Ramona the Brave (5 page)

Ramona burst through the back door, safe from Something. “Mama! Mama! I fell down!” she managed between gasps.

“Oh, poor baby!” Mrs. Quimby took one look at Ramona's bloody legs and led her into the bathroom, where she knelt and cleaned the wounds, dabbed them with antiseptic, and covered them with Band-Aids. Her mother's sympathy made Ramona feel very sorry for herself. Poor little misunderstood first grader.

Mrs. Quimby wiped Ramona's sweaty tearstained face with a damp washcloth, kissed Ramona for comfort, and said, “That's my brave girl.”

Ramona wanted to say, But I'm not brave, Mama. I'm scared because I did something bad. Yet she could not bring herself to admit the truth. Poor little Ramona with her wounded knees. It was all mean old Susan's fault for being such a copycat.

Mrs. Quimby sat back on her heels. “Guess what?” she said.

“What?” Ramona hoped for a glorious surprise to make up for her unhappy day. Ramona always longed for glorious surprises. That was the way she was.

“The workmen finished the new room, and before they left they moved your bed and the dresser and bookcase we had stored in the garage, and tonight you are going to sleep in your very own room!”

“Really?”
This actually was a glorious surprise. There had been days when the workmen had not come at all, and the whole Quimby family had despaired of the room ever being completed. Ramona's knees hurt, but who cared? She ran down the hall to see the room for herself.

Yes, there was her bed in one corner, the bookcase filled with more toys than books in another, and against the wall, the dresser.

For the first time Ramona looked into her very own mirror in her very own room. She saw a stranger, a girl with red eyes and a puffy, tearstained face, who did not look at all the way Ramona pictured herself. Ramona thought of herself as the kind of girl everyone should like, but this girl…

Ramona scowled, and the girl scowled back. Ramona managed a small smile. So did the girl. Ramona felt better. She wanted the girl in the mirror to like her.

R
amona stood inside her new closet, pretending she was in an elevator. She slid open the door and stepped out into her new room, which she pretended was on the tenth floor. There she drew a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of new wood and the flat smell of sheetrock, which her father was going to paint when he found time. Her mother had been too busy to find curtains for the windows or to clean the smudges of putty from the glass, but Ramona did not mind. Tonight she was going to sleep for the first time in her very-own-for-six-months room, the only room in the house with a sliding closet door and windows that opened out instead of up and down.

“Ramona, Howie's grandmother is here,” called Mrs. Quimby. “We're going now.”

Ramona stepped back into her closet, slid the door shut, pressed an imaginary button, and when her imaginary elevator had made its imaginary descent, stepped out onto the real first floor and faced a real problem. Her mother and father were leaving for Parents' Night.

After Ramona said hello to Howie's grandmother (“Say hello to Howie's grandmother, Ramona”), she flopped down in a chair and peeled off one end of a Band-Aid to examine her sore knee. She was disappointed when Howie's grandmother did not notice. “I don't see why you have to go to Parents' Night,” Ramona said to her mother and father. “It's probably boring.”

“We want to hear what Mrs. Griggs has to say,” said Mrs. Quimby.

This was what worried Ramona.

“And I want to meet the famous Mr. Cardoza,” said Mr. Quimby. “We've been hearing so much about him.”

“Daddy, you're really going to like him,” said Beezus. “Do you know what he said when I got five wrong on my math test? He said, ‘Good. Now I can see what it is you don't understand.' And then he said he was there to help me understand, and he did!”

“We're going over to Howie's house after Parents' Night,” said Mrs. Quimby, “but we won't be late.”

Beezus made a face and said to Ramona, “That means they'll talk about their children. They always do.” Ramona knew her sister spoke the truth.

Mr. Quimby smiled as he went out the door. “Don't worry. We won't reveal the family secrets.”

