their laughing. She heard responsible old Beezus go to her room to do her responsible old homework. Her parents continued to sit in silence, but Ramona was past caring what anyone did. She cried harder than she ever had cried in her life. She cried until she was limp and exhausted.

  Then Ramona felt her mother’s hand on her back. “Ramona,” she said gently, “what are we going to do with you?”

  With red eyes, a swollen face, and a streaming nose, Ramona sat up and glared at her mother. “Love me!” Her voice was fierce with hurt. Shocked at her own words, she buried her face in the pillow. She had no tears left.

  “Dear heart,” said Mrs. Quimby. “We do love you.”

  Ramona sat up and faced her mother, who looked tired, as if she had been through many scenes with Ramona and knew many more lay ahead. “You do not. You love Beezus.” There. She had said it right out loud. For years she had wanted to tell her parents how she felt.

  Mr. Quimby wiped Ramona’s nose on a Kleenex, which he then handed to her. She clenched it in her fist and glowered at her parents.

  “Of course we love Beezus,” said Mrs. Quimby. “We love you both.”

  “You love her more,” said Ramona. “A whole lot more.” She felt better for having said the words, getting them off her chest, as grown-ups would say.

  “Love isn’t like a cup of sugar that gets used up,” said Mrs. Quimby. “There is enough to go around. Loving Beezus doesn’t mean we don’t have enough love left for you.”

  “You don’t laugh at Beezus all the time,” said Ramona.

  “They used to,” said Beezus, who was unable to stay away from this family discussion. “They always laughed at the funny things I did, and it used to make me mad.”

  Ramona sniffed and waited for Beezus to continue.

  Beezus was serious. “Like the time when I was about your age and thought frankincense and myrrh were something the three Wise Men were bringing to the baby Jesus to put on his rash like that stuff Mom used on you when you were a baby. Mom and Dad laughed, and Mom told all her friends, and they laughed too.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Quimby. “I had no idea I upset you that much.”

  “Well, you did,” said Beezus, still grumpy over the memory. “And there was the time I thought toilet water was water out of the toilet. You practically had hysterics.”

  “Now you’re exaggerating,” said Mrs. Quimby.

  Comforted by this unexpected support from her sister, Ramona scrubbed her face with her soggy Kleenex. “Mama, if you really do love me, why do I have to go to school?” At the same time she wondered how she could find out what frankincense and myrrh were without letting anyone know of her ignorance. She had always thought in a vague sort of way that they were something expensive like perfume and whiskey done up in an extra-fancy Chri
stmas wrapping.

  “Ramona, everyone has to go to school,” Mrs. Quimby answered. “Loving you has nothing to do with it.”

  “Then why can’t I be in the other first grade, the one in Room Two?” Ramona asked. “Mrs. Griggs doesn’t like me.”

  “Of course she likes you,” contradicted Mrs. Quimby.

  “No, she doesn’t,” said Ramona. “If she liked me, she wouldn’t make me tell Susan in front of the whole class that I was sorry I scrunched her owl, and she would ask me to lead the Pledge Allegiance. And she wouldn’t say bad things about me on my progress report.”

  “I told you Mrs. Griggs was great on apologies,” Beezus reminded her family. “And she will get around to asking Ramona to lead the flag salute. She asks everybody.”

  “But Beezus, you got along with Mrs. Griggs when you had her,” said Mrs. Quimby.

  “I guess so,” said Beezus. “She wasn’t my favorite teacher, though.”

  “What was wrong with her?” asked Mrs. Quimby.

  “There wasn’t anything really wrong with her, I guess,” answered Beezus. “She just wasn’t very exciting is all. She wasn’t mean or anything like that. We just seemed to go along doing our work, and that was it.”

  “Was she unfair?” asked Mrs. Quimby.

  Beezus considered the question. “No, but I was the kind of child she liked. You know…neat and dependable.”

  “I bet you never wasted paste,” said Ramona, who was not a paste waster herself. Too much paste was likely to spoil a piece of artwork.

  “No,” admitted Beezus. “I wasn’t that type.”

  Ramona persisted. “Why can’t I change to Room Two?”

  Mr. Quimby took over. “Because Mrs. Griggs is teaching you to read and do arithmetic, and because the things she said about you are fair. You do need to learn self-control and to keep your hands to yourself. There are all kinds of teachers in the world just as there are all kinds of other people, and you must learn to get along with them. Maybe Mrs. Griggs doesn’t understand how you feel, but you aren’t always easy to understand. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Please, Daddy,” begged Ramona. “Please don’t make me go back to Room One.”

  “Buck up, Ramona,” said Mr. Quimby. “Show us your spunk.”

  Ramona felt too exhausted to show anyone her spunk, but for some reason her father’s order made her feel better. If her mother had said, Poor baby, she would have felt like crying again. Mrs. Quimby led her from the room and, skipping her bath, helped her into bed. Before the light was turned out, Ramona noticed that Wild Animals of Africa had been returned to her bookcase.

  “Stay with me, Mama,” coaxed Ramona, dreading solitude, darkness, and the gorilla in the book. Mrs. Quimby turned off the light and sat down on the bed.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, Ramona?”

  “Isn’t guts a bad word?”

  Mrs. Quimby thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say it’s exactly a bad word. It isn’t the nicest word in the world, but there are much worse words. Now go to sleep.”

  Ramona wondered what could be worse than guts.

  Out in the kitchen Mr. Quimby was rattling dishes and singing, “Oh, my gal, she am a spunky gal! Sing polly-wolly doodle all the day!”

  Ramona always felt safe while her father was awake. Dread of Something was worse after he had gone to bed and the house was dark. No need to turn herself into a paper doll for a while. Crying had left Ramona tired and limp, but somehow she felt better, more at peace with herself, as if trouble and guilt had been washed away by tears. She knew her father was singing about her, and in spite of her troubles Ramona found comfort in being her father’s spunky gal. Somehow Something seemed less frightening.

