“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 thought-

ful, 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

35

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 she 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, 36

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.

37

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