The Invitation

4

The Invitation

One chilly day late in October when rain was beginning to clog the gutters with leaves, Ramona came home alone because it was Daisy’s day to see her ortho-dontist to have the bands on her teeth adjusted. She found her mother sitting on the chair holding Roberta to her shoulder and patting her on the back. An almost empty bottle of formula stood on the lamp table. As Ramona pulled off her raincoat, she inspected a small bald spot on the back of Roberta’s head, which at first had frightened Ramona because she thought Roberta was going bald like their father. Mrs. Quimby had explained that many babies wore off their first hair and that it would soon grow back.

And it was, to Ramona’s relief.

With her inspection out of the way, Ramona said, as if she were making an important announcement, “Boys are just awful.” “How so?” asked her mother as she patted the baby’s back.

“A couple of girls wore knit caps—their mothers made them wear them—and the boys grabbed them and threw them into the boys’ bathroom.” Boys, at this moment, were very much disapproved of by Ramona, who promised herself she would never, never wear a knit cap to school.

“All boys?” Mrs. Quimby had the look of someone trying to hide a smile.“I can’t imagine Howie doing such a dreadful thing.” “Well, maybe not Howie.” Ramona backed down but soon flared up again.

“Mother,” she said sternly. “It is not funny. Boys are just awful.”

“If you say so, dear” was Mrs. Quimby’s mild answer. “How was spelling?” Ramona was a tiny bit annoyed with her mother for not getting upset over the awful-ness of boys and for bringing up spelling. “I missed one word, project. I spelled it p-r-o-d-j-e-c-t, which is the way it sounds.” Discussion of Ramona’s spelling came to an end because Beezus returned from school, dumped her armload of books on a chair, waved an envelope, obviously happy with whatever was in it, and said without bothering to take off her rain jacket,“Guess what?” “I can’t imagine,” said Mrs. Quimby.

“You won a million dollars,” said Ramona, glad to forget her spelling.

“No, silly. Abby is giving a party two weeks from tomorrow. She passed out the invita-tions today.”

“That’s nice.” Mrs. Quimby was still patting Roberta’s back. “I don’t think I know where Abby lives.”

“In one of those nice big houses the other side of high school,” Beezus explained.

“Will her parents be home?” asked Mrs. Quimby.

“Oh, Mom!” Beezus was annoyed even though she was used to her mother’s concern.

“Yes, they will be home and all that stuff. I asked because I know how old-fashioned you are.”

Mrs. Quimby said,“Funny, I used to think my parents were old-fashioned, too.” Stuff, thought Ramona. Beezus said “stuff ” and Mother didn’t say anything.Then, to avoid arguments between her mother and sister, she said,“I hope you don’t have to play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.” “Of course not, silly. That’s a game for little kids.” Beezus spoke as if Ramona were still in kindergarten. “Abby is inviting boys and we’re going to dance!” “Wow!” said Ramona. “But you don’t know how to dance.”

Beezus seemed to wilt. At that moment Roberta startled them with a noise, the sort of noise Mrs. Quimby called a bubble, Beezus and Ramona called a burp, and Mr. Quimby, when he was being funny, a belch, a word his daughters disapproved of because it sounded too ugly for such a sweet baby.

“Good girl,” crooned Mrs. Quimby.

Roberta’s sisters paid no attention. By now they were used to Roberta.

“How can you dance if you don’t know how?” persisted Ramona.

“That’s what’s bothering me,” admitted Beezus. “Abby’s mother made her take ballroom dancing lessons to help her be popular, and now she’s giving this party to get her going on being popular. Maybe Abby can show me.” “Dancing can’t be that hard.” Ramona tried to cheer Beezus. “I’ve seen it on TV.

Kids just sort of wiggle around and wave their arms.”

“Don’t worry. Your father will show you how,” reassured Mrs. Quimby.

Ramona thought about Howie and Yard Ape. She could not imagine them dancing.

After the party invitation, telephone calls that were not about baby-sitting began to come for Beezus. Of course, Ramona listened to Beezus’s half of the conversations, which involved which boys were invited, which boys might actually come, what to wear, and who said what to whose locker partner in the hall at school. Ramona wished she had a locker at school instead of a coat hook at the back of the classroom. Beezus even got to have a pad-lock on her locker.

On Saturday afternoon Beezus took her baby-sitting money out of the mug on her study table and in spite of drizzling rain set off to meet some friends at the shopping center. “Au revoir,” she said as she went out the door.

Ramona was annoyed with her sister for not speaking plain English and for not asking her to come along. She tried to pass the time reading Mother Goose rhymes to Roberta, because their mother had read a book that said babies should be read to as soon as they were born so they would grow up to be good readers. Ramona wasn’t sure how this would work, but she enjoyed the rhymes and read with expression and dramatic gestures.

Roberta seemed fascinated, especially with “The Three Little Kittens,” which Ramona recited over and over until the baby fell asleep and Mrs. Quimby carried her off to her crib.

Not as much time had passed as Ramona hoped. Late in the day, when Mrs. Quimby was still trying to finish Moby Dick, Beezus came home carrying a plastic shopping bag and wearing a head scarf tied under her chin.

That’s funny, thought Ramona. Beezus always said head scarves were for old ladies or the Queen of England.