Beezus went off to her room, eager to do her homework on the new-to-her desk. Ramona pulled off the other Band-Aid and examined her other knee. She wondered if what Mrs. Griggs was sure to say about Susan's owl would be considered a family secret. She poked her sore knee and said, “Ouch!” so Howie's grandmother could not help hearing. When Mrs. Kemp failed to ask, Why, Ramona, how did you hurt your knee?, Ramona stuck the Band-Aid back in place and studied her sitter.

Mrs. Kemp, who wore glasses with purple frames, was not the sort of sitter who played games with children. When she came to sit, she sat. She was sitting on the couch knitting something out of green wool while she looked at an old movie on television, some boring thing about grown-ups who talked a lot and didn't do much of anything. Ramona liked good lively comedies with lots of children and animals and grown-ups doing silly things. Next to that she liked cat-food commercials.

Ramona picked up the evening paper from the floor beside her chair. “Well, I guess I'll read the paper,” she said, showing off for Howie's grandmother. She studied the head-lines, making a sort of mental buzz when she came to words she could not read.
Z-z-z-z-z
to run for
z-z-z-z
, she read.
Z-z-z-z
of
z-z-z-z
-ing to go up. She turned a page.
Z-z-z-z
to play
z-z-z-z
at
z-z-z-z
. Play what, she wondered, and with a little feeling of triumph discovered that the
Z-z-z-z
-s were going to play
z-z-z-z
-ball.

“And what is the news tonight?” asked Mrs. Kemp, her eyes on the television set.

Attention at last. “Somebody is going to play some kind of ball,” answered Ramona, proud to have actually read something in the newspaper. She hoped Mrs. Kemp would say, Why, Ramona, I had no idea you were such a good reader.

“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Kemp, a remark Ramona knew grown-ups made when they were not interested in conversation with children.

Ramona tried again. “I know how to set the table,” she boasted.

Instead of saying, You must be a big help to your mother, Mrs. Kemp only murmured, “Mm-hm” with her eyes on the television set.

Ramona said, “I have a room of my own, and tonight I'm going to sleep in it all my myself.”

“That's nice,” said Mrs. Kemp absently.

Ramona gave up. Mrs. Kemp did not know the right answers. The clock said seven thirty. Even though Ramona had fought long and hard for the right to stay up until eight fifteen and was now working on eight thirty, she decided that since her parents were not there, she would not lose ground in her battle for a later bedtime by going to bed early to try out her new room. She said good-night and took her bath without using her washcloth, so she would not have to waste time wringing it out and hanging it up. Then she got into bed, turned out her light, said her prayers asking God to bless her family including Picky-picky, and there she lay, a big girl, alone in her bed in a room of her own.

Unfortunately, in spite of pretending bedtime had come, Ramona was wide-awake with nothing to do but think. She lay there wondering what was happening at school. Guilt over Susan's owl grew heavy within her. What would happen when her mother and father heard the whole terrible story? They would be disappointed in Ramona, that's what they'd be, and nothing made Ramona feel worse than knowing that her parents were disappointed in her.

In spite of Howie's grandmother knitting on the couch, the house seemed empty. Ramona thought about how bad she was. She thought about the gorilla in the book in her bookcase and wished she had not. The sound of gunfire and a woman's scream came from the television set. Nothing to be scared about, Ramona told herself, just the TV. She wished her window had curtains.

Although Ramona dreaded knowing what Mrs. Griggs would say, she felt she had to know. As Beezus had predicted, her parents were sure to talk on and on with Howie's parents about their children. Mrs. Kemp would say Howie needed to learn to be creative, and Ramona's mother would say Ramona needed to learn to be responsible like Beezus. There was no telling what the fathers would say, although fathers, Ramona knew, did not spend as much time as mothers thinking up ways to improve their children.

Ramona decided to act. She got out of bed and pattered down the hall in her bare feet.

Howie's grandmother looked up from her knitting. “It's past your bedtime, Ramona,” she said.

