“Hate is a strong word, Ramona,” said Mrs. Quimby quietly.

“Not strong enough,” said Ramona.

“This looks like nine on the Richter

scale,” said Mr. Quimby, as if Ramona were

an earthquake.

“And you and Daddy talk about me in

your room at night,” Ramona stormed at her

mother.

“Someday, Ramona,” said her father,“you

are going to have to learn that the world

does not revolve around you.”

“I don’t care what Mrs. Rudge says,”

shouted Ramona.“I didn’t leave my pajamas

at school on purpose. I forgot.”

Mrs. Quimby looked astonished. “Left

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your pajamas— What on earth are your pajamas doing at school?” She was plainly trying to stifle a laugh.

Ramona was both surprised and bewil-

dered. If her mother did not know about her pajamas, what could Mrs. Rudge have said?

“What on earth are your pajamas doing

at school?” Ramona’s mother asked again.

The whole story—her feeling that the

flannel was as soft as bunny fur and how she pretended to be a fireman so she wouldn’t

have to take her pajamas off—flashed through Ramona’s mind and embarrassed her.“I won’t

tell,” she said, folding her arms defiantly.

“She probably took them for Show and

Tell,” volunteered Beezus.

Ramona gave her sister a look of con-

tempt. Second graders in Mrs. Rudge’s

room did not have Show and Tell every day,

only when someone had something really

important and educational to bring such as

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a butterfly that had hatched out of a cocoon in a jar. And Beezus should know that no

second grader would take pajamas to school

for Show and Tell.That would be too baby-

ish even for kindergarten. Beezus knew

these things. She had been through them all.

She was just trying to make Ramona look

babyish.

Ramona was about to shout, I did not! but

decided this would be unwise. Beezus had

supplied a reason, a very weak reason, why

she might have taken her pajamas to school.

Apparently Mrs. Quimby did not accept

Beezus’s explanation either, for she said,“Your pajamas did not get out of bed and run along beside you to school. Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters.”

Ramona scowled. Her mother need not

think she could win her over by being funny.

She was mad and she was going to stay mad.

She was mad at Beezus for always being her

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mother’s girl. She was mad at her teacher for telling her mother something ( what?). She was mad at her parents for not being upset

because she was mad. She was mad at herself

for letting it out that she had left her pajamas at school.

“Nobody likes me. Nobody in the whole

world,” said Ramona, warming to her sub-

ject as the cat walked disdainfully through

the room on his way to peace on Beezus’s

bed.“Not even my own mother and father.