Ramona Quimby, Age 8

by Beverly Cleary

  “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.

  7

  The Patient

  During the night Ramona was half awakened when her mother wiped her face with a cool washcloth and lifted her head from the pillow to help her sip something cold. Later, as the shadows of the room were fading, Ramona had to hold a thermometer under her tongue for what seemed like a long time. She felt safe, knowing her mother was watching over her. Safe but sick. No sooner did she find a cool place on her pillow than it became too hot for comfort, and Ramona turned again.

  As her room grew light, Ramona dozed off, faintly aware that her family was moving quietly so they would not disturb her. One tiny corner of her mind was pleased by this consideration. She heard breakfast sounds, and then she must have fallen completely asleep, because the next thing she knew she was awake and the house was silent. Had they all gone off and left her? No, someone was moving quietly in the kitchen. Howie’s grandmother must have come to stay with her.

  Ramona’s eyes blurred. Her family had all gone off and left her when she was sick. She blinked away the tears and discovered on her bedside table a cartoon her father had drawn for her. It showed Ramona leaning against one tree and the family car leaning against another. He had drawn her with crossed eyes and a turned-down mouth. The car’s headlights were crossed and its front bumper turned down like Ramona’s mouth. They both looked sick. Ramona discovered she remembered how to smile. She also discovered she felt hot and sweaty instead of hot and dry. For a moment she struggled to sit up and then fell back on her pillow. Sitting up was too much work. She longed for her mother, and suddenly, as if her wish were granted, her mother was entering the bedroom with a basin of water and a towel.

  “Mother!” croaked Ramona. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “Because I stayed home to take care of you,” Mrs. Quimby answered, as she gently washed Ramona’s face and hands. “Feeling better?”

  “Sort of.” In some ways Ramona felt better, but she also felt sweaty, weak, and worried. “Are you going to lose your job?” she asked, remembering the time her father had been out of work.

  “No. The receptionist who retired was glad to come in for a few days to take my place.” Mrs. Quimby gave Ramona a sponge bath and helped her into cool, dry pajamas. “There,” she said. “How about some tea and toast?”

  “Grown-up tea?” asked Ramona, relieved that her mother’s job was safe so that her father wouldn’t have to drop out of school.

  “Grown-up tea,” answered her mother, as she propped Ramona up with an extra pillow. In a few minutes she brought a tray that held a slice of dry toast and a cup of weak tea.

  Nibbling and sipping left Ramona tired and gloomy.

  “Cheer up,” said Mrs. Quimby, when she came to remove the tray. “Your temperature is down, and you’re going to be all right.”

  Ramona did feel a little better. Her mother was right. She had not thrown up on purpose. Other children had done the same thing. There was that boy in kindergarten and the girl in first grade….

  Ramona dozed off, and when she awoke, she was bored and cranky. She wanted butter on the toast her mother brought her and scowled when her mother said people with stomach flu should not eat butter.

  Mrs. Quimby smiled and said, “I can tell you’re beginning to get well when you act like a wounded tiger.”

  Ramona scowled. “I am not acting like a wounded tiger,” she informed her mother. When Mrs. Quimby made her a bed on the living-room couch so she could watch television, she was cross with the television set because she found daytime programs dumb, stupid, and boring. Commercials were much more interesting than the programs. She lay back and hoped for a cat-food commercial because she liked to look at nice cats. As she waited, she brooded about her teacher.

  “Of course I didn’t throw up on purpose,” Ramona told herself. Mrs. Whaley should know that. And deep down inside I am really a nice person, she comforted herself. Mrs. Whaley should know that, too.

  “Who pays teachers?” Ramona suddenly asked, when her mother came into the room.

  “Why, we all do.” Mrs. Quimby seemed surprised by the question. “We pay taxes, and teachers’ salaries come out of tax money.”

  Ramona knew that taxes were something unpleasant that worried parents. “I think you should stop paying taxes,” Ramona informed her mother.