“Successful shopping trip?” Mrs. Quimby barely raised her eyes from her book. The book club meeting was not far away.

“Mm-hm.” Beezus beckoned Ramona into their room and shut the door.

“Why are you wearing that dumb scarf?” Ramona demanded.“It isn’t that wet outside.”

“Sh-h-h.” Beezus looked worried.“What am I going to say?” she whispered.

“About what?” asked Ramona.

“My ears.” Beezus pulled off her scarf.

She was wearing a tiny gold ball in the lobe of each ear.

Ramona was so surprised it took her a moment before she whispered, “Earrings!

What will Mommy and Daddy say?”

“That’s what’s bothering me.” Beezus carefully felt her ears as if to make sure her earrings were still there.

“Well . . .” Ramona was dubious.“I’m glad they’re your ears, not mine.” Then, because she really wanted to know, she asked, “Did it hurt a lot?” “Just for a minute, but it was scary,” admitted Beezus. “They shoot the earrings into your lobes with a thing that looks like a staple gun.” Ramona winced as Beezus picked up her hairbrush and tried to brush her hair over her ears. At the same time she admired her sister’s courage.“Why don’t you show Mother and get it over before Daddy comes home.” Ramona was eager to find out what would happen. Besides, she couldn’t wait to tell Daisy what Beezus had done.

When the girls advanced cautiously into the living room, Mrs. Quimby glanced up from her book, took a second look, and laid the book down. “Why, Beezus—” she said.

Ramona, ashamed of her curiosity, tried to help her sister.“Some girls in kindergarten have their ears pierced. I’ve even seen babies with teeny little earrings.” Mrs. Quimby paid no attention to Ramona but said, “Beezus, why didn’t you ask?”

Beezus looked both unhappy and defiant.

“They are my ears, and I used my baby-sitting money. If I asked, you might not let me.”

“Yes, but—” began Mrs. Quimby.

Beezus interrupted. “I’m tired of being plain old responsible Beezus. I’m tired of people saying how sensible I am. I want to be glamorous for a change. People are always asking me to do things because they know I will do them right.Well, I want to wear earrings and lipstick and be somebody different.

I want to look nice for the party. I want to have fun!”

Ramona was shocked. She had never heard her sister speak this way in her whole life.

“Oh, Beezus—” Mrs. Quimby had tears in her eyes.“I had no idea— You always seemed so contented.”

“Not on the inside,” said Beezus in despair.

“Just on the outside.”

“Oh, Beezus—” repeated Mrs. Quimby as if she could not find words to express her sympathy for her daughter.

Roberta seemed to understand that her home at the moment was not as happy as she wanted it to be. First she looked worried.Then she began to whimper.

“Sh-h-h,” soothed Mrs. Quimby, trying to distract the baby before she spoke to Beezus.“You are pretty. You have lovely eyes and shining hair.” “Nobody ever says so.” Beezus’s anger melted, leaving her wilted and tearful. “And sometimes my face breaks out in spots.” “I think you’re sort of pretty, even with spots.” Ramona, loyal to her sister, wanted her to be happy. If Beezus was happy, Ramona could look forward to being happy when she reached high school. Not that Ramona wasn’t happy now. She was, except sometimes.

Beezus did not seem comforted. She sniffed and blew her nose. “I’m sorry for being such a—I don’t know what.” “Don’t be.” Mrs. Quimby wiped her own eyes. “Everyone has to let off a little steam now and then. I’m glad to know how you feel. I don’t know what your father will say, but cheer up.What’s done is done. Next Saturday we’ll go shopping for some pretty earrings and something to wear to the party.” “Thank you,” said Beezus with a watery smile as her mother carried Roberta off to the bedroom to change her.

“One down, one to go,” said Ramona as if life were a football game on television.

Beezus picked up a magazine and sat turning the pages without really looking at them.

Ramona could tell she was trying to think what to say when she faced her father.

When Mr. Quimby came home from work, he left an armload of groceries in the kitchen before he came into the living room. “Hi, kids,” he said, and when he looked at Beezus, said, “Well, well, what have we here?” Beezus dropped the magazine to face her father, ready to defend her ears. “They are my ears and I used my own money,” she informed him. “I don’t care what you say.” “Relax, Beezus.” Mr. Quimby kissed the top of her head and said, “So our little girl is growing up. I’m surprised you didn’t have your nose pierced while you were at it.” He rumpled her hair affectionately.

“Dad, don’t be silly,” said Beezus, obviously relieved. “You know I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“You never can tell,” said Mr. Quimby.

“Kids today . . .” He left to change out of his supermarket clothes.

Beezus fell back in her chair and said, “Whew.That’s over.”

Ramona felt the same way. Now, if she ever wanted her ears pierced, which was hard to imagine, but if she ever should, all she would have to say was, Beezus had her ears pierced. And then when Roberta’s turn came—Ramona did not even want to think of Roberta’s tender little ears being shot with a thing that looked like a staple gun.

“Ramona, time to set the table,” Mrs. Quimby called out.

“Okay,” said Ramona, but she was thinking about Beezus growing up and about what it would be like to grow up herself.

She felt the way she felt when she was reading a good book. She wanted to know what would happen next.