taking no chances.

“Mother!” Beezus’s voice was accusing.

“This meat has a rough surface!”

“It does?” answered Mrs. Quimby inno-

cently.

Ramona understood her mother was

trying to hide something when she saw her

parents exchange their secret-sharing glance.

She too scraped aside her gravy. Beezus was right. One edge of her meat was covered

with tiny bumps.

“This meat is tongue.” Beezus pushed her

serving aside with her fork. “I don’t like tongue.”

Tongue! Like Beezus, Ramona pushed

her meat aside. “Yuck,” she said.

“Girls, stop being silly.” Mrs. Quimby’s

voice was sharp.

71

“What do you mean you don’t like

tongue?” demanded Mr. Quimby.“You were

just eating it and enjoying it.”

“But I didn’t know it was tongue then,”

said Beezus. “I hate tongue.”

“Me too,” said Ramona.“All those yucky

72

little bumps.Why can’t we have plain meat?”

Mrs. Quimby was losing patience.

“Because tongue is cheaper. That’s why. It’s cheaper and it’s nutritious.”

“You know what I think,” said Mr.

Quimby. “I think this whole thing is a lot of nonsense. You liked tongue when you didn’t know it was tongue, so there is no reason

why you can’t eat it now.”

“Yes, this whole thing is ridiculous,” said Mrs. Quimby.

“Tongue is disgusting,” said Beezus.

“Picky-picky can have mine.”

“Mine, too,” echoed Ramona, knowing

she should eat what was set before her, but tongue— Her parents were asking too much.

The meal continued in silence, the girls

guilty but defiant, the parents unrelenting.

When Mr. Quimby finished his serving of

tongue, he helped himself from Ramona’s

plate. Picky-picky, purring like a rusty motor, 73

walked into the dining room and rubbed against legs to remind the family that he

should eat too.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Quimby, “why we

named the cat Picky-picky.” She and Mr.

Quimby looked at one another and only

partly suppressed their laughter. The girls exchanged sulky glances. Parents should not laugh at their children.

Beezus silently cleared the table. Mrs.

Quimby served applesauce and oatmeal

cookies while Mr. Quimby talked about his

work as Santa’s Little Helper in the frozen-food warehouse. He told how snow fell

inside the warehouse door when someone

opened it and let in warm air. He told about a man who had to break icicles from his

moustache when he left the warehouse.

Snow indoors, icicles on a moustache—

Ramona was full of questions that she would not let herself ask. Maybe working as Santa’s 74

Little Helper wasn’t as much fun as she had thought.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Quimby to

Mrs. Quimby, when the last cookie crumb

had been eaten.“You need a rest.Tomorrow

the girls can get dinner and you can take it easy.”

“Good idea,” said Mrs. Quimby. “Some-

times I do get tired of cooking.”

“But I’m supposed to go to Mary Jane’s

tomorrow,” protested Beezus.

“Call her up and tell her you can’t come.”

Mr. Quimby was both cheerful and heartless.