Being Good

3

Being Good

On Monday, Howie looked troubled when Ramona hopped off the school bus and turned toward her house instead of his. “Well—so long, Ramona,” he said. “See you tomorrow.” “Have fun with your uncle,” said Ramona, and walked down Klickitat Street to the Quimby house, where she found the hidden key, let herself in the back door, washed her hands, ate an apple, put the core in the garbage, changed from school clothes into old jeans and a T-shirt, and sat down on the couch to read. She felt grown up and very, very good. How peaceful the Quimby house was compared to the Kemp house, where the television set was always tuned to soap operas and Willa Jean hopped around, yelling and insisting that Ramona play with her.

Being good wasn’t going to be hard after all.

Beezus came home a short time later.

The sisters greeted one another with unusual courtesy, so determined were they to be good. Beezus took an apple into her room, where she settled down to do her homework.

Picky-picky meowed to be let out of the basement.

“Ramona, will you please let the cat out?” Ordinarily, Beezus would have shouted, Can’t you hear Picky-picky? Let him out.

Another time, Ramona would have shouted back, Let him out yourself. He’s more your cat than mine. I wasn’t even born when we got him.Today she answered,“Yes, Beezus,” as she opened the basement door.

Picky-picky immediately went to his dish to see if someone had surprised him with a choice tidbit. Ramona returned to her book.

Picky-picky, finding only leftover Puss-puddy, strolled out of the kitchen and went to the couch, where he waggled his rear end as if he were about to jump up beside Ramona. The effort was too great for his old age. Ramona, who was always pleased to receive attention from the cat, lifted him gently. He curled up beside her and purred as if his purring machinery had grown rusty and was wearing out.

Of course, the girls’ parents, when they came home, were delighted to see what well-behaved daughters they had. The girls looked closely at their mother’s waistline to see if she had gained weight since breakfast.

Tuesday afternoon was much the same as Monday. Beezus talked a long time on the telephone to a friend Ramona did not know.

The conversation was about who said what to a new boy at school, and what was printed on someone’s T-shirt, and how some girl said she had seen some boy looking at Beezus, because Beezus said, “Do you think he looked at me, really?” and on and on. When the conversation, uninteresting to Ramona, finally ended, Beezus went into the bathroom and scrubbed her face with medicated soap.

“What good girls we have,” said Mrs. Quimby when she returned from work with her waistline no larger than it had been the day before. However, she did look tired, and on the way home, had bought a pizza for dinner. Since pizzas were an extravagance in the Quimby household, this meant she did not feel like cooking dinner.

By Wednesday Ramona began to dread being good because being good was boring, so she was happy to see Howie coming down the street, wheeling his bicycle with his unicycle balanced across the seat and handle-bars. She was even happier when he laid both on her driveway. Ramona met him at the door.

“Come on out, Ramona,” said Howie.

“Uncle Hobart helped me learn to ride my unicycle, so now you can ride my bicycle.” Ramona’s wish had come true. “Hey, Beezus,” she shouted,“I’m going out and ride Howie’s bike.” “You’re supposed to ask first,” said Beezus.

“You can’t go out unless I say so.” Ramona felt that Beezus was showing off in front of Howie.“How come you’re so bossy all of a sudden?” she demanded.

“Mom and Dad left me in charge, and you have to mind,” answered Beezus.

“You talk the way you and Mary Jane used to talk when you played house and made me be the baby. Well, I’m not a baby now.” Ramona grew more determined and contrary. “Mom always lets me go out and play with Howie.” “Just the same, if you get hurt, I’m responsible,” said Beezus.

“You’re just being mean,” said Ramona.

“So long, Pizzaface.” Just before she slammed the door, she was horrified to see Beezus’s face crumple, as if she were about to burst into tears.

Howie cried out,“Ramona, look at me!” Ramona watched Howie mount his unicycle and ride it to the corner and back, but as she watched, she felt puzzled and uncom-fortable. She had made Beezus unhappy, but why? She did not understand. She had called Beezus Pieface many times without upsetting her.What was so different about Pizzaface?

She happened to think of it because they had eaten pizza the night before, and pizza was a sort of pie.

“Good work, Howie,” said Ramona when he had ridden to the corner and back a second time. But what about me? She thought, still worrying about Beezus. I can’t spend the rest of my life sitting on a couch being good.

“Come on, ride my bike,” said Howie.

“Let’s see if we can make it around the block.”

Ramona raised Howie’s bicycle, made sure one pedal was high and the other low so she would have a good start, mounted, and rode wobbling down the sidewalk.

“Atta girl, Ramona,” said Howie, seating himself on his unicycle and pedaling ahead of her.

Ramona wobbled along after him, and as she wobbled, she worried.What was Beezus going to say to their mother and father?

Would she have to go back to the Kemps’?

By the time Ramona reached the corner, she was less wobbly. She even managed to turn the corner without tipping over.

She began to pedal faster. Now she was really riding, filled with joy, as if she were flying.

Ramona passed Howie. She stood up on the pedals to go faster. Ramona’s mind was on speed, not balance, and at the next corner, as she turned, she lost control. Down she went, with the bicycle on top of her. Her left knee and elbow hurt; her breath was knocked out of her.

Howie dropped his unicycle and came running to lift his bicycle from Ramona.

