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 pim-ples, and I look terrible.” Beezus worried 31

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 any-

body 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

32

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 33

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.”

34

“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.