So time had passed after all. “I know,” said Ramona and could not resist boasting a little. “I have to leave a note for my mother.” On the note pad by the telephone she carefully printed:

 

 

No need to sign the note. Her mother would know who it was from, because Beezus wrote cursive. Ramona left her note on the table beside the front door, where the family always looked for mail and messages. She sidled closer to Howie's grandmother, pretending interest in her knitting, which appeared to be a small sweater of strange shape.

“Is that for a doll?” asked Ramona.

Mrs. Kemp's eyes were on the television screen, where two boring grown-ups were saying good-by forever to one another. “It's a sweater for my little dachshund,” she answered. “When I finish I'm going to make a little beret to match. Now run along to bed.”

For a moment Ramona had enjoyed relief from her troubles. Reluctantly she returned to bed. She heard Beezus take her bath, get into bed, and turn out her light without being told. That was the kind of girl Beezus was. Beezus would never get herself into the sort of mess Ramona faced. Ramona's conscience hurt, and a hurting conscience was the worst feeling in the world. Ramona thought of the ghost and the boneless gorilla that she and Beezus had scared themselves with the night of the hole in the house, but she quickly squashed the thoughts by thinking how surprised her mother would be when she discovered what a grown-up note Ramona had written. Ramona must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, her mother was whispering, “Ramona?”

“I'm awake, Mama. Did you get my note?”

“Yes, Ramona. I had no idea you were old enough to leave a note.” Mrs. Quimby's words gave Ramona a good feeling. Her mother knew the right answers to questions.

Beezus called out from her room. “What did you talk about at the Kemps'?”

“Your mother's new job,” answered Mr. Quimby.

“Oh,” said Beezus. “What else?”

“The high cost of living. Football. Things like that,” said Mr. Quimby. “No family secrets.”

Mrs. Quimby bumped against Ramona's bed in the dark.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Ramona.”

“What did Mrs. Griggs say about me?”

Mrs. Quimby's answer was honest and direct. “She said you refused to make an owl like the rest of the class and that for no reason you crumpled up the owl Susan worked so hard to make.”

Beezus was standing in the hall. “Oh, owls,” she said, remembering. “Next you make Thanksgiving things.”

Tears filled Ramona's eyes. Mrs. Griggs was so unfair. Turkeys came next, and trouble would start all over again.

“I was sorry to hear it, Ramona,” said Mrs. Quimby. “What on earth got into you?”

Ramona's stiff lips quivered. “She's wrong, Mama,” she managed to get out. “Mama, she's wrong.” Ramona struggled for control. Now Mr. Quimby and Beezus were listening shadows in the doorway. “Mama, I did make an owl. A good owl.” Ramona drew a long shuddering breath and described what had happened: how Mrs. Griggs had praised Susan's owl and said she hadn't wasted paste, and how she had thrown away her own owl because she did not want people to think she had copied from Susan. “And so I scrunched her owl,” she concluded, relieved to have told the whole story.

“But what difference did it make?” asked Mrs. Quimby. “The class was making owls for fun. It wasn't the same as copying arithmetic or spelling papers.”

“But it does make a difference.” Beezus spoke with the wisdom of a higher grade. “It makes a lot of difference.”

Ramona was grateful for this support. “I wanted my owl to be my very own.”

“Of course, you did,” said Mr. Quimby, who had once drawn cartoons for his high-school paper. “Every artist wants his work to be his very own, but that does not excuse you from trying to destroy Susan's owl.”

Ramona let out a long shuddering sigh. “I just got mad. Old copycat Susan thought she was so big.”

Mrs. Quimby smoothed Ramona's blankets. “Susan is the one I feel sorry for. You are the lucky one. You can think up your own ideas because you have imagination.”

Ramona was silent while she thought this over. “But that doesn't help now,” she said at last.

“Someday it will.” Mrs. Quimby rose from the bed. “And Ramona, Mrs. Griggs expects you to apologize to Susan for destroying her owl.”