exchanged another look with Beezus.

Paprika! Those little specks in the sauce should have been paprika.

“We wanted to be creative,” said Beezus.

Conversation was more comfortable than

it had been the previous evening. Mr.

Quimby said he was finally satisfied with his drawing, which looked like a real foot. Beezus said her cooking class was studying the

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food groups everyone should eat every day.

Ramona said there was this boy at school

who called her Egghead. Mr. Quimby

explained that Egghead was slang for a very smart person. Ramona began to feel better

about Yard Ape.

The meal was a success. If the chicken

did not taste as good as the girls had hoped and the corn bread did not rise like their mother’s, both were edible. Beezus and

Ramona were silently grateful to their parents for enjoying—or pretending to enjoy—

their cooking.The whole family cheered up.

When they had finished their pears with apricot jam, Ramona gave her mother a shy smile.

Mrs. Quimby smiled back and patted

Ramona’s hand. Ramona felt much lighter.

Without using words, she had forgiven her

mother for the unfortunate egg, and her

mother had understood. Ramona could be

happy again.

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“You cooks have worked so hard,” said Mr.

Quimby,“that I’m going to wash the dishes.

I’ll even finish clearing the table.”

“I’ll help,” volunteered Mrs. Quimby.

The girls exchanged another secret smile

as they excused themselves and skipped off to their rooms before their parents discovered the pile of chicken skins and the broken eggshell on the counter, the carrot scrapings in the sink, and the Cream of Wheat, flour, and pear syrup on the floor.

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6

Supernuisance

Once more the Quimbys were comfort-

able with one another—or reasonably

so. Yet Mr. and Mrs. Quimby often had long, serious discussions at night behind their

closed bedroom door. The sober sound of

their voices worried Ramona, who longed

to hear them laugh. However, by breakfast

they were usually cheerful—cheerful but

hurried.

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Ramona was less comfortable at school.

In fact, she was most uncomfortable because she was so anxious not to be a nuisance to her teacher. She stopped volunteering answers, and except for the bus ride and Sustained

Silent Reading she dreaded school.

One morning, when Ramona was wish-

ing she could get out of going to school,

she dug a hole in the middle of her oatmeal with her spoon and watched it fill with milk as she listened to the noise from the garage, the grinding growl of a car that was reluctant to start.“Grr-rrr-rrr,” she said, imitating the sound of the motor.

“Ramona, don’t dawdle.” Mrs. Quimby

was whisking about the living room, picking up newspapers, straightening cushions, running a dustcloth over the windowsills and

coffee table. Light housekeeping, she called it. Mrs. Quimby did not like to come home

to an untidy house.

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Ramona ate a few spoonfuls of oatmeal, but somehow her spoon felt heavy this

morning.

“And drink your milk,” said her mother.