  Worn out as she was by anger and tears, Ramona faced the truth. She could no longer go on being afraid of the dark. She was too weary to remain frightened and sleepless. She could no longer fear shadows and spooks and strange little noises. She stepped bravely out of bed and, in the faint light from the hall, pulled the big flat book from her bookcase. She carried it into the living room and shoved it under a cushion. Her parents, busy with supper dishes in the kitchen, did not know she was out of bed. She walked back to her room, climbed into bed, and pulled up the covers. Nothing had grabbed her by the ankles. Nothing slithered out from under the curtains to harm her. Nothing had chased her. She was safe. Gratefully Ramona said her prayers and, exhausted, fell asleep.

  9

  Mr. Quimby’s Spunky Gal

  Filled with spirit and pluck, Ramona started off to school with her lunch box in her hand. She was determined that today would be different. She would make it different. She was her father’s spunky gal, wasn’t she? She twirled around for the pleasure of making her pleated skirt stand out beneath her car coat.

  Ramona was so filled with spunk she decided to go to school a different way, by the next street over, something she had always wanted to do. The distance to Glenwood School was no greater. There was no reason she should not go to school any way she pleased as long as she looked both ways before she crossed the street and did not talk to strangers.

  Slowpoke Howie, half a block behind, called out when he saw her turn the corner, “Ramona, where are you going?”

  “I’m going to school a different way,” Ramona called back, certain that Howie would not follow to spoil her feeling of adventure. Howie was not a boy to change his ways.

  Ramona skipped happily down the street, singing to herself, “Hippity-hop to the barber shop to buy a stick of candy. One for you and one for me and one for sister Mandy.” The sky through the bare branches overhead was clear, the air was crisp, and Ramona’s feet in their brown oxfords felt light. Beezus’s old boots, which so often weighed her down, were home in the hall closet. Ramona was happy. The day felt different already.

  Ramona turned the second corner, and as she hippity-hopped down the unfamiliar street past three white houses and a tan stucco house, she enjoyed a feeling of freedom and adventure. Then as she passed a gray shingle house in the middle of the block, a large German shepherd dog, license tags jingling, darted down the driveway toward her. Terrified, Ramona stood rooted to the sidewalk. She felt as if her bad dream had come true. The grass was green, the sky was blue. She could not move; she could not scream.

  The dog, head thrust forward, came close. He sniffed with his black nose. Here was a stranger. He growled. This was his territory, and he did not want a stranger to trespass.

  This is not a dream, Ramona told herself. This is real. My feet will move if I make them. “Go ’way!” she ordered, backing away from the dog, which answered with a sharp bark. He had teeth like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. Oh, Grandmother, what big teeth you have! The better to eat you with, my dear. Ramona took another step back. Growling, the dog advanced. He was a dog, not a wolf, but that was bad enough.

  Ramona used the only weapon she had—her lunch box. She slung her lunch box at the dog and missed. The box crashed to the sidewalk, tumbled, and came to rest. The dog stopped to sniff it. Ramona forced her feet to move, to run. Her oxfords pounded on the sidewalk. One shoelace came untied and slapped against her ankle. She looked desperately at a passing car, but the driver did not notice her peril.

  Ramona cast a terrified look over her shoulder. The dog had lost interest in her unopened lunch box and was coming toward her again. She could hear his toenails on the sidewalk and could hear him growling deep in his throat. She had to do something, but what?

  Ramona’s heart was pounding in her ears as she stopped to reach for the only weapon left—her shoe. She had no choice. She yanked off her brown oxford and hurled it at the dog. Again she missed. The dog stopped, sniffed the shoe, and then to Ramona’s horror, picked it up, and trotted off in the direction from which he had come.

  Ramona stood aghast with the cold from the concrete sidewalk seeping through her sock. Now what should she do? If she said, You come back here, the dog might obey, and she did not want him any closer. She watch
ed helplessly as he returned to his own lawn, where he settled down with the shoe between his paws like a bone. He began to gnaw.

  Her shoe! There was no way Ramona could take her shoe away from the dog by herself.

  There was no one she could ask for help on this street of strangers. And her blue lunch box, now dented, lying there on the sidewalk. Did she dare try to get it back while the dog was busy chewing her shoe? She took a cautious step toward her lunch box. The dog went on gnawing. She took another step. I really am brave, she told herself. The dog looked up. Ramona froze. The dog began to gnaw again. She darted forward, grabbed her lunch box, and ran toward school, slap-pat, slap-pat, on the cold concrete.

  Ramona refused to cry—she was brave, wasn’t she?—but she was worried. Mrs. Griggs frowned on tardiness, and Ramona was quite sure she expected everyone in her class to wear two shoes. Ramona would probably catch it from Mrs. Griggs at school and from her mother at home for losing a shoe with a lot of wear left in it. Ramona was always catching it.

  When Ramona reached Glenwood School, the bell had rung and the traffic boys were leaving their posts. The children crowding into the building did not notice Ramona’s predicament. Ramona slap-patted down the hall to Room One, where she quickly left her lunch box and car coat in the cloakroom before she sat down at her desk with one foot folded under her. She spread her pleated skirt to hide her dirty sock.

  Susan noticed. “What happened to your other shoe?” she asked.

  “I lost it, and don’t you tell!” If Susan told, Ramona would have a good excuse to pull Susan’s boing-boing curls.

  “I won’t,” promised Susan, pleased to share a secret, “but how are you going to keep Mrs. Griggs from finding out?”

  Ramona cast a desperate look at Susan. “I don’t know,” she confessed.