“You okay?” he asked.

Ramona rose stiffly to her feet. “I don’t think anything’s broken,” she said, struggling not to cry. Blood was running down her scraped elbow and soaking the knee of her jeans. Limping, she wheeled the bicycle, and Howie wheeled his unicycle, as far as her driveway.

“Come back again, Howie,” said Ramona.

“I love to ride your bicycle, even if I did take a spill.”

“Sure, Ramona,” agreed Howie. “You better go mop up all that blood.” When Ramona went to the back door so she wouldn’t bleed on the living room carpet, she had to knock because the door was locked.When Beezus opened it, she ignored her sister’s dripping blood and returned to her room without speaking.

Ramona limped to the bathroom. Maybe she could make Beezus speak if she let her know she had been right, that Ramona had hurt herself when she disobeyed. She said in her most pitiful voice, “Beezus, I had a bad fall. Come and help me.” “I don’t care, you hateful little creep,” was her sister’s answer.“Serves you right. I’m not speaking to you anymore. It’s not my fault my face is all red and blotchy like a pizza.” What Ramona heard left her speechless, ashamed, and angry. She had hurt her sister’s feelings accidentally; Beezus had hurt hers on purpose, and she didn’t even care that Ramona was dripping blood. She was probably glad. Bossy old Beezus.

Ramona washed her own knee and elbow, sprayed them with disinfectant, plastered them with Band-Aids, and changed into clean jeans and a long-sleeved blouse to hide her wounds. She then lifted Picky-picky to the couch, sat down beside him to read and be good Ramona again.

Ramona, however, found she could not read, she felt so terrible, even though she was angry, about hurting her sister’s feelings in a way she had not intended. The girls often called one another names—Beezus called Ramona Dribblepuss when her ice cream melted from a cone and trickled down her chin—but they never used really unkind names. Now Beezus called her a hateful little creep and meant it. And what if Beezus told their mother and father they had quarreled? Then it would be back to the Kemps’ for Ramona.

Good girl that she was, Ramona decided to set the table. She heard Beezus go into the bathroom and wash her face before coming into the kitchen. Picky-picky managed to get down from the couch and follow her, in case she decided to feed him. Beezus scrubbed four potatoes and put them in the oven to bake. Then she picked up the cat, hugged and petted him.“Nice Picky-picky,” she said so Ramona could hear. This, of course, meant that Ramona was not nice.

However, when their parents came home, Beezus acted as if nothing had happened, and so did Ramona—except they both talked to their mother and father but not to one another. Ramona thought maybe the white uniform her mother wore to work in the doctor’s office looked tighter at the waist.

Perhaps it had shrunk, or last night’s pizza had been fattening, or maybe Beezus was right—she was going to have a baby.

As the family was about to sit down to dinner, the telephone rang, and since Mrs.

Quimby happened to be standing near it, she answered. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said.

Ramona wanted to look at Beezus.

However, they were not only not speaking, they were not looking. She listened intently to their mother’s side of the telephone conversation.

Mrs. Quimby was smiling.“Yes . . . yes, of course. I think that’s a great idea . . . no, it doesn’t hurt to try, so go ahead . . . it sounds like fun. Let me know how it turns out.” “What sounds like fun?” demanded Ramona and Beezus at the same time.

“Oh—something,” said Mrs. Quimby airily, and winked at her husband. “I can’t remember exactly what.”

“You winked at Daddy,” Ramona accused her mother, as if winking were somehow wicked.

“Mom! You’re fibbing!” cried Beezus in exasperation. “You can too remember.”

“It isn’t nice to talk about things in front of people and not tell them what you are talking about.” Ramona suffered from curiosity as much as Beezus.

“Who called?” asked Mr. Quimby.

Ha! thought Ramona, now we’ve got her. She won’t fib to Dad.

“Howie’s mother,” said Mrs. Quimby.

“She needed some information.”

“Oh,” was all the girls’ father had to say.

“Is it about a birthday party?” asked Ramona, because her mother had mentioned fun.

“Never mind, Ramona,” said her mother.

“Just eat your dinner.”

“Well, is it?” persisted Ramona.

“No, it isn’t a birthday party,” said Mrs.

Quimby, “and it doesn’t concern you.” Ramona hoped her mother was still fibbing. She wanted fun to concern herself.

The parents did not notice that the girls were not speaking—or if they did, they chose not to mention the matter.

After dinner, Mrs. Quimby said she was a little tired and thought she would go to bed and read awhile.The girls avoided looking at one another, even though the remark was significant.

“I’ll do the dishes,” volunteered Mr. Quimby as the girls cleared the table.“Then I’ll work on my lesson plan for tomorrow’s practice teaching.” He lowered his voice.

“And I want to make one thing clear to you girls.You are not to do anything to worry your mother. Do you understand?” The girls nodded, avoiding one another’s eyes. From the exasperation in their father’s voice, they knew he understood they had quarreled. Beezus went off to her room.

Ramona yearned to follow her sister, to say she was sorry, that she had not meant Pizzaface the way Beezus thought she meant it, to find out what Beezus thought of the mysterious telephone call, to ask when she thought her mother was going to have a baby—if she was. However, Ramona was not used to saying she was sorry, especially to someone who was bossy and called her a hateful little creep. Little creep she could overlook, but not hateful little creep.