  Mrs. Quimby looked amused. “I wish we could—at least until we finish paying for the room we added to the house. Whatever put such an idea into your head?”

  “Mrs. Whaley doesn’t like me,” Ramona answered. “She is supposed to like me. It’s her job to like me.”

  All Mrs. Quimby had to say was, “If you’re this grouchy at school, liking you could be hard work.”

  Ramona was indignant. Her mother was supposed to feel sorry for her poor, weak little girl.

  Picky-picky strolled into the living room and stared at Ramona as if he felt she did not belong on the couch. With an arthritic leap, he jumped up beside her on the blanket, washed himself from his ears to the tip of his tail, kneaded the blanket, and, purring, curled up beside Ramona, who lay very still so he would not go away. When he was asleep, she petted him gently. Picky-picky usually avoided her because she was noisy, or so her mother said.

  A funny man appeared on the television screen. He had eaten a pizza, which had given him indigestion. He groaned. “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” Ramona smiled.

  The next commercial showed a cat stepping back and forth in a little dance. “Do you think we could train Picky-picky to do that?” Ramona asked her mother.

  Mrs. Quimby was amused at the idea of old Picky-picky dancing. “I doubt it,” she said. “That cat isn’t really dancing. They just turn the film back and forth so it looks as if he’s dancing.”

  How disappointing. Ramona dozed while another cat-food commercial appeared. She awoke enough to watch a big yellow cat ignore several brands of cat food before he settled down to eat a bowl of dry food silently. That’s funny, thought Ramona. When Picky-picky ate dry cat food, he ground and crunched so noisily she could hear him from any room in the house, but television cats never made any sound at all when they ate. The commercials lied. That’s what they did. Ramona was cross with cat-food commercials. Cheaters! She was angry with the whole world.

  Late that afternoon Ramona was aroused once more by the doorbell. Was it someone interesting? She hoped so, for she was bored. The visitor turned out to be Sara.

  Ramona lay back on her pillow and tried to look pale and weak as her mother said, “Why, hello, Sara. I’m glad to see you, but I don’t think you should come in until Ramona is feeling better.”

  “That’s all right,” said Sara. “I just brought some letters
the class wrote to Ramona, and Mrs. Whaley sent a book for her to read.”

  “Hi, Sara,” said Ramona with the weakest smile she could manage.

  “Mrs. Whaley said to tell you this book is not for DEAR. This one is for a book report,” Sara explained from the doorway.

  Ramona groaned.

  “She said to tell you,” Sara continued, “that she wants us to stand up in front of the class and pretend we are selling the book. She doesn’t want us to tell the whole story. She says she has already heard all the stories quite a few times.”

  Ramona felt worse. Not only would she have to give a book report, she would have to listen to twenty-five book reports given by other people, another reason for wanting to stay home.

  When Sara left, Ramona examined the big envelope she had brought. Mrs. Whaley had written Ramona’s name on the front with a floppy cursive capital Q and beneath it in her big handwriting, “Miss you!” followed by a picture of a whale and y.

  I bet she doesn’t mean it, thought Ramona. She opened the envelope of the first letters anyone had ever written to her. “Mother, they wrote in cursive!” she cried, delighted. Although all the letters said much the same thing—we are sorry you are sick and hope you get well soon—they made Ramona feel good. She knew they were written to teach letter writing and handwriting at the same time, but she didn’t care.

  One letter was different. Yard Ape had written, “Dear Superfoot, Get well or I will eat your eraser.” Ramona smiled because his letter showed he liked her. She looked forward to the return of her father and sister so she could show off her mail.

  Bored with television and cramped from lying still so she would not disturb Picky-picky, Ramona waited. How sorry they would be to see her so pale and thin. Surely her father would bring her a little present, something to entertain her while she had to stay in bed. A paperback book because she could now read books with chapters? New crayons? Her father understood the importance of sharp-pointed crayons to someone who liked to draw.