corner where no one but the artist would

notice it. Her father’s foot looked like a flipper. For the first time, Ramona began to doubt that her father was the best artist in 67

the whole world.This thought made her feel sad in addition to reminding her she was

cross at that world.

Mr. Quimby studied Ramona’s picture.

“That’s not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

“My foot is easier to draw.” Ramona felt as if she should apologize for drawing a better foot than her grown-up father. “My foot is sort of—neater,” she explained.“Your foot is kind of bony and your toes are hairy. That makes your foot harder to draw.”

Mr. Quimby crumpled his drawing and

threw it into the fireplace. “You make me

sound like Bigfoot,” he said with a rueful laugh, as he threw a cushion at Ramona.

The day dragged on. By dinner time

Ramona still had not been able to forgive her mother, who looked even more tired. Mr.

Quimby had crumpled several more unsat-

isfactory drawings of his foot, and Beezus had emerged from her room sleepy-eyed and

68

half-awake, when her mother called the family to supper.

“I wish we could have corn bread again,”

Ramona said, not because she particularly

liked corn bread, but because she felt so cross she wanted to complain about something.

Corn bread was a pretty shade of yellow,

which would have looked cheerful on a

misty day. She leaned forward to sniff the plate of food set before her.

“Ramona.” Even though her father did

not speak the words, his voice said, “We do not sniff our food in this house.”

Ramona sat up. Broccoli and baked potato,

both easy to eat. Pot roast. Ramona leaned closer to examine her meat. She could not

find one bit of fat, and there was only a bit of gravy poured over her serving. Good.

Ramona refused even the tiniest bit of fat.

She did not like the slippery squishy feeling in her mouth.

69

“Delicious,” remarked Mr. Quimby, who did not feel he had to inspect his food before eating.

“Nice and tender,” said Beezus, beginning

to cheer up after her hard night.

Ramona seized her fork, speared her meat

to her plate, and began to saw with her knife.

“Ramona, try to hold your fork properly,”

said her father. “Don’t grip it with your fist.

A fork is not a dagger.”

With a small sigh, Ramona changed her

hold on her fork. Grown-ups never remem-

bered the difficulty of cutting meat when

one’s elbows were so far below the tabletop.

She succeeded in cutting a bite of meat the way her parents thought proper. It was unusually tender and not the least bit stringy like some pot roasts her mother had prepared.

It tasted good, too. “Yummy,” said Ramona, forgetting her anger.

The family ate in contented silence until

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Beezus pushed aside her gravy with the side of her fork. Gravy was fattening, and although Beezus was slender, even skinny, she was