“And when I finish Howie’s costume, I am going to make another for Willa Jean,” said Mrs. Kemp. “Willa Jean wants one, too.”

This was almost too much for Ramona to bear. Besides, her shoes felt tighter than ever. She looked at Willa Jean, who was clomping around the house on her little tuna-can stilts. Messy little Willa Jean in a beautiful sheep suit she didn’t even need. She would only spoil the furry cloth by dribbling apple juice down the front and spilling graham-cracker crumbs all over it. People said Willa Jean behaved just the way Ramona used to, but Ramona could not believe them.

A week before the Christmas program Mrs. Quimby managed to find time to buy a pattern during her lunch hour, but she did not find time to sew for Ramona.

Mr. Quimby, on the other hand, had plenty of time for Ramona. Too much, she was begining to think. He nagged. Ramona should sit up closer to the table so she wouldn’t spill so much. She should stop making rivers in her mashed potatoes. She should wring out her washcloth instead of leaving it sopping in the tub. Look at the circle of rust her tin-can stilts had left on the kitchen floor. Couldn’t she be more careful? She should fold her bath towel in half and hang it up straight. How did she expect it to dry when it was all wadded up, for Pete’s sake? She found a sign in her room that said, A Messy Room Is Hazardous to Your Health. That was too much.

Ramona marched out to the garage where her father was oiling the lawnmower so it would be ready when spring came and said, “A messy room is not hazardous to my health. It’s not the same as smoking.”

“You could trip and break your arm,” her father pointed out.

Ramona had an answer. “I always turn on the light or sort of feel along the floor with my feet.”

“You could smother in old school papers, stuffed animals, and hula hoops if the mess gets deep enough,” said her father and added, “Miss Radar Feet.”

Ramona smiled. “Daddy, you’re just being silly again. Nobody ever smothered in a hula hoop.”

“You never can tell,” said her father. “There is always a first time.”

Ramona and her father got along better for a while after that, and then came the terrible afternoon when Ramona came home from school to find her father closing the living-room windows, which had been wide open even though the day was raw and windy. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke in the room.

“Why there’s Henry running down the street,” said Mr. Quimby, his back to Ramona. “He may make it to the Olympics, but that old dog of his won’t.”

“Daddy,” said Ramona. Her father turned. Ramona looked him in the eye. “You cheated!”