Ramona Says a Bad Word

Chapter 8

Ramona Says a Bad Word

The more Ramona dreaded school, the more enthusiastic Beezus became, or so it seemed to Ramona. Mr. Cardoza had his class illustrate their spelling papers, and guess what! It was easy. Beezus, who always had trouble drawing because she felt she had no imagination, had no trouble drawing pictures of ghost and laundry.

One day Beezus came home waving a paper and looking especially happy. For lan-guage arts Mr. Cardoza had asked his class to list five examples of several different words.

For pleasant Beezus had listed picnics, our classroom, Mr. Cardoza, reading, and school.

When Mr. Cardoza had corrected her paper, he had written “Thanks” beside his name.

For a joke she had also included his name as an example under frightening, and his red-penciled comment was “Well!” Beezus received an A on her paper. Nothing that pleasant ever happened to Ramona, who spent her days circling sentences in workbooks, changing first letters of words to make different words, and trying to help Davy when she could, even though he was in a different reading circle.

Then one afternoon Mrs. Griggs handed each member of Room One a long sealed envelope.“These are your progress reports for you to take home to your parents,” she said.

Ramona made up her mind then and there that she was not going to show any progress report to her mother and father if she could get out of it. As soon as she reached home, she hid her envelope at the bottom of a drawer under her summer play-clothes.Then she got out paper and crayons and went to work on the kitchen table. On each sheet of paper she drew in black crayon a careful outline of an animal: a mouse on one sheet, a bear on another, a turtle on a third. Ramona loved to crayon and crayoning made her troubles fade away. When she had filled ten pages with outlines of animals, she found her father’s stapler and fastened the paper together to make a book. Ramona could make an amazing number of things with paper, crayons, staples, and Scotch tape.

Bee’s wings to wear on her wrists, a crown to wear on her head, a paper catcher’s mask to cover her face.

“What are you making?” asked her mother.

“A coloring book,” said Ramona. “You won’t buy me one.”

“That’s because the art teacher who talked to the P.T.A. said coloring books were not creative. She said children needed to be free and creative and draw their own pictures.” “I am,” said Ramona. “I am drawing a coloring book. Howie has a coloring book, and I want one too.”

“I guess Howie’s mother missed that meeting.” Mrs. Quimby picked up Ramona’s coloring book and studied it. “Why, Ramona,” she said, sounding pleased, “you must take after your father. You draw unusually well for a girl your age.” “I know.” Ramona was not bragging. She was being honest. She knew her drawing was better than most of the baby work done in Room One. So was her printing. She went to work coloring her turtle green, her mouse brown. Filling in outlines was not very interesting, but it was soothing. Ramona was so busy that by dinnertime she had forgotten her hidden progress report.

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 satisfactionof 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 stream-ing 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 discus-sion. “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 Christmas 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 rat-tling 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.