“That’s not fair,” said Beezus.

“Tell me why it isn’t fair,” said Mr. Quimby.

When Beezus had no answer, Ramona

understood their plight was serious. When

their father behaved this way, he never

changed his mind. “But I don’t know how

to cook,” Ramona protested.“Except Jell-O

and French toast.”

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“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Quimby. “You are in the third grade, and you can read.Anyone who can read can cook.”

“What’ll we cook?” Beezus had to accept

the fact that she and Ramona had no way

out.

“The same things I cook,” said her mother.

“Whatever I have bought on special that you can find in the refrigerator.”

“And corn bread.” Mr. Quimby, his

face serious but his eyes amused, looked at Ramona.“I expect to be served corn bread.”

That evening, after the dishes had been put away, Picky-picky was polishing gravy from his whiskers and their parents were watching the evening news on television. Ramona marched into Beezus’s room and shut the

door. “It’s all your fault,” she informed her sister, who was lying on the bed with a book.

“Why didn’t you keep still?”

“It’s just as much your fault,” said Beezus.

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“You and your yucks.”

Both girls recognized nothing would be

gained by arguing over blame.

“But you like to cook,” said Ramona.

“And you like to make Jell-O and French

toast,” said Beezus.

The sisters looked at one another. What

had gone wrong? Why didn’t they want to

prepare dinner?

“I think they’re mean,” said Ramona.

“They’re punishing us,” said Beezus.

“That’s what they’re doing.”

The sisters scowled. They liked to cook;

they did not like to be punished.They sat in silence, thinking cross thoughts about parents, especially their parents, their unfair, unkind parents who did not appreciate what nice

daughters they had. Lots of parents would be happy to have nice daughters like Beezus

and Ramona.

“If I ever have a little girl, I won’t ever 77

make her eat tongue,” said Ramona.“I’ll give her good things to eat. Things like stuffed olives and whipped cream.”

“Me too,” agreed Beezus.“I wonder what

there is for us to cook.”

“Let’s go look in the refrigerator,” sug-

gested Ramona.

Beezus objected.“If they hear us open the

refrigerator, Mom and Dad will think we’re hungry, and we’ll get a lecture on not eating our dinner.”

“But I am hungry,” said Ramona, although she understood the truth of Beezus’s words.

Oh well, she wouldn’t actually starve to death before breakfast. She found herself thinking of French toast, golden with egg under a

snowfall of powdered sugar.

“Maybe. . . .” Beezus was thoughtful.

“Maybe if we’re extra good, they’ll forget about the whole thing.”

Ramona now felt sad as well as angry.

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Here she had worked so hard to do her part by getting along at the Kemps’, and now her family was not pulling together. Something had gone wrong. Beezus was probably right.

The only way to escape punishment was to

try being extra good.

“OK.” Ramona agreed, but her voice was