Supernuisance

6

Supernuisance

Once more the Quimbys were comfortable with one another—or reasonably so. Yet Mr. and Mrs. Quimby often had long, serious discussions at night behind their closed bedroom door. The sober sound of their voices worried Ramona, who longed to hear them laugh. However, by breakfast they were usually cheerful—cheerful but hurried.

Ramona was less comfortable at school. In fact, she was most uncomfortable because she was so anxious not to be a nuisance to her teacher. She stopped volunteering answers, and except for the bus ride and Sustained Silent Reading she dreaded school.

One morning, when Ramona was wishing she could get out of going to school, she dug a hole in the middle of her oatmeal with her spoon and watched it fill with milk as she listened to the noise from the garage, the grinding growl of a car that was reluctant to start. “Grr-rrr-rrr,” she said, imitating the sound of the motor.

“Ramona, don’t dawdle.” Mrs. Quimby was whisking about the living room, picking up newspapers, straightening cushions, running a dustcloth over the windowsills and coffee table. Light housekeeping, she called it. Mrs. Quimby did not like to come home to an untidy house.

Ramona ate a few spoonfuls of oatmeal, but somehow her spoon felt heavy this morning.

“And drink your milk,” said her mother. “Remember, you can’t do good work in school if you don’t eat a good breakfast.”

Ramona paid scant attention to this little speech that she heard almost every morning. Out of habit, she drank her milk and managed most of her toast. In the garage the car stopped growling and started to throb.

Ramona had left the table and was brushing her teeth when she heard her father call in through the back door to her mother, “Dorothy, can you come and steer the car while I push it into the street? I can’t get it to go into reverse.” Ramona rinsed her mouth and rushed to the front window in time to see her father put all his strength into pushing the now silent car slowly down the driveway and into the street while her mother steered. At the foot of the driveway, Mrs. Quimby started the motor and drove the car forward beside the curb.

“Now try it in reverse,” Mr. Quimby directed.

In a moment Mrs. Quimby called out, “It won’t go.”

Ramona put on her coat, picked up her lunch box, and hurried out to see what happened when a car would go forward but not backward. She soon discovered her parents found nothing funny about this state of affairs.

“I’ll have to take it to the mechanic.” Mr. Quimby looked cross. “And then take a bus, which means missing my first class.”

“Let me take it, and you hurry and catch a bus now,” said Mrs. Quimby. “The answering service can take the doctor’s messages a few minutes longer until I get to the office.” Then, noticing Ramona standing on the sidewalk, she said, “Run along or you’ll miss your bus,” and blew Ramona a kiss.

“What if you have to back up?” asked Ramona.

“With luck I won’t have to,” her mother answered. “Hurry along now.”

“So long, Ramona,” said Mr. Quimby. Ramona could see that he was more concerned with the car than with her. Perhaps this knowledge made her feet seem heavier than usual as she plodded off to her bus stop. The ride to school seemed longer than usual. When Yard Ape said, “Hi, Egghead,” she did not bother to answer, “Deviled Egghead to you,” as she had planned.

When school started, Ramona sat quietly filling spaces in her workbook, trying to insert the right numbers into the right spaces but not much caring if she failed. Her head felt heavy, and her fingers did not want to move. She thought of telling Mrs. Whaley that she did not feel good, but her teacher was busy writing a list of words on the blackboard and would probably think anyone who interrupted was a nuisance.

Ramona propped her head on her fist, looking at twenty-six glass jars of blue oatmeal. Oh-h-h. She did not want to think about blue oatmeal or white oatmeal or any oatmeal at all. She sat motionless, hoping the terrible feeling would go away. She knew she should tell her teacher, but by now Ramona was too miserable even to raise her hand. If she did not move, not even her little finger or an eyelash, she might feel better.

Go away, blue oatmeal, thought Ramona, and then she knew that the most terrible, horrible, dreadful, awful thing that could happen was going to happen. Please, God, don’t let me…. Ramona prayed too late.

The terrible, horrible, dreadful, awful thing happened. Ramona threw up. She threw up right there on the floor in front of everyone. One second her breakfast was where it belonged. Then everything in her middle seemed to go into reverse, and there was her breakfast on the floor.

Ramona had never felt worse in her whole life. Tears of shame welled in her eyes as she was aware of the shock and horror of everyone around her. She heard Mrs. Whaley say, “Oh, dear—Marsha, take Ramona to the office. Danny, run and tell Mr. Watts that someone threw up. Children, you may hold your noses and file into the hall until Mr. Watts comes and cleans up.” Her instructions made Ramona feel even worse. Tears streamed down her face, and she longed for Beezus, now far away in junior high school, to come and help her. She let Marsha guide her down the steps and through the hall as the rest of her class, noses pinched between thumbs and forefingers, hurried out of the classroom.

“It’s all right, Ramona,” Marsha said gently, while keeping her distance as if she expected Ramona to explode.

Ramona was crying too hard to answer. Nobody, nobody in the whole world, was a bigger nuisance than someone who threw up in school. Until now she thought Mrs. Whaley had been unfair when she called her a nuisance, but now—there was no escaping the truth—she really was a nuisance, a horrible runny-nosed nuisance with nothing to blow her nose on.

When Ramona and Marsha entered the office, Marsha was eager to break the news. “Oh, Mrs. Larson,” she said, “Ramona threw up.” Even the principal, sitting at his desk in the inner office, heard the news. Ramona knew he would not come out and start being her pal, because nobody wanted to be a pal to someone who threw up.

Mrs. Larson, seizing a Kleenex from a box on her desk, sprang from her typewriter. “Too bad,” she said calmly, as if throwers-up came into the office every day. “Blow,” she directed, as she held the Kleenex to Ramona’s nose. Ramona blew. The principal, of course, stayed in his office where he was safe.

Mrs. Larson then took Ramona into the little room off the office, the same room in which she had washed egg out of Ramona’s hair. She handed Ramona a paper cup of water. “You want to rinse your mouth, don’t you?” Ramona nodded, rinsed, and felt better. Mrs. Larson did not behave as if she were a nuisance.

The school secretary laid a sheet of clean paper on the pillow on the cot, motioned Ramona to lie down, and then covered her with a blanket. “I’ll phone your mother and ask her to come and take you home,” she said.

“But she’s at work,” Ramona whispered, because speaking aloud might send her stomach into reverse again. “And Daddy is at school.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Larson. “Where do you go after school?”

“To Howie Kemp’s house,” said Ramona, closing her eyes and wishing she could go to sleep and not wake up until all this misery was over. She was aware that Mrs. Larson dialed a number and after a few moments replaced the receiver. Howie’s grandmother was not home.

Then the terrible, horrible, dreadful, awful feeling returned. “Mrs. L-Larson,” quavered Ramona. “I’m going to throw up.”

In an instant, Mrs. Larson was holding Ramona’s head in front of the toilet. “It’s a good thing I have three children of my own so I’m used to this sort of thing,” she said. When Ramona had finished, she handed her another cup of water and said cheerfully, “You must feel as if you’ve just thrown up your toenails.” Ramona managed a weak and wavery smile. “Who’s going to take care of me?” she asked, as Mrs. Larson covered her with the blanket once more.

“Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Larson. “We’ll find someone, and until we do, you rest right here.”

Ramona felt feeble, exhausted, and grateful to Mrs. Larson. Closing her eyes had never felt so good, and the next thing she knew she heard her mother whispering, “Ramona.” She lifted heavy lids to see her mother standing over her.

“Do you feel like going home?” Mrs. Quimby asked gently. She was already holding Ramona’s coat.

Tears filled Ramona’s eyes. She was not sure her legs would stand up, and how would they get home without a car? And what was her mother doing here when she was supposed to be at work? Would she lose her job?

Mrs. Quimby helped Ramona to her feet and draped her coat over her shoulders. “I have a taxi waiting,” she said, as she guided Ramona toward the door.

Mrs. Larson looked up from her typewriter. “’Bye, Ramona. We’ll miss you,” she said. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.”

Ramona had forgotten what it was like to feel better. Outside a yellow taxicab was chugging at the curb. A taxi! Ramona had never ridden in a taxicab, and now she was too sick to enjoy it. Any other time she would have felt important to be leaving school in a taxi in the middle of the morning.

As Ramona climbed in, she saw the driver look her over as if he were doubtful about something. I will not throw up in a taxi, Ramona willed herself. I will not. A taxi is too expensive to throw up in. She added silent words to God, Don’t let me throw up in a taxi.

Carefully Ramona laid her head in her mother’s lap and with every click of the meter thought, I will not throw up in a taxi. And she did not. She managed to wait until she was home and in the bathroom.

How good Ramona’s bed felt with its clean white sheets. She let her mother wipe her face and hands with a cool washcloth and later take her temperature. Afterward, Ramona did not care about much of anything.

Late in the afternoon she awoke when Beezus whispered, “Hi,” from the doorway.

When Mr. Quimby came home, he too paused in the doorway. “How’s my girl?” he inquired softly.

“Sick,” answered Ramona, feeling pitiful. “How’s the car?”

“Still sick,” answered her father. “The mechanic was so busy he couldn’t work on it today.”

In a while Ramona was aware that her family was eating dinner without her, but she did not care. Later Mrs. Quimby took Ramona’s temperature again, propped her up, and held a glass of fizzy drink to her lips, which surprised Ramona. Her mother did not approve of junk foods.

“I talked to the pediatrician,” Mrs. Quimby explained, “and she said to give you this because you need fluids.”

The drink gave Ramona a sneezy feeling in her nose. She waited anxiously. Would it stay down? Yes. She sipped again, and in a moment again.

“Good girl,” whispered her mother.

Ramona fell back and turned her face into her pillow. Remembering what had happened at school, she began to cry.

“Dear heart,” said her mother. “Don’t cry. You just have a touch of stomach flu. You’ll feel better in a day or so.”

Ramona’s voice was muffled. “No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.” Mrs. Quimby patted Ramona through the bedclothes.

Ramona turned enough to look at her mother with one teary eye. “You don’t know what happened,” she said.

Mrs. Quimby looked concerned. “What happened?”

“I threw up on the floor in front of the whole class,” sobbed Ramona.

Her mother was reassuring. “Everybody knows you didn’t throw up on purpose, and you certainly aren’t the first child to do so.” She thought a moment and said, “But you should have told Mrs. Whaley you didn’t feel good.” Ramona could not bring herself to admit her teacher thought she was a nuisance. She let out a long, quavery sob.

Mrs. Quimby patted Ramona again and turned out the light. “Now go to sleep,” she said, “and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Ramona was sure that, although her stomach might feel better in the morning, the rest of her would still feel terrible. She wondered what nickname Yard Ape would give her this time and what Mrs. Whaley said to the school secretary about her at lunchtime. As she fell asleep, she decided she was a supernuisance, and a sick one at that.