Ramona Forever

by Beverly Cleary

  When Howie limped back to the living room with one leg of his jeans rolled up and a bandage on his knee, he sat on the couch feeling sorry for himself. Ramona felt sorry for him, too.

  “M-m-m.” Uncle Hobart inhaled. “Smell Mom’s apple pie. Just what I dreamed of every night when I was overseas.” He gave his mother a smacking kiss.

  “You’re not fooling me.” Mrs. Kemp was delighted. “You can’t make me believe you dreamed of my apple pie every night. I know you better than that.”

  Uncle Hobart noticed Ramona imprisoned on a chair. “What’s the matter with Howie’s girlfriend?” he asked.

  Of course, Ramona did not answer a man who did not play fair. He had promised to reform and not tease.

  “Hobart, what do you think of a big girl who sits and watches while a little girl breaks her accordion?” Mrs. Kemp, Ramona understood, did not want an answer. She wanted to shame Ramona.

  Ramona was suddenly struck by a new and disquieting thought. Mrs. Kemp did not like her. Until this minute she had thought all adults were supposed to like all children. She understood by now that misunderstandings were to be expected—she had had several with teachers—and often grown-ups and children did not agree, but things somehow worked out. For a grown-up to actually dislike a child and try to shame her, she was sure had to be wrong, very, very wrong. She longed for Beezus to come, so she could feel someone was on her side, but Beezus found more and more excuses to delay coming to the Kemps’ after school.

  Uncle Hobart apparently thought he was expected to answer his mother’s question. “What do I think of Ramona? Since she’s Howie’s girlfriend, I think she’s a great kid. Don’t you, Howie?”

  “Oh, shut up, Uncle Hobart.” Howie scowled at the carpet.

  Good for you, Howie, thought Ramona. You’re on my side.

  “Howie!” cried Mrs. Kemp. “That’s no way to talk to your uncle.”

  “I don’t care,” said Howie. “My knee hurts.”

  “Really, I don’t know what got into you children this afternoon.” Mrs. Kemp was thoroughly provoked.

  Ramona could have told her in one word: grown-ups. Instead, she stared at her book and thought, I am never going to come back here again. Never, never, never. She did not care what anyone said. She did not care what happened. She was not going to be looked after by someone who did not like her.

  “Poor Mom,” said Uncle Hobart. “How about a piece of your apple pie.”

  Poor us. Ramona included Howie and Willa Jean in her pity as she wished that someday, just once, she too could sit on an accordion. She knew she never would, even if she had the chance. She had grown past Willa Jean’s kind of behavior, which had been fun while it lasted. Ramona smiled as she recalled the happy afternoon she had spent, when she was Willa Jean’s age, boring holes in the garage wall with her father’s brace and bit—until she was caught.

  2

  Ramona’s Problem

  At dinner the evening after the accordion incident, the members of the Quimby family were silent and thoughtful, as if they all had serious problems on their minds. They really were thinking about their problems, but they looked thoughtful because they were trying to avoid the bones in the fish they were having for supper. Eating fish with bones without looking thoughtful is impossible. Picky-picky, meowing for his turn, wove himself around their legs.

  Ramona, who did not care for fish and was willing to let Picky-picky have her share, wished her mother would say, “Ramona eats like a bird,” as if Ramona were unusually delicate and sensitive. Some mothers were like that, but not Mrs. Quimby, who would only say cheerfully, “Eat it anyway,” if Ramona complained that she did not like fish.

  Since she could not get away with eating like a bird, Ramona poked her fork through her fish to remove every single bone before taking the first bite, and while she pushed, she worried. How was she going to inform her family that she was never going to stay with Mrs. Kemp again? Never, and then what? If she did not stay at the Kemps’ after school, her mother might not be able to work in the doctor’s office, her father could not go to college, and the whole family would fall over like dominoes pushed by Ramona.

  Mr. Quimby laid a fishbone on the edge of his plate. “Has Howie’s rich uncle, Old Moneybags, turned up yet?” he said to Ramona. To the cat he said, “Beat it, you furry nuisance.”

  “Yes,” said Ramona, “but he’s just a plain man with whiskers and jeans. He doesn’t look rich at all.”

  Mr. Quimby said, “These days, you never can tell by clothes.”

  “Is he nice?” asked Mrs. Quimby.

  “No,” said Ramona. “He’s the kind of grown-up who teases children and thinks he’s funny.”

  “You know the type,” said Beezus. “When I got there, he said, ‘Who’s this lovely little lady?’ And I’m not lovely. I have three pimples, and I look terrible.” Beezus worried about her face lately, scrubbing it with medicated soap twice a day and refusing to eat chocolate.

  “I’m never going back there after school,” Ramona burst out. “I don’t care what anybody says. I won’t go there again! I’ll come home and sit on the steps and freeze, but I will not let that awful Mrs. Kemp look after me again.” Tears of anger spilled over her untasted fish.

  The family was silent. When no one spoke, Ramona flared again. “Well, I won’t, and you can’t make me. So there! Mrs. Kemp hates me.”

  There was a time when Mr. Quimby would have said something such as, “Pull yourself together, Ramona, and eat your dinner.” Instead, now that he was studying to be a teacher, he said calmly and quietly, “Tell us about it, Ramona.”

  This made Ramona feel worse. She did not want her father to be calm and quiet, as if she were sick in bed. She wanted him to be upset and excited, too. Her mother, also quiet, handed her a Kleenex. Ramona mopped her eyes, clutched the Kleenex in a ball, and began. She told about the uncle’s presents, the song he sang, Howie’s bloody knee, and how Willa Jean broke the accordion. Her parents laughed at that. “That ought to make the neighbors happy,” said Mr. Quimby. “Now they’re spared the racket.”

  Ramona managed a shaky laugh, too. Now that she was safely in her own home, she could see the funny side to Uncle Hobart’s visit—except her part.

  “That must have been an interesting noise,” remarked Mrs. Quimby.

  “A wonderful noise,” agreed Ramona. “A really terrible noise that hurt my ears—Picky-picky, you’re tickling—but Mrs. Kemp blamed me for not watching Willa Jean, and that isn’t fair. And today I figured out something. Mrs. Kemp doesn’t like me. She’s never nice and is always blaming me for something I didn’t do. I don’t care what you do to me. I am not going back.”

  “Did you ever stop to think, Ramona,” said Mrs. Quimby, “that perhaps Mrs. Kemp would rather not be a sitter for you or her grandchildren?”

  No, Ramona had not thought of that.

  “Women her age were brought up to keep house and take care of children,” explained Mrs. Quimby. “That’s all they really know how to do. But now maybe she’d rather be doing something else.” She looked thoughtful, not fishbone thoughtful, but really thoughtful.

  “She could like me a little bit.” Ramona now felt sulky instead of angry.

  Beezus spoke up. “Ramona is right. Mrs. Kemp doesn’t like either of us. That’s why I try to go to Pamela’s house after school, or to the library.”

  “Ramona, what do you think you should do?” asked Mr. Quimby.

  Ramona did not want the responsibility of thinking what she should do. She wanted help from a grown-up. Sometimes she thought learning to be a teacher had changed her father. “Why can’t I stay home and watch myself?” she asked. “Lots of kids watch themselves when nobody is home.”

  “And those are the kids who get into trouble—Picky-picky, take your claws out of my leg!—You’re my daughter,” said Mr. Quimby, “and I don’t like the idea of you staying alone.”

  “Other kids don’t watch themselves, they watch TV,” said Beezus as s
he cleared the table.

  “I wouldn’t watch TV,” was Ramona’s reckless promise. She whisked her own plate to the kitchen and dumped her fish on Picky-picky’s dish. “I would sit on a chair and read a book. Cross my heart and hope to die and stew and fry.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said her father, sounding more the way Ramona remembered him before he went back to college.

  “I could watch her.” Beezus rose from the table to serve canned pears while Ramona followed with a plate of oatmeal cookies. “Lots of girls in junior high baby-sit.”

  “No dessert for me,” whispered Mrs. Quimby.

  “I’m not a baby.” Ramona wondered why Beezus was willing to give up going to Pamela’s house. Pamela had everything—her own TV set, her own telephone. Pamela was popular. All the junior high girls wanted to be like Pamela.

  Ramona thought fast. Beezus would act big. Beezus would be bossy. She and Beezus would quarrel with no one to stop them. Beezus might tattle. Sometimes she did, and sometimes she didn’t. Of course, Ramona tattled, too, but somehow she felt that was different.

  On the other hand, there was Mrs. Kemp. As soon as her son left, she would go back to knitting and disliking Ramona. And there was Howie, her best friend, to think about. On sunny days, and even on damp days, he was off riding his bicycle with the boys in the neighborhood, leaving her stuck with Willa Jean. “Would Beezus get paid?” Ramona demanded.

  Silence. “Picky-picky, get down,” said Mrs. Quimby. The cat, who had gobbled up Ramona’s fish, wanted more.

  “Well—” said Beezus, “I guess I could sit for nothing. After all, I don’t like going to the Kemps’ myself. Mrs. Kemp never makes me feel welcome, and their house always smells of old soup.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Kemp would like to be with her son as much as possible while he is here,” said Mrs. Quimby. “I could suggest she take a week off. That way, you could try staying home without hurting her feelings, and we could see how it works out.”

  “She’ll be glad to get rid of me.” The raw, hurt feeling inside Ramona was beginning to heal now that her family was trying to help.

  “You girls will have to come straight home from school,” said Mrs. Quimby, “and promise to behave yourselves. No fighting, and never, never, open the door to strangers.”

  The sisters promised. “Mother, will you phone Mrs. Kemp now?” Ramona was anxious to have the matter settled before Mrs. Kemp telephoned first to say Ramona was a bad influence on Willa Jean.

  Howie’s grandmother, as Mrs. Quimby had predicted, was delighted to have more time to spend with her son. “Whee!” cheered Ramona. She was free of Mrs. Kemp for at least a week.

  When the meal was over, Beezus went to her room to do her homework. Ramona followed and closed the door behind her. “How come you are willing to stay with me instead of going to Pamela’s or Mary Jane’s after school?” She could not help feeling suspicious, so unexpected was Beezus’s behavior.

  “Mary Jane is always practicing the piano, and I’m not speaking to Pamela,” said Beezus.

  “Why not?” Ramona often yelled at people, but never refused to speak. Nothing could happen if you didn’t speak, and she liked things to happen.

  Beezus explained. “Pamela is always bragging that her father has a real job, and she’s always asking when my father is going to stop fooling around and really go to work. So I don’t go to her house anymore, and I don’t speak to her.”

  “Pooh to old Pamela.” Ramona chewed a hangnail as painful as her thoughts. “She doesn’t have any right to say things like that about Daddy. I won’t speak to her either.”

  “And I heard something Aunt Bea said,” continued Beezus. “She said schools are laying off teachers. How do we know Daddy will get a job?”

  Ramona, who had imagined every school would want a man as nice as her father, now had a new worry. “You don’t think Daddy would go to Gaudy Arabia, do you? Even if it would be warmer than that awful frozen-food warehouse where he works?”

  “Saudi Arabia,” corrected Beezus. “No, I don’t. He doesn’t know anything about oil except it costs a lot, and do you know what I think?” Beezus did not wait for Ramona to answer. “I think Mother won’t be working much longer, because she’s going to have a baby.”

  Ramona sat down on the bed with a thump. A damp, dribbly baby, another Quimby. “Why would Mother do a thing like that when she already has us?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Beezus, “but I’m pretty sure she is.”

  “Why?” asked Ramona, hoping her sister was wrong.

  “Well, you remember how Aunt Bea is always asking Mother how she is feeling, as if she had a special reason for asking?”

  Looking back, Ramona realized Beezus was right.

  “And Mother doesn’t eat dessert anymore,” continued Beezus, “so she won’t gain too much weight.”

  “Maybe she just doesn’t want to get fat.” Ramona was doubtful about this. Her mother had always been slender, never worrying about her weight like most mothers.

  “And twice, back around Thanksgiving, Mother threw up after breakfast.” Beezus added another reason.

  “That’s nothing,” scoffed Ramona. “I’ve thrown up lots of times, and mince pie always makes me want to urp.”

  “But ladies who are going to have babies sometimes throw up in the morning,” explained Beezus.

  “They do?” This was news to Ramona. Beezus might be right. She was interested in such things. “Why don’t we go ask Mother?”

  “When she wants us to know, she will tell us. And of course, I might be wrong….” Doubt crept into Beezus’s voice before she said, “Oh, I hope I’m right. I love babies. I’d love to help take care of one of our own. I just know it would be darling.”

  Ramona sat on the bed thinking while Beezus opened her books. A little brother or sister? She did not like the idea, not one bit. If she had a little brother or sister, grown-ups would say in their knowing way, as if children could not understand, Somebody’s nose is out of joint. Ramona had heard them say it many times about children who had new babies in the family. This was their way of talking about children behind their backs in front of them.

  “But if it’s true, I sure hope Daddy finds a teaching job fast,” said Beezus. “Now go away. I have to study.”

  Ramona wandered into the living room, where her mother was lying on the couch watching the evening news on TV with the sound turned low so it would not disturb her husband, who was studying at the dining room table. Ramona knew she was not supposed to interrupt when he was studying, but this time she decided he wasn’t really working, just doodling on a piece of scratch paper with a worried look on his face. She slipped her head up between his ribs and arm.

  “Hi,” said her father, as if Ramona had brought his thoughts back to the dining room.

  “Hi,” answered Ramona as her father quickly turned over his page of doodles, but not before she had a glimpse of dollar signs and babies, doodles that must mean he was thinking about a baby.

  “You have me to be your little girl,” Ramona reminded her father.

  Her father rubbed his chin against the top of Ramona’s head. “That’s right, and I’m mighty glad I do.”

  “Then you wouldn’t want another little girl, would you?” Ramona had to find out.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Quimby. “I like little girls.”

  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 telev
ision 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.