the dishpan. She stood back from the sink so she would not spatter the white uniform she wore in the doctor’s office where she worked as a receptionist.

“Daddy, will you have to do homework?”

Ramona wiped off her milk moustache and

gathered up her dishes.

“That’s right.” Mr. Quimby flicked a dish

towel at Ramona as she passed him. She

giggled and dodged, happy because he was happy. Never again would he stand all day at a cash register, ringing up groceries for a long line of people who were always in a hurry.

Ramona slid her plate into the dishwater.

“And will Mother have to sign your progress reports?”

Mrs. Quimby laughed. “I hope so.”

Beezus was last to bring her dishes into

the kitchen. “Daddy, what do you have to

study to learn to be a teacher?” she asked.

Ramona had been wondering the same

thing. Her father knew how to read and do

arithmetic. He also knew about Oregon pio-

neers and about two pints making one quart.

Mr. Quimby wiped a plate and stacked it

in the cupboard. “I’m taking an art course, because I want to teach art. And I’ll study child development—”

Ramona interrupted. “What’s child

development?”

6

“How kids grow,” answered her father.

Why does anyone have to go to school to

study a thing like that? wondered Ramona.

All her life she had been told that the way to grow was to eat good food, usually food she did not like, and get plenty of sleep, usually when she had more interesting things to do than go to bed.

Mrs. Quimby hung up the dishcloth,

scooped up Picky-picky, the Quimbys’ old

yellow cat, and dropped him at the top of

the basement steps. “Scat, all of you,” she said, “or you’ll be late for school.”

After the family’s rush to brush teeth, Mr.

Quimby said to his daughters,“Hold out your hands,” and into each waiting pair he dropped a new pink eraser.“Just for luck,” he said,“not because I expect you to make mistakes.”

“Thank you,” said the girls. Even a small

present was appreciated, because presents of any kind had been scarce while the family

7

tried to save money so Mr. Quimby could

return to school. Ramona, who liked to draw as much as her father, especially treasured the new eraser, smooth, pearly pink, smelling

softly of rubber, and just right for erasing pencil lines.

Mrs. Quimby handed each member of her

family a lunch, two in paper bags and one in a lunch box for Ramona.“Now, Ramona—”

she began.

Ramona sighed. Here it was, that little

8

talking-to she always dreaded.

“Please remember,” said her mother,“you

really must be nice to Willa Jean.”

Ramona made a face.“I try, but it’s awfully hard.”

Being nice to Willa Jean was the part of

Ramona’s life that was not changing, the part she wished would change. Every day after

school she had to go to her friend Howie