Her eyes filled with tears of anger, which she tried to brush away with her wrists.The gasps at her table turned into giggles. From another table, Ramona caught a glimpse of

Yard Ape grinning at her.

Marsha, a tall girl who always tried to be motherly, said,“It’s all right, Ramona. I’ll take you to the bathroom and help you wash off

the egg.”

Ramona was not one bit grateful.“You go

away,” she said, ashamed of being so rude.

She did not want this third-grade girl treating her like a baby.

The teacher who was supervising lunch

period came over to see what the commotion was about. Marsha gathered up all the paper 52

napkins from the lunch boxes at the table and handed them to the teacher, who tried

to sop up the egg. Unfortunately, the nap-

kins did not absorb egg very well. Instead, they smeared yolk and white around in

Ramona’s hair. Her face felt stiff as egg

white began to dry.

“Take her to the office,” the teacher said to Marsha. “Mrs. Larson will help her.”

“Come on, Ramona,” said Marsha, as

if Ramona were in kindergarten. She put

her hand on Ramona’s shoulder because

Ramona’s hands were too eggy to touch.

Ramona jerked away. “I can go by myself.”

With that reply, she ran out of the cafeteria.

She was so angry she was able to ignore the giggles and the few sympathetic looks of the other children. Ramona was mad at herself

for following a fad. She was furious with

Yard Ape for grinning at her. Most of all she was angry with her mother for not boiling

53

the egg in the first place. By the time she reached the office, Ramona’s face felt as stiff as a mask.

Ramona almost ran into Mr.Wittman, the

principal, which would have upset her even more. He was someone Ramona always tried

to avoid ever since Beezus had told her that the way to remember how to spell the kind

of principal who was the principal of a

school was to remember the word ended in

p-a-l, not p-l-e, because the principal was her pal. Ramona did not want the principal to

be her pal. She wanted him to mind his own business, aloof and important, in his office.

Mr. Wittman must have felt the same way

because he stepped—almost jumped—

quickly aside.

Mrs. Larson, the school secretary, took

one look at Ramona, sprang from her desk,

and said, “Well, you need a little help, don’t you?”

54

Ramona nodded, grateful to Mrs. Larson for behaving as if eggy third graders walked into her office every day. The secretary led her into a tiny room equipped with a cot, washbasin, and toilet that adjoined the office.

“Let’s see,” said Mrs. Larson,“how shall we go about this? I guess the best way is to wash your hands, then dunk your head. You’ve

heard of egg shampoos, haven’t you? They are supposed to be wonderful for the hair.”

“Yow!” yelped Ramona, when she dipped