Ramona's World (8 page)

“Mrs. Meacham is
mean
,” Ramona explained. “If we get all the spelling words right, she gives us hard words and calls them Reward Words as if they were some kind of treat. They aren't. They are really, really hard words like
foreign
and
quarantine
, the kind of words where you don't know which letter comes first. I think you should go talk to Mrs. Meacham and tell her she's mean.”

“And what do you think she would say to that?” Mrs. Quimby asked.

Ramona thought a moment. “She'd say I am a horrible, stupid child with bad habits and attitudes, the worst fourth grader she's ever had, and she can't wait to get rid of me and she never wants to see me again as long as she lives.”

Mrs. Quimby did not seem upset. “Do you really think Mrs. Meacham would say that?”

Once more Ramona thought before she answered in a small voice, “No, but I'm tired of spelling.”

Mrs. Quimby said, “So am I. So is your whole family.”

“Except Roberta,” Ramona reminded her mother.

Mrs. Quimby ignored the interruption. “From now on, you're on your own.” She meant it, because after that no one said, “Come on, Ramona, let's go over your spelling words.” Nobody said, “How about a little spelling before bedtime?” Nobody cared about Ramona's spelling.

Ramona began to feel that no one cared about her, either. Her mother was busy reading a new book for her book club or comforting drooly Roberta, who was teething, Beezus was either talking on the telephone or doing her homework, and Mr. Quimby was in the basement refinishing his grandmother's chest of drawers for Roberta's room.

That left Daisy, who had no trouble spelling. One afternoon when she had come to Ramona's house, the girls were looking for something to do. Daisy picked up the sports section of the newspaper, which was lying on the coffee table, and began to read aloud as if she were an excited television announcer, “‘Crash! Splash! $25 Cash Back! No down payments for six months!'”

Ramona picked up another part of the paper and read in a stern voice, “‘Stop sneezing! Get rid of dust, mold, and fungus with our duct clean-up system'”—here, a dramatic pause—”‘and keep it clean!'”

Both girls found this funny.

“Sounds like what Jeremy's room needs,” remarked Daisy before she read in a dreamy voice, “‘Planning a romantic wedding?'”

“Not right away,” said Ramona, scanning the newspaper. “Here's a funny letter somebody wrote to some people who do income tax stuff. They put it in their ad.”

“Boring,” said Daisy.

Ramona ignored her and read, “‘You J. K. Barker people really know your stuff. I shoulda come here last year, and I'm gonna come here next year.'” She frowned her disapproval.

Daisy was indignant. “They shouldn't put words like
gonna
and
shoulda
in the newspaper. Mrs. Meacham wouldn't like it.”

“Or maybe we should show it to Mrs. Meacham,” suggested Ramona, “so she would know it is okay to use them because they are in the newspaper.”

Daisy was doubtful. “You know Mrs. Meacham. She'll march right down to the newspaper with her red pencil and—”

“I know!” Ramona was inspired. “Let's write to the tax people. I bet they made up the letter themselves.”

Daisy was enthusiastic. Ramona found paper and an envelope, and the girls went to work composing their letter. “Dear Tax People,” Ramona wrote, because her cursive was better than Daisy's. “There are no such words as
gonna
and
shoulda
, which you put in your ad. You set a bad example for children who are learning to spell. We think you made up the letter yourself.” Ramona added the last sentence. “There are better words than stuff.” Daisy read the letter carefully to make sure they had not misspelled words. They both signed it, including their ages. Ramona addressed the envelope and included the Quimbys' return address. Then they ran to the corner mailbox, mailed it, and forgot about it. They had other things to think about.

That was why Ramona was surprised a week later when she came home from school and her mother handed her a long envelope addressed to Miss Ramona Quimby. Nobody had ever called her “Miss” except when they were joking or were cross with her. This looked serious. The return address read, “J. K. Barker. Certified Public Accountant.”

“Ramona, are you having problems with your income tax?” Mrs. Quimby asked, behaving as if she were serious even though she was joking.

“Oh, Mother. You know my allowance isn't that big.” Ramona tore open the envelope and pulled out a crisp sheet of paper, a real grown-up business letter addressed to her and to Daisy. Only then did Ramona remember the letter they had written, a letter they did not expect to be answered. This letter read: “Dear Ramona and Daisy: I goofed and you caught me! I did make up the letter in the newspaper, and I promise never to do it again, not when two sharp-eyed nine-year-olds read my advertisements. You must do good work in school and are sure to do well in life. When you earn millions of dollars, please bring your income tax work to my office. Cordially, J. K. Barker.”

Ramona was so impressed she reread the letter. Grown-ups almost never admitted they goofed.

“May I see?” asked Mrs. Quimby. When she had read the letter, she said, “This is great. Mrs. Meacham should be proud of you.”

Ramona ran to the telephone. Daisy, as she had expected, was every bit as excited as she was. Like Ramona, she could not wait to show Mrs. Meacham their real grown-up letter.

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.

T
he 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.