“What was that all about?” asked Mrs. Quimby, not at all worried.

“Nobody is any fun anymore,” complained Beezus. “Henry spends all his time running around the track over at the high school getting ready for the Olympics in eight or twelve years, or he and Robert study a book of world records trying to find a record to break, and Mary Jane practices the piano all the time.” Beezus sighed again. “And Mrs. Mester says we are going to do lots of creative writing, and I hate creative writing. I don’t see why I had to get Mrs. Mester for seventh grade anyway.”

“Creative writing can’t be as bad as all that,” said Mrs. Quimby.

“You just don’t understand,” complained Beezus. “I can never think of stories, and my poems are stuff like, ‘See the bird in the tree. He is singing to me.’”

“Tee-hee, tee-hee,” added Ramona without thinking.

“Ramona,” said Mrs. Quimby, “that was not necessary.”

Because Beezus had been so grouchy lately, Ramona could manage to be only medium sorry.

“Pest!” said Beezus. Noticing Ramona’s work, she added, “Making out a Christmas list in September is silly.”

Ramona calmly selected an orange crayon. She was used to being called a pest. “If I am a pest, you are a rotten dinosaur egg,” she informed her sister.

“Mother, make her stop,” said Beezus.

When Beezus said this, Ramona knew she had won. The time had come to change the subject. “Today’s payday,” she told her sister. “Maybe we’ll get to go to the Whopperburger for supper.”

“Oh, Mother, will we?” Beezus’s unhappy mood disappeared as she swooped up Picky-picky, the Quimbys’ shabby old cat, who had strolled into the kitchen. He purred a rusty purr as she rubbed her cheek against his yellow fur.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Mrs. Quimby.

Smiling, Beezus dropped Picky-picky, gathered up her books, and went off to her room. Beezus was the kind of girl who did her homework on Friday instead of waiting until the last minute on Sunday.

Ramona asked in a quiet voice, “Mother, why is Beezus so cross lately?” Letting her sister overhear such a question would lead to real trouble.

“You mustn’t mind her,” whispered Mrs. Quimby. “She’s reached a difficult age.”

Ramona thought such an all-purpose excuse for bad behavior would be a handy thing to have. “So have I,” she confided to her mother.

Mrs. Quimby dropped a kiss on the top of Ramona’s head. “Silly girl,” she said. “It’s just a phase Beezus is going through. She’ll outgrow it.”

A contented silence fell over the house as three members of the family looked forward to supper at the Whopperburger, where they would eat, close and cozy in a booth, their food brought to them by a friendly waitress who always said, “There you go,” as she set down their hamburgers and